Later, bitches.

Off for Chicago for Awesomefest8000: Hawkeye Edition today. Sorry you're going to have to deal without a post for today and tomorrow. However, if you people need some entertainment, check out the comments from my last post. They're better than anything I could ever write on this shitty thing I call a blog. I'll be back Tuesday with plenty of stories, so don't you worry.

Peace out, homeslices.

Say hello to my little friend.

I had a peculiar night last Saturday. It started off normal enough. Margaritas, then moving on to Sangria and tapas at a local Spanish restaurant in the East Village. After meeting up with Flop's roommate for her birfday, uh, without Flop coincidentally, the New York chapter of my heterosexual life partners (otherwise known as "Han" to me) and I decided to spice things up for the night.

We decided to head to our favorite local bar close to our respective apartments. And by "favorite local bar," I mean the only bar not playing Madonna on repeat and serves something other than flavored vodka martinis.

On our drunk walk through the West Village back to Chelsea, we pass a local porn shop. It's got your standard leather jock straps, boobie tassels, double sided dildos, crotchless panties, and videos. Lots and lots of videos. The good thing about this porn shop is there isn't a "viewing area" where old men emerge from back curtains with their feet slightly sticking to the floor.

I'm not sure who brought it up, but suddenly I'm telling her that I don't own a vibrator. She tells me that she doesn't have one either. Perfect. I'm drunk and with my straight best friend. Always the perfect time to buy sex toys.

Now let me tell you a little bit about Han. Han is great. She is fabulous. I can call Han up at any time of day, wave a drink in front of her, and she is always ready to go. Before I went on my self imposed penis break, she was making out as much as me, if not more. Let's just say she is my drunk, cock teasing soul mate (Gates, don't kid yourself. You totally put out). However, when it comes to speaking about actual real live sex, she is a little timid. I'm not going to go into her personal history by any means, but lets just say she is a little less vocal about her sexual practices than me. Yes, I do realize that like saying I've had less dicks inside me than Paris Hilton, but you get where I am going here.

So I suggest we go in. I'm excited. I've been wanting a toy for a while, especially on my penis sabbatical, but I just never really got around to walking in a porn shop on a sunny Sunday afternoon. She hesitates, but concludes that if our mutual friend suggested she get one, it must be ok. She she goes in.

Immediately I go for the 20 inch dildos with an anal prong. I hold it up triumphantly, "Hanny! Do you see this? How can anyone possibly...?" (shut it TK) She laughs, but I get a look from the sales clerk that that behavior is not appropriate. Defeated, I move on from the crazy shit back to my overwhelmed friend in the vibrator section. I have no idea what to buy, and if I don't know what to buy, there is no way in hell she knows what to buy.

Another sales associate comes by and asks if we need help. Despite how open I am about jokingly talking about sex, when a creepy 40 year old man comes up to help me pick out a vibrator, I shy up. Sue me. Suddenly, my friend takes over. "WE'RELOOKINGFORVIBRATORSANDWEDON'TKNOWWHATTOBUY."

Whoa, where'd that come from Hanny?

The clerk politely smiles, and brings us over to a rack filled with multi-colored Pocket Rockets. He tells us it is the most popular brand of vibrator. I guess it's like the Camry of vibrators. Not exactly battery friendly, but it will consistently get the job done without the unnecessary bells and whistles. Sold.

So now the real decision has to be made: what color do we buy?

It comes in green, blue, pink, and orange. Immediately I dismiss blue and pink. They are too gender specific. If I wanted my vibrator to be manly, I'd get a real live penis. Pink is too...cliche. Orange isn't exactly my favorite color, so I went with green. Nice and neutral. It's the color you buy an expecting mother when you don't know the sex of the baby. How appropriate!

Han went with blue, and I'm not really sure why. But the best part of the night came when she went to pay and was too nervous to pay with her credit card (you better believe I charged that shit UP), so she paid with cash. She looked at the receipt and giggled that it said "Vibe Toy." That's my girl.

Han displaying our new purchases for the camera.

And how does this story end for me, your heroine? Oh my friend, that is private. What I will say though is my new friend gets top billing now on my night stand behind the alarm clock (I do need to get up for work you know), and ironically, in front of the tissues.

[cue buzzing sound]

I gotta go.

Dudes

Lots of people expressed interest to me in playing some fantasy football for pro and college. Please email me ASAP if you are interested. Thanks

A conversation with my liver (Part III)

Yep, 'bout that time again folks. I'm heading off to Chicago to see the Hawkeyes play the NIU Huskies at Soldier Field for Awesomefest 8000: Hawkeye Edition on Thursday. I have yet to be inside Soldier Field since the re-build, but judging by the looks of the new fancy stadium, I will be looking forward to my trip to outerspace. I just hope no Bears fans are hanging out in the parking lot waiting to peel off their outer layer of skin to reveal a lizard-like appearance underneath.

Once again, I'm not going to make it to Wrigley. However, in a temporary sympathetic move on my part for the Cubbies to win the division, I'm going to be drinking all day Friday in the vicinity of the park. That's how I show my love for things and people. I get drunk.

Then, Saturday.

Megan and I are still debating what we want to do in terms of tailgating. Either way, I promise you dear reader, that I will not disappoint you. I anticipate high levels of intoxication and extreme shenanigans. Because of this, it's time I have a conversation with my liver, yet again.

Megan: They say the road ain't no place to start a family.

Liver: Huh?

Megan: Right down the line its been you and me.

Liver: What the...?

Megan: And lovin' the music man ain't always what it's supposed to be.

Liver: Megan, are you drunk now? I swear I haven't metabolized anything yet, but I'm so hardened with cirrhosis that I can't feel much anymore.

Megan: Oh, girl. You stand by me. I'm forever yours...faithfully.

Liver: Wait, did you just since Journey to me?

Megan: Fo' shizzle. I love you, man.

Liver: Uh...ok, so here is the deal. I'm going to work overtime for you this weekend if you promise me two things.

Megan: What's that, Liv? I can call you "Liv," right?

Liver: 1) No car bombs like that time at Durkins in 2005. Granted, you did get more on your shirt towards the end of the night than in your mouth, but the Jameson is hard on me.

Megan: (that's what she said)

Liver: OK moving on...2) Let's not get the Hep either, k? If there is anything I hate worse than all the crap you make me process, is an unwanted sexually transmitted disease from all the vagrants you seem to attract.

Megan: But...but...

Liver: No buts.

Megan: You always ruin my fun.

Liver: We're a team, Meg. You scratch my back, I promise not to fail you when you're 12 Coors Lights into the afternoon.

Megan [defeated]: okay...

Liver: We cool?

Megan: Yeah, we cool.

Liver: I also know you are starting to drink at 9am. I know the Magic Bus* isn't going to be there so there is no risk to you breaking your neck unlike that unfortunate incident at the Minnesota game a while back.

Megan: Oh, don't get too ahead of yourself. I don't call it a good night unless there is the possibility I might die.

Liver: Sigh. You're crazy, Meg. I love you, but you're crazy.

Megan: Tell me something I don't know.

See other dialogues with my liver:

Conversation 1
Conversation 2

*Please click here for a brief description of the Magic Bus, a Hawkeye legend. My brother-in-law's friend owns it, and during one unfortunate tailgate, I was witness to some guy falling off the top. The ambulance had to come and it wasn't pretty. I still managed to soldier on for the guy (and my team), don't you worry.

Burt Reynolds' Mustache

I'm freelancing at the 'Stache today folks. Check it out!

Reminder

Anyone want to play some fantasy football with me? Email me your preference for NFL or college or both. We still have a few spots open.

Thank you,
The Management.

My name is Megan, and I drink Bud Light

I'm a chick who enjoys good beer. My preference is the darker the better (just like my men). However, any active beer drinker knows that the heavier the beer, the more the calories. I drink on a night of drunken debauchery an average of 7 or 8 beers. Guinness is my favorite, but I only reserve that for when I decide to drink my dinner. However, I've been known to drink 3 or 4 on a given night. At approximately 200 calories a pop, that's 800 calories right there.

My second favorite beer, Saranac Amber, we'll say is approximately 175 calories based on the caloric value of similar amber beers. Now, given that they aren't as heavy as Guinness is, I can drink more. I remember one night I drank 10. I know I'm a mathlete, but I bet most of you can calculate 10x175=1750 calories. In one night.

My third favorite beer, Leinenkugels Honey Weiss, is sadly (or thankfully) no where to be found anywhere on the East Coast. Still, I would say the caloric value of this beer ranges from 150-165 or so. We're still in the 1500 calorie range for a night of heavy drinking. Lord knows when I head back to the Midwest, I make up for any time I spent away from this delicious brew.

So my point? Bud Light, Amstel Light, Coors Light, while they all may be shitty and taste like water, only have approximately 100 calories per beer. I can go out, get shit faced, go out for a 6 mile run the next day, and still retain my semi girlish figure. I've resigned myself to the fact that my slight beer pouch (not really a gut, but an inch of skin I can grab right below my belly button) will never go away due to my heavy consumption of beer, but I'm okay with that. At least I'm having fun, right?

So next time you see me out, and you make a comment on my crappy water downed beer, give me a break, mmm k? You don't want no fatty slobbering on your knob now do you?

NOTE: Yes, I could drink vodka, which I do at times, but the results are never pretty. Hard alcohol's influence over me deserves its own post.

And yes Peter, my mouth is open again. Sue me.

Hello, lover.

My very first Craigslist Missed Connection!

Me: I was the young, nubile girl sitting across from you in the brown dress and brown curly hair, listening to her iPod, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with you by staring at the subway ads..

You: You were the fat, could be 50, could be 70 year old man sitting across from me. I thought you might have been cross-eyed at first, but it turns out you only had one wonky eye. I appreciate your wonky eye checking me out though. It's always nice to have creepy old men staring at your chest when you are clearly uncomfortable. I also am not sure if you were just itchy "down there", or you were trying to seduce me with your plastic bag and all your rubbing. Either way, it was a nice touch. That coy look on your face was irresistible, and I really appreciate you letting me off the train first so you can try and look up my skirt as I walked up the stairs.

PS- the Badgers suck. Go Hawks!


Call me [wink, wink]

A confession

There are few things I keep secret from my friends. However, back in my sophomore year of college, I did something bad. Very bad, So bad in fact, that I kept it from her for 7 years.

It happened one night when I was out at Vito's or the Sports Column or the Union or [insert Iowa bar here known for underage patrons], and I had to go to the bathroom. Now in our dorm, the bathrooms were locked to prevent a sexual assault. This meant you had to go bumbling for your keys at all hours of the night in order to fucking take a piss. Since they were public bathrooms, it also meant you had to find some kind of footwear to wear to prevent whatever weird STD was hanging out in the bathroom miraculously mutating and forming a colony on your foot. To summarize: keys + shoes + beer + pee = hassle.

Megan was so kind to let me sleep on the top bunk all year too. So when I came back this night from the bar where I'm pretty sure I did 4 lemon drop shots and pounded countless beers, I climbed up to my bed in the sky, and passed out. That was the last thing I remember.

Megan and I wake up the next morning, and as I am recounting my events of the night, she points out to something on the floor.

"What is that?"

"I dunno," I reply and continue about my story most likely involving some form of promiscuity.

I'm watching as she is kind of poking at a stain on our carpet, which is still wet, and getting annoyed she is not listening to my story. And then, a flashback.

I travel back in time to me climbing down the bunk, fumbling for my keys, and getting frustrated that they were not in the place where I left them. Somehow in my drunken stupor I came to the conclusion that the only other thing I could do was to pull down my pants and pee right there on our carpet in the middle of our dorm room.

Flash forward to present time.

I try to disguise the look of horror on my face, "Oh, I think I spilled some water last night or something."

"Oh ok," she replies goes about her business.

It wasn't until October of last year that I had the heart to tell her that was actually my piss on the ground she touched. Yikes. (sorry again, Gatesy)

The "first day"

Some of you are aware that last Friday was my first day of work. Actually scratch that. It was my first day of "work". (It was an employee appreciation day)

When I arrived on Thursday to fill out first day paperwork, etc., I was introduced to the rest of my team. My boss would say, "Hi [so and so], this is Megan. Tomorrow is her first day." All would then recoil from my hand, and give me a sympathetic look. "Good luck," they all whispered with a reassuring pat on the back.

It got me scared. Like, really scared.

I think you guys know I like the drink. However, getting shittanked and puking on a co-worker is not the first impression I would like to make. I was conflicted. I knew I would be pressured to drink on my first day, but I didn't want to have the first impression of me being passed out in the gutter. I mean, I heard these people had their party pants ready to go at all hours of the day, just in case. I don't want to disappoint.

So the morning we do our "team building" activities which turns out were really fun. The day started out with a ride on the Hudson. While I was fully expecting the motor to run over no less than 3 dead bodies, none were hit and I was treated to a very close shot of Lady Liberty herself and a shot underneath the Brooklyn Bridge.

Next was bowling. I almost lost it when I bowled a turkey, and proceeded to turn around to my whole team and yell "suck it!" Triple H style. Hand motions included. Note to self: probably not best to taunt my co-workers quite just yet.

Eventually we all finished our activities which also including nailing golf balls down the Chelsea Piers driving range. I push out my chest for the hot Australian instructor. Doesn't notice. Too busy laughing at everyone's poor golf game. He is probably gay. We all boarded a Water Taxi heading to an undisclosed location. Jack and Cokes were immediately ordered. Beers were thrust in my face.

"We're shotgunning. Go."

There I was, shotgunning beers on the Hudson with people I just met that morning. It's 12:30 pm, and I haven't eaten lunch yet. After 3 beers, I start calling people that this is the greatest first day of work ever. On the boat I'm telling my co-workers that this is the greatest day of my life, and I'm starting to think it actually is. They look at their watches, "Well, that lasted until 1:20. We were betting it was going to be 1pm."

We get to our final destination. More beers. 40 oz. bottle of Old English are being shaken and sprayed. Champagne is being poured directly into people's mouths. Open bar. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I'm drunk. Not good.

We're ushered into another area to sit down. Suddenly I'm watching glittered nipples, and women on trapeze erotically dangling and swinging. Once the show is over, I mutter, "I think I'm a lesbian now," and the guy next to me spits out his champagne on the guy sitting in front of us.

I'm making a great first impression.

Then we move on to the bar. More free drinks. I get into it with the guy, who is wrongly dressed as a hipster, about the SEC vs. Big 10. Sound familiar? One thing about me you should know, is I lose my memory when I am drunk. I can't recall anything. Finally, after 7 hours of drinking, and about 30 minutes of yelling at a guy I just met about the relevance of Auburn to the SEC, I blank. The liquor finally won. I'm not sure if I can remember my own name.

I look him straight in the eye and say, "You know, if you weren't my co-worker, I'd totally make out with you. Now I must pee."

He smiles, "We need to go back to that." I think he means the kissing, not the urinating.

I go to the bathroom, and suddenly Journey's Faithfully comes on. I run out and grab the boss man and insist on slow dancing with him. My head is leaning on his shoulder, we're swaying back and forth. He might be holding me up, and he is muttering how much he hates Journey. Normally that statement would warrant a swift kick in the ass, I don't care at this point. Belligerence is fast approaching.

I made an important decision to leave early. I don't think the first day is the appropriate time for the full onslaught of the dmbmeg to be unleashed yet. Maybe the 2nd day. I'll keep you guys posted.

But now, I can assuredly say that my life does not suck.

Reason # 765,892,445 I need to stop drinking

That's what my feet looked like when I woke up this morning from my flip flops and NYC dirt. And my duvet cover is white. Lovely.

Yes, those really are my feet. And yes, those are my cankles too. They may be fat and stubby, but their strong resemblance to flippers make for superior swimming skills.

Sexy time...with myself?

I was reading Garrett's post today about a conversation he had with some girls about threesomes. I was shocked that one of the girls did not know how 2 guys and a girl can all successfully fuck at the same time without any "watching." You know, finger cuffs? Wobby H? London Bridge?

8====D (!)

The secret to my vulgarity? I watch porn. A lot. So much in fact lately I think I've developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from excess masturbation.

I don't get why more girls don't watch porn. Well, maybe they do and just don't admit to it? I don't know. I don't watch anything freaky. Threesomes don't do it for me, and neither does any other of that freaky shit like midget porn or animal sex. I don't like watching pearl necklaces (guys, that is never enjoyable) or have a fondness for Asians. I just like straight, normal sexy porn--an not that pussy (pun intended?) soft core shit on Skinamax. Fuck that romance shit.

My ex-boyfriend's parents stole their cable somehow which made it possible to get the Spice Channel. They would go away for the summer, so I would often find myself staying at their house with my boyfriend on the weekends. I would sneak downstairs and turn off the parental controls and go to town, so to speak.

Occasionally he would catch me watching it, and yell at me for not screwing him instead, but it was mostly because he spend about 95% of his time keeping up with his 4 different fantasy baseball teams. He would always try and watch it with me knowing how much it turned me on, but I would get embarrassed. Sometimes a girl needs a moment alone, you know?

One time in college, I showed my roommates my porn collection and we all sat around and watched (no guys, we didn't start touching each others boobs or anything, just the occasional clitoris). Megan was the only other girl I have ever met besides myself who admitted openly to liking porn. This is why she is awesome.

I also learned how to give blowjobs from porn too. What can I say? I learned from the best.

My point is, girls shouldn't be ashamed of watching a little sexy time. A little penetration never hurt anyone. And you can quote me on that. Who knows? You ladies might learn a thing or two. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have to go watch Baseball Tonight. Riiiiight....

Sexy time...with the 'rents?

Sometimes a girl wants to remain anonymous. I can understand that. When my friend was telling me the below story, I forced her to draft it up and email it to me. The story needs to be told. Luckily she sent it to me yesterday, cause I'm kind of hungover and woke up topless on my couch this morning. I blame the guys I was with forcing me to drink my dinner and dance around for their amusement. Dance little girl, DANCE! So without further ado....

The fact that my identity is splashed all over my blog is sometimes a mistake. It means I can't post some things I really want to (you may not want me to, but since when is blogging about the reader?). So, this young lady is going to give me a little space while I retain my anonymity and lose my dignity.

The only problem (ok, maybe not only as much as problem number 4,672,194) with living with my parents is that I can't bring anyone back to my place after a night of awkward conversation and beer resulting in lowered expectations (for him). Not that I ever would anyway, but sometimes, it happens.

So, it's my normal weekend and I meet up with this kid at a show and yadda yadda yadda it's that time - make out or bail out. After careful consideration (5 seconds) I go with make out. Now, here's the rub: make out partner is at home for a small break from school, also kicking it with the 'rents, so there's no place and I just can't deal with cars anymore - what are we? 16? However, it is decided that we are adults, damnit, and we can drunkenly take people home if we want to. If we are very, very quiet. We arrive at the old homestead and creep through the garage and into the back door. This is when a very small dog starts screaming. A door creaks open and I literally run from the hall into the kitchen, where I crouch next to the refrigerator, willing myself invisible. I hear a mom's voice. Fuck. Not only am I going to be busted by someone's mom while hiding in a kitchen, but I'm not going to get any either. Double fuck. But, the dog is silenced, the door is closed and I am retrieved from my hiding spot. If helping a girl up off your kitchen floor isn't sexy, I don't know what is. Ok, probably not that. Have I mentioned I'm single? We make our way to his room, turn on the TV (sexy times 12) and start making out to a rerun of the Colbert Report. Or something. Beds squeak so we're on the floor, there's lots of bumping around and whispered sorry's, a Girl's Gone Wild infomercial is gently lighting the room - magic.

Flashforward one night. It's that time again. Not wanting to repeat the dog incident, I decide to opt for bail out. it's 2.30am when I get home and it's completely silent on the homefront. I get into bed and think, what is better than bed? Someone else in bed with me! And the texting begins. My bedroom window has a long and storied history - kind of like Dawson and Joey - and has generally proven and effective way of entering and exiting my room. I gently open it and wait. In steps one foot, then another. I explain that the window will remain open and I totally expect him to dive out the window at the first sign of trouble. Again, sexy, no? So, another night of silent sexing commences highlighted with the mortal fear of my dad busting into the room. Why risk it?, you ask. Well, this kid seems into me and, frankly, since my idea of seduction is quoting Super Troopers and and my idea of intimacy is revealing my SAT verbal score (do not ask about math), I really can't be choosy. Things are going swimmingly until I see a light under the door. It's 4somethingam and the older lady roommate is beginning her morning routine. Out the window he goes.

And again. But now we're back at his house. And we have learned. He goes in first and takes care of the dog, I make a bee-line for the bedroom avoiding the fridge this time. We watch a little Aqua Teen and yadda yadda yadda I have rug burns on my ass. I come home, completely disheveled and probably smelling like sex, to my mother standing in the kitchen waiting for me. Awesome. She asks where I've been. I channel one of the bitches of My Super Sweet Sixteen coldly say, OUT, and stalk of to my room, where I get 1.5 hours of sleep before my commute.

All of this boning is completely wearing me out, but miraculously, I get a little reprieve from my grueling work schedule and come home early. It's time for a trip to nap city when I get a nice little text checking in on my zombie status. Come watch Mythbusters with me, I say and soon we're laying on my bed watching Adam blow shit up. Even though it was completely innocent, I make him leave at 4.15 - I actually set my alarm - so that no one catches him. Seriously kids, this is the life. I am living the dream.

Later that night, it's decided to chance my house again. In through the window, blah blah blah, mid thrust I see a light and push him off me. You have to leave. NOW. I am throwing clothes at him, digging for shoes, repeating NOW NOW NOW and he dives out the window.

If you need me, I'll be checking out apartments.

Some people have too much time on their hands

My friend Midwesterner in NYC is live-blogging VH-1 Classic all day today. I'm not really sure why, but we're going with it. Anyways, you know where I'll be all day.

Also, he is going to start drinking at noon. I put his minimum at 10 beers he needs to finish in 4 hours. You know, just to spice things up.

I don't think he will be calling back anytime soon

I'm sorry to alienate my non-college football loving readers, but this trip to Chicago has got me even more excited for the season to begin that I was before. The Hawkeye Circle Jerk has begun.

I'm not sure if you are aware, but last season the Iowa Hawkeyes were thought to have a legitimate shot at the Big Ten crown, and were ranked as high as 13th during the season in the AP Poll. I was a happy little Hawkeye. They started the first half of the season 5-1 with a loss to Ohio State which I believe that game was the biggest televised event in Iowa's history. I mean, those Iowans can only take so much about hearing another meth lab being discovered. I don't blame them.

The 2nd half of the season broke my heart like Fredo broke Michael's heart. Except there was no way I could have the entire football team sent out on a boat to be shot. What happened, you ask? The Hawks went 1-5. The whole team was riddled with injuries, and they just seemed to be playing like they gave up, but one guy was the focus of all my rage: Drew Tate, the QB.

He threw 12 interceptions last year including 3 against Minnesota. Wait? What's that? Did I stutter? Yeah, I said MINNESOTA. We still managed a bowl game, but a painful loss to Texas just made me all the more bitter inside. Oh yeah, and I guess he was "injured" too. Whatever. We ended the season 6-7.

Cut to February of this year. I'm out at on of my favorite bars ($3 PBR's...what whuuut!) with a bunch of people who went to Georgetown. I tell them I went to Iowa, and of course they start in on the season. Then one of them chimes in, "Oh, Drew is a friend of mine."

My face lights up, "Really?!"

He nods again, but I don't believe him. He shows me his cell phone and sure enough, one of the contacts says "Drew T." Apparently they all "summered" together or whatever those rich kids do.

"Want me to call him?" he asks.

"Yes!" I emphatically reply.

Of course now the friend thinks I'm one of Drew's groupies. Drew answers, and the guy says to him, "Hey Drew, there is a girl here who went to Iowa that wants to say hi," and he passes me the phone.

Suddenly all my rage that was pent up over the season explodes out of my mouth (I'm also drunk...yeah I know).

"YOU GOD DAMN COCKSUCKING MOTHER FUCKER!!! 3 INTERCEPTIONS AGAINST FUCKING MINNESOTA??? I COULD THROW BETTER THAN THAT YOU ASSH---"

Suddenly all 3 guys are on top of me prying the cell phone out of my hand screaming "NOOOOO!" in slow motion. Then I was tackled. Literally tackled. To the ground.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" the friend screams.

The only reply I could muster through the seething hatred was, "Did you fucking SEE last season?"

Apparently he did, cause he bought me another drink.

I'm over all of this now. Drew, if you read this, all is forgiven. I just needed time. Come 'ere. Let's hug it out. Now Iowa, let's go kick some ass and take some names (Seriously, can we try and stay healthy this year boys?).

Note: I realize this hatred is completely irrational and unwarranted considering Tate's performance in prior years, but I need someone to blame, and he is the easiest target. (I ain't touching Ferentz)

Awesomefest 6000:Rewind

I originally posted these pics back in March, but in an attempt to become anonymous, I deleted them. Now back by popular demand (meaning I just don't have anything to write about today), I am re-posting them. Also note: please excuse the horrendous overall nature of my shirt. I bought if for $15 at Forever 21, and clearly you get what you pay for. That still doesn't make up for the fact that it could be the most heinous thing I have ever worn.

This is how we started out the night. Brown baggin' it with 40's (of O.E.?) at my apartment. Classy ladies, we is.

Sometimes, girls just wanna dance!

I have a snag. Oh no!

If you want to destroy my sweater. Hold this thread as I walk away (as I walk away!)

Nipple!

Clinging to the bar for dear life.

And then things got a little out of hand.

That. Just. Happened.
I look so used (and utterly crazy. Mission accomplished)

I am not afraid to humiliate my friends.

Check out this picture of my friend Kate passed out drunk in a Florida airport. Make note of the t-shirt too.

Thanks, Kate. I needed the gut busting laughter this morning.

(PS, tits look great in that top, sugar lips)

I'm phoning this one in cause I'm tired.

me: gross

k, can i go now?

i gotta pee too

6:29 PM i keep rocking back and forth in my chair

Garrett: please do not let me keep you from urinating

have fun at your book club

me: i will

bye bye garrett!

kisses!

6:30 PM Garrett: bye bye :)

i hate how that smiley turns sideways [for those of you Luddites, gmail turns the sideways smile the right way--this is what he was referring to]

fuck it

me: i'll show you my sideways smile

Garrett: oh - good one

damn - that was good

that is some wit right there

6:31 PM me: i have rare moments of brilliance

very rareGarrett: write that one down in your diary Garrett: i thought you had to go?

6:40 PM or did you just go to urinate?

6:41 PM me: i just peed

my finger is infected

6:42 PM Garrett: from peeing?

me
: no i had a hang nail

Garrett: what are you doing in there?

me: now it's pussing

Garrett: ick

6:43 PM is your finger pussy now?

me: i just giggled

Garrett: is it puss-like

me: i can't stop laughing

Garrett: you have a pussy finger

it is nothing to laugh about

pussy fingers need immediate attention

me: i think that is the hardest you have ever made me laugh

6:44 PM and it was completely unintentional

Garrett: well i do what i can

write that one down in your diary too

me: ok still laughing

Garrett: those jokes only work in writing though

6:45 PM me: my pussy fingers

Garrett: it would work at the gyno doctor too - but only if you had a std

so doctor - i have a pussy pussy?

me: i got nothing

6:46 PM Garrett: it went too far

me: i cna't stop laughing

no, it was perfect

Garrett: i should have stopped with fingers

me: blog worthy in fact

i'm putting it up

Garrett: fix typos

6:47 PM me: are there any?

Garrett: i don't want to look like an idiot - well I don't want to look like an idiot who talks about pussy pussies with bad grammar

is pussies correct?

me: i have no idea

Garrett: i need a dictionary

me: no one ever speaks of the plural form of pussy

6:48 PM Garrett: style guide for sex terms

me: usually guys are happy just for one

Garrett: i bet penthouse has them

me: perhaps i should write one

patent pending!

Garrett: go for it

6:49 PM me: ok i gotta go now

thank you for the laugh

Garrett: if you ever are in a gang bang situation you have to know the plural of pussy

how else would you tell everyone what to do

not gang bang

orgy

me: oh my god

Garrett: a tom's cock whore situation *

me: make it stop

6:50 PM i have to put all of this up

Garrett: multiple pussies - only half a thumb **

me: oh my god

you're on fire today

6:51 PM Garrett: you had that zinger from earlier - it got me going

ok have fun - if you post this - don't make me look stupid

me: i'm posting this verbatum

Garrett: ok

* Please go to www.tomscockwhore.blogspot.com in reference (NSFW--or just your eyes in general), and don't ask how this was found.

** yeah, the guy [Tom] is missing a fucking thumb

this picture was taken of me making fun of Tom and his missing thumb. Yeah, I need a life.

Awesomefest 8000: Hawkeye Edition

In a weird twist of fate, what was once going to be Awesomefest 8000: NYC over Labor Day has now become Awesomefest 8000: Going to Chicago to see the Hawks season opener at Soldier Field.

Good times.

This...will be a shit show.

Update: Oh fuck dudes. I just found out my brother-in-law is going too. Anyone out there AB positive and willing to donate part of their liver?

Update Update: Herky is going to be at the Cubs game. I think I just got Tourette's Syndrome while simultaneously creaming in my underwear. Sweet Jesus!

Help me out with my fantasies...

Sorry, that was lame. Anyways, Peter and I want to start a fantasy football league. We would prefer to start a college football league, but we do realize NFL fans are more prevelant in the world (lame). Anyone interested? The only condition is you have to have a semi-clue what you are doing, and of course be open to being mocked.

I would have preferred to been called "Mulva"

Every Wednesday I run with this group of people called the Hash House Harriers. Basically it involves us running over various parts of New York City following trails on a sidewalk and ending at a bar where we drink ourselves stupid. It involves my two favorite things: running and beer (penis is on sabbatical). What more could I ask for?

I had a busy night last night.

After a few times, eventually everyone is assigned a nickname. I'll give you the background on how mine came about.

I was in a cab with this guy going God knows where (not to his place....sabbatical, dammit!), and I asked him what he did for a living. He told me he was a dermatologist. This is how the rest of the conversation went:

Megan: You're not going to use my skin like Buffalo Bill in some sort of woman suit, are you?
Him: You know, most people ask me to check out moles when I tell them what I do, but no.
Megan: Well, I'm just sayin'. I don't have a lot of back fat for you to cut those diamond things out of, but I can let you use my vulva for your suit.

And ladies and gentlemen, that is how I became known as Dirty Vulva.

Note: Boys, my vulva isn't dirty. They put that in for effect. Call me. [wink]

A post about....reading? No, I'm not delirious and do not have a fever.

I'm reading the Alchemist for my book club. It's one of my very close friend's favorite books, but I was reluctant. However, being that I'm in a book club with a bunch of chicks, I didn't really have a lot of options of since I highly doubt they would want to read McCullough's biography on the great Harry S. Truman (definitely top 5 favorite presidents). So I thought I'd throw it in the mix, and of course it was chosen as our next read.

I normally don't give reviews on here because I am a shitty writer, and about a hundred million people do it better than I do, however, I need to say something.

Why the fuck is this book a best seller? I hated it. I found it condescending and dull. While I prefer to read non-fiction, there are fiction books I enjoy (Hello! Gatsby and anything by Steinbeck)

The whole entire theme of the book is that if you will your dreams into reality enough, they will come true. Great. Thanks. Way to tell people what they want to hear. There is a unclear message on whether our lives or guided by our own choices or by fate. I like to think of myself in control of my own life, but maybe it's fate that when I'm about to drop kick this book out my window, it will hit my future husband, and we will get married, and go on exotic adventures with ponies and rainbows.

See, told you I didn't like it.

Sure, some people get lucky, but more often than not we're all stuck in a dreamless existence wishing our lives were something different, or the life of someone else. So please, people, don't ever recommend these, "life is so great if you will it to be so" shit. I'm going to hate it. I mean, no one desires to be a janitor, right? If we all followed our dreams, who the hell is going to clean up after all those obnoxious brats with no regard for other humans when they get into a food fight during lunch? (Shit dudes, I'm getting all Republican on your asses. Gasp!)

I kind of equate believers in fate with those who believe in Creationism. I can take a look at my life, and draw elaborate connections to everything. I'm making my own argument, so to speak. You can ever test this theory, much like Creationism. Like lets say a fossil is found in Lake Turkana, Creationists will argue that the fossil was there to "test our faith." Great. How the hell do we test any theories with that methodology? You see where I'm going with this? Probably not. Told you I wasn't a good writer, and now I sound like a pseudo-intellectual. I'm just more a pseudo than an intellectual.

Call me a cynic, and all members of my book club hated it, but I would take the Age of Innocence over this shit any day. At least that had a legitimate ending.

And yes, I know the Alchemist was my choice, but in my defense I had to throw a chick book in there, or else the other book club members would all get indignant on my ass for not having good choices to "read on the beach".

God, I sound angry. Get pissed, Meg. Break stuff!

25 days til I hear this kind of shit every day...

thanks to Cheech and fucking Chong over here.

1:11 PM Amish: hahahahaha
1:12 PM me: you saw it didn't you
Amish: what
the season 3 finale of O.C.?
or are we taking about something else
1:13 PM me: oh i thought you were talking about crimenotes' comment
Amish: oh
me: what the fuck are you laughing at fool?
Amish: i was laughing at your fix you thing [note: this is in regard to my gmail status message]
me: i know. how lame is that?
[and now you are reading the comment]
1:14 PM Amish: hahaha yes i am
me: dammit
1:17 PM should i change the colors of my blog to blue and yellow?
Amish: yes
maize and blue
me: it's fucking yellow
1:18 PM it's the same yellow as iowa
Amish: well the true maize color is actually lighter
but its hardly used
anymore
me: [pulls up a chair]
tell me more, amish!
Amish: haha
jerk
1:19 PM me: [rests head in hands]
1:20 PM [waiting...]
1:21 PM Amish: haha
me: that's what i thought.
Amish: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maize_(color)
apparently i was wrong
and it can be dark
but whatever
1:22 PM me: oh snap!
it's all the color of corn
1:23 PM get it? maize?
Amish: [pulls up chair]
wait, really?!?!
MAIZE = YELLOW = CORN = YELLOW?
1:24 PM me: [slaps Amish across the face for stealing her joke]
[takes out gun, then pistol whips him]
1:25 PM [takes out spoon, waves about in threatening manner. Yells, "cause it's dull you twit, it'll hurt more!"]
ok i'm done
1:26 PM Amish: [drops jaw in shock]
1:27 PM [turns, quietly exits room]
me: well played.
1:28 PM Amish: a-thank you

I have goals too

Ok, I get it people. You're tired of my drunk stories. Sorry, but you know right now I'm sitting here watching Top Chef on DV-R in my gym clothes. This is what I normally do on nights without alcohol. Forgive me for actually trying to entertain you guys.

Because of this, I'm going to change it up for bit. I had a lot of goals I tried to accomplish over the year since I started this blog. Now, I'm going to share with them. Pull up a chair, folks. You're about to know the real dmbmeg:

• Learn every word to It's the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine). CHECK!
• Run a marathon. CHECK!
• Start a really shitty blog. CHECK!
• Make sure more than 10 people read said blog. CHECK! (this one was a close one)
• Listen to more Huey Lewis and the News (BIG CHECK!)
• Improve my 5K time to 24 minutes. CHECK!
• Leave job where I am miserable. HELL FUCKING YEAH CHECK!
• Make new friends. CHECK!
• Have a one night stand. (shhhh......check)
• Generally just all around rule. CHECK!

There is one thing that I've always dreamt of doing. I'm going to set this up for you. Imagine me, your heroine, in a crowded bar. The last song ends, and the DJ kicks it to the next song. Suddenly, a recognizable beat comes on. Her shoulders begin to suddenly twitch and her head snaps to the side. The crowd parts. And then....this.


Suddenly my fellow patrons are dancing behind me matching me move for move, zombie slide for zombie slide, pelvic thrust for pelvic thrust. The bartender is clapping, passing out free shots for all. The whole bar gets into it. My soul mate discovers me from across the bar. We fall madly in love and fuck like rabbits for all eternity.

This is how it's going to go down exactly.

That's right folks, I'm going to learn the Thriller dance. And it's going to be great.

I'm a disappointment to all

I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have been drunk in front of my family. I'm pretty sure the number is two, and both times involved when my sisters got married. The first time was when I was 14 and is coincidentally the first time I ever got drunk. I started off with white zinfandel and later moved on to Miller High Life (they don't call it the "champagne of beers" for nothing!) The second time involved my other sisters wedding when I was just the tender age of 19. I'm not really sure what happened, but I do recall there was videotape, and and some kind of Indian headdress thing that was used for an impromptu performance of YMCA by the wedding party.

So cut to this weekend when one of my brother-in-laws, my sisters, and mother are leisurely basking in the sun. My brother-in-law asks if anyone wants anything. I open my mouth to order a Diet Coke, when my sister who NEVER drinks requests a pina colada (too tired for the tilde, folks). Before she can change her mind, I chime in, "I'll take a margarita!" I was scheduled for a 2pm tee time with that same brother-in-law, the pina colada sister, and my dad so I figured I had time for a couple of drinks. (Please see below for what could be the cutest thing I have ever seen.)

I think you guys know me well enough now that I don't do "one or two drinks." I drink to get drunk. I didn't have very much to each that morning having just gotten back from a run with my brother-in-law (I don't like to eat much until a few hours after I work out), so I figured I could drink a little bit of my lunch and no one would be the wiser.

After 3 drinks I was feeling good. Buzzed, but not drunk enough that I wouldn't be able to hide my intoxication in front of my dad and sister. As we're walking to the golf course, my brother-in-law whispers to me, "I brought us 6 beers. You think that will be enough?" Psssh. I think you know what my answer was.

So I start drinking more slowly getting more and more drunk. My tongue became loose (not in that way, pervert) and I told the story about how I accidentally hit my ex-boyfriend in the head with a 7 iron while he was trying to help me swing properly. I believe my ex's words after the assault were, "you fucking cunt!" When re-telling the story to my own father, I was smart enough to replace "fucking" with "frickin'", but the "cun--" slipped by me. Luckily my dad isn't that privy to slang of female genatalia. Oh yeah, and after I concluded my story, I managed to slip in "I had to sleep on the couch that night." Nice, Megan.

But none of this is the point of the story. On a par 4, my sister managed to hit her ball right in the water hazard (I've finished all 4 beers in about an hour and a half). My dad, being the nicest man in the world, attempted to get the ball out for her not realizing that most of the golf balls we were playing with were free. I could tell he was a little shaky on the rocks, so considering I was wearing this very professional golfing number below, I volunteered to fish out the golf ball that was maybe 3 feet away from shore.
My dad is holding my hand as I'm reaching into the water, balancing oh so gingerly on the rocks, and *SPLASH!*

Yeah, I fell in the water hazard. I'm not talking just got my feet wet, but rather all up and down my back. My entire body below my belly button was submerged, and I was sitting in mud.

My sister and brother-in-law begin to laugh hysterically, while my dad looks on in horror at his train wreck of a daughter. I get up, and blame my fall on the slippery rocks, when really it was more the fact that I was rocked off my ass. My dad didn't seem to buy it, but I'll take it.

The drinking continued into the night with my two brother-in-laws (my sisters are all "mature" and shit) concluding with the leader of the band playing at a local bar encouraging me up to the microphone to sing Sister Golden Hair. Oh yeah, and there was this.

Place: townie bar.
Song: Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers
Scene: Old guy attempts to dance with me, when I refuse, picks up chair and begins to waltz.

I have a favor...

My boy Jebus needs your vote. He seems to put himself in quite the predicament that you can read about here.

The story explains itself, but by reading the actual letter from the crazy bitch here, you can see why I would not want to see my friend subjected to sex with the crazy. If you read this and sympathize with his plight, link this, but only link it under the condition your voters vote for "whiskey."

I know some of you might be tempted to vote for "sex" cause it would make a good post (you and I both know it would) but please don't. This is a friend of mine, and he honestly seems to not want his life to end abruptly by whiskey. If you love me, you'll do this for me. That's it.

Note: this post was completely unsolicited by JebusHChrist, LLC.

Aw man...sheeeiiittttt

Since I don't really write about work, most of you weren't aware that the company I just took a job at is in turmoil (announced huge 1st quarter losses the week after I started). Basically a month ago I found out I was probably going to be laid off in about 6 months to a year.

I think God hates me.

I spoke to some people about transferring over to another part of the company that was not going to be sold off, but they said they still needed someone in my current position (even though there were current openings for my current position in another brand). So now I'm pigeon holed into a job that I may or may not have in 6 months, while a job that would provide me stability is given to someone else. Sure, I could be absorbed into the company once the brand I am working on is sold, but there are no guarantees.

So what to do?

Luckily, a friend of a few friends asked me to submit my resume for a position open in his super fabulous trendy company. And I got this job.

You all ready to be jealous? Good.

I live in Chelsea. Without revealing too much about where I live so I don't have people leaving their panties in my mailbox, Let's just pretend I live on 15th and 8th (I don't, but I'm picking an arbitrary spot for some perspective). New company is renovating new offices on the equivalent of 15th between 8th and 9th. That's right, I'm going to have to walk literally 50 feet to get to work. I don't even have to cross an avenue.

Oh I'm not done yet.

New offices are also being equipped with a private pool, and wait for it....wait for it.... a bar (I was just informed they currently have a beer fridge in their non-renovated offices too. Sweet Jesus).

Excuse me while I prepare my introductory speech to AA.

Maybe God doesn't hate me after all.

Yes I am in Minnesota

And no, I was not on the bridge (I know which bridge it is, have driven over it many, many times and could possibly have been driving over it today...scary), but I appreciate the panic texts. I'm going on a family vacation. If I don't get arrested for 2nd degree manslaughter and/or murder, I'll be back to my usual routine Monday.

Don't miss me too much you drooling sychophants.

Kisses!
Megan

UPDATE: I'm sitting here with my mother watching the Today show (Matt Lauer followed me home!), and here are some winning nuggets from what she has said:

Meredith Viera: There are 20 people missing.
Mom: Oh, they're dead.

Mom: This is really going to put Minneapolis on the map!
Megan: [horrified look]
Mom: Oh, but in the bad way.

Mom: The good thing is the water was warm.
Megan: ...

Mom: Is this Dan Lauer?
Megan: [strange look]
Mom: Megan, you know I don't remember anything.

[more news about Iraq]
Mom: We should be out of that crap.
[Ann Curry announces more deaths]
Mom: I'm so sick of this shit.

Mom: I knew I never liked 35W! These things never happen on Wooddale! (the street my mom takes to go everywhere. It's like 2 miles long, and she goes out of her way to drive on it. Fuck, I think we drove on it on my way to Wisconsin once.)

Megan [watching the Today Show weather city pick of the day]: What, they couldn't even give us the city of the day today? That's just poor.

From a concerned email from Midwesterner:
Megan: I might have had to take that bridge today. Scary...right?
Midwesterner: that would have been your luck. It is almost amazing you happened to bein MN and not be on the bridge.
Megan: thanks?
Midwesterner: I'm just saying... if this was a movie of the week there is no way youwould not have been.

From Todd: Hey, stay away from bridges! Those Minnesotans sure aren't building them like they used to!

I received this in my inbox this morning...at work

This was sent to me at 11pm to my work email address...not gmail.

I am drunk and somewhat srtoned off of these sleeping pills at my sales meetig. I’m dping my expense reporet totallt hammered.

[Name redacted] is here. That’s BAD NEWS.

Dear best friend in the whole world,
How's that downward spiral of pills and booze treating you? I'm proud of you, cookie monster.

XOXO,
the other Megan