Vote for dmbmeg (for the last time!)

OK so here is the deal. I'm in the finals for Marchifornication thanks to all you lovelies. Basically I won because I had my blog to help out, and J Leman and JoePa couldn't be there to participate. OPS, on the other hand, well, he had no excuse. It was his blog and he lost to a girl in a swim cap.

That being said, I'm up against another co-author of BHGP. That's right. I'm up against Mr. Jebus H Christ himself.

The thing about Jebus and I is we are both known to have rather spirited commenters at times. As we were discussing our battle plans (I was painting my face blue at the time throwing darts at a photo of King Edward I pinned to the wall), I suppose we came to this realization that this whole Marchifornication will be a battle not between us, but rather between my readers and his. It's going to be tough, but I have faith in you guys. You've been great to me so far, don't fail me now!

VOTE HERE (again).

[sharpens her weapon of choice--her knife from Sexy Knife Posing]

LET'S DO THIS.

shots on me if I win!

Note: This is the last time any of you will have to do this, I promise. Even in brackets of nonsense, I still got to win. You know how I do.

Vote for dmbmeg (Part III)

Dear Readers,
I am in the fight for my life right now as we speak. Thanks to your good votes, readers of IQJY, I made it to the Final 4 of BHGP's Marchifornication bracket. However, I'm getting fucking crushed.

I've beaten one American Hero, and made one of the writers my bitch, but this is different. For those of you who may not know who I am up against, his name is Joe Paterno and he is the head coach of the Penn State Nittany Lions.

Sure, he may be considered a living (using the term "living" lightly) legend, but there is no way I will lose to a man who helped to invent carbon dating by letting scientists test it on him.

If I win this, I'll make it to the finals.

VOTE HERE.

Do it for me. Do it for your country. I don't care just fucking do it (or I'll quit my blog). Someone asked me today what this poll was for, and I couldn't honestly answer. But to be the first 66th winner of the Marchifornication bracket is something that means more to me than you will ever know.

God speed, my friends. God speed.

Love,
dmbmeg

Greatest.Invention.Ever.

The Wheel.

Penicillin.

Kool-aid.

The Light Bulb.

The Elevator.

All of these inventions have changed the landscape of our world, and have made our lives on this Earth a little easier. This post is not about them though. It's about a great invention that you, dear reader, may not know about that undoubtedly belongs amongst the ranks of these great inventions. That's all about to change.

A few weeks back, I was talking with a friend about what he was having for dinner (we have exciting conversations, I know). He replied simply that he was having a pizza. I assumed it was delivery (DiGiorno!) as I find most frozen pizzas repulsive. I mean, I don't think I can show my face in New York City ever again if I went out and bought a frozen pizza at the grocery store.

When I conveyed my disgust at his poor choice in pizza, and began looking for ways I can freeze dry the pizza sold at the pizzaria below my apartment to save his poor, good pizza-less soul, he simply replied with one word.

"Pizzazz."

My immediate response was to sneer, "Oh, is that the thing that rotates while cooking your pizza?"

Given his response, you might have thought I asked to kill his puppy. He was beyond appalled.

"THE THING THAT ROTATES?" he repeated with an equal amount of disgust from my ignorance.

Now, given that I normally respect the opinion of this friend, I have to admit my interest was piqued. He went on to explain that this simple "thing that rotates" can turn a plain ordinary Tombstone pizza in something Jesus died on the cross for. It was just that good.

So I went to Wal-Mart looking to buy one only to find they were sold out (at the time). I then went on e-bay and proceeded to get involved in a very heated bidding battle which resulted in me swiping the damn thing for $35 in the last few seconds. (Add e-bay to list of greatest inventions ever).

Last week I anxiously ran home from work every day to see if it arrived. On one glorious Wednesday, it did. I went to the grocery store the night before in anticipation of my pretty precious Pizzazz (how's that for alliteration) and bought fixings for a make it yourself pizza. The result?
ORGASMIC.

Before

After

Sure, it may not be the prettiest pizza ever made, but my taste buds didn't care. After taking this picture, I cracked open an ice cold Coke Zero, watched Rock of Love and at the fuck out of my Pizzazzed pizza.

It was a good night.

En chante, Jesus.

At the end of last week, my friend Flop asked if I wanted to go to church with him for Easter. Normally I am against organized religion for myself, but given that it was Easter and my mom would have wanted me to go, I said yes.

I spent all Saturday with my friend Han (yes, THAT Han) watching basketball. I really mean ALL Saturday. We were at the bar from about 2:30pm until maybe like 11/11:30pm. We watched the bar transition from Duke fans (awwww) to Kansas fans to UCLA fans. But I digress.

Han agreed to go to church with Floppy and I, but given that none of us knew what time "church" actually started, I said I would call her in the morning.

Cut to the next morning when I am all boozy and hungover, I get a text from Han at 9:30am. She asked if I knew what time we were going, and I said I had not checked yet. I immediately got off the phone and called for "show" times. The automated voice informed me at the English mass would be held at 10am followed by a mass in French at 11:30am. I called Flop to inform him about our dilemma, and his only reply was, "Dude, have you ever been to mass in a different language? It's kinda awesome." That was enough for me, so I told Han we were going and to pick me up at 11:10.

On our walk to the church, Han made the observation that it was strange they are having a mass solely in French as there aren't a lot of native French speakers in our neighborhood. No sooner did she say that did folks pass by of non-Caucasian descent wearing clothes not typically worn by folks in America. That's the best way I can say it (ok one woman was wearing a headdress). Han then noted, "Ohhh, I bet people from the Caribbean come here."

This was gonna be good.

We walk into the church, and probably 75% of the church was filled with people of African descent (note: at this time it was pretty clear these folks were not native Americans, but their origins were still unclear). The rest of the church was filled with whitey like us. We grabbed the flier they passed out, and took a seat. Of course it was all in French at first glance, so I didn't look that closely at it. Flop joined us soon after and we were off.

Now, let me make this clear. I know NO French. I thought "oui" was spelled "wee" until I was like 24. The only French I can speak to people is the French learned from Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast--which basically consists mostly of me repeating "le poisson, le poisson...hee hee hee haw haw haw" over and over again. Little did I know that "le poisson" means "the fish", and I was shouting "THE FISH THE FISH!" repeatedly when I was in Paris. I digress again.

The priest begins to speak, and Flop, who knows quite a bit of French began to translate which I would then pass on to Han.

"He's talking about how Jesus is resurrected."

"He's talking about how we need to model our lives after Christ."

"He's talking about how today is Easter."

I mean, duh. However, there are several problems with this whole scenario. The first is sometimes I couldn't understand what Flop would say, and would end up passing on bogus Jesus info to Han in our weird game of Telephone. Like, I think I told her once that Jesus likes Cheetos more than Doritos. Who doesn't think Cheetos are better than Doritos? I'll tell you who. Satan.

The other problem was sometimes Flop would translate incorrectly. At one point in the mass he informed me that they were going to "renovate baptism". I then turned around fully expecting to see about 80 babies behind me awaiting their key to passing through the gates of Heaven. I also had to prepare myself that 80 baptisms would mean I was gonna be there a while. Needless to say, he was wrong.

So now we're in the middle of mass, and Han reads the following passage from my handout. It says:

OFFERTOIRE: [Chant d'offertoire en langue Gouro de Cote d'Ivoire]
Fouanien bali dey dan kouman (bali) kougo tchin
Bezihi baba dey dan kouman (bali) kougo tchin
Kougo tchin bali. Kougo tchin bali. Kougo tchin bali, Kougo tchin bali.
Yyranienzin koula a bali zihi [Bis] Kougo tchin bali. Kougo tchin bali. [Bis]
Koule yraman fe nou (bali) bessi. Koule wi fa tri nou (bali) bessi. Bali bessi.
Kounon ile yile kounon ile. Kounon ile yile kounon ile, [Bis]
Koule blo winou (bali) bessi. Kouman dje fa tri nou (bali) bessi. Bali bessi. [Finale]

So Han reads this, points to the top line, in bold, and asks me in a whisper, "Does that say this is offered in the language of the Ivory Coast?"

No sooner does she read this to me, then the music starts. I swear to god, it was something like straight out of Coming to America. Think of the most stereotypical African music you can think of, and that is what it sounded like. There were drums, dancing, and clapping. And it was glorious.

And then we all tried to sing along. Yep. Yours truly was trying to sing in a language native to the Ivory Coast. Here I was, surrounded by people who have most likely come to this country to escape atrocities in their country I can only witness in a movie like Blood Diamond, and me, the over-privileged white girl from Minnesota.

It took everything I could not to laugh. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't laughing at them. The music was actually really good. It was more the fact that somehow my path my life has taken had sent me there, surrounded from immigrants from the Ivory Coast. I had to bow my head to look like I was praying to hide the laughter.

Then there was communion. Normally people leave pew by pew to get the Eucharist. Not these folks. Nope.

Before we knew it, there was a free for all to the altar. I mean, we all looked at each other like, "What the fuck?" "What the frick?" (we were in church, yo). It might as well been a mad rush to the altar with people screaming, "I NEED MY BODY OF CHRIST, NOW BITCHES!"

Flop and I decided, "when in Rome..." and took Christ's love and ate it (I was thoroughly disappointed it wasn't a baguette. I mean, it IS in French...).

The end of mass finally came, and there was more dancing, singing in the language native to the Ivory Coast, and....clapping. And of course, what better way to end our French Church experience than with a round of applause.

I'm so going back. Who's with me?

Let the madness begin

Vote for dmbmeg (Part II)

OK guys.

I REALLY need your help now.

I beat J Leman last week, and this time I am up against OPS, one of the writers of BHGP. He posted a rather, uh, interesting picture of himself to beat me. I didn't even get the opportunity to change my picture. He just plaggerrrrrized me, and is now reaping the benefits of my beauty.

So please, don't let him win. A vote for me is a vote for good. A vote for the children of America.

PLEASE VOTE HERE NOW.

Also, if you don't vote for me, I'm quitting my blog. For serious.

I will also beat you up.

Seriously OPS, you want some of this?

(I'll let the context of this picture go unexplained.)

Don't call me up.

I don't like receiving unsolicited phone calls on my cell phone. Nothing makes me angrier than telemarketers calling my cell phone (ok that might be an exaggeration). I never answer phone calls that are blocked as the majority of the time it's from someone in the Midwest practicing their non-regional diction trying to sell me something.

Now cut to this morning when I was crazed trying to get a deadline done by 11am. I receive a phone-call from number I did not recognize,and I pick it up. Normally I would wait for people to leave me a message, however I'm currently awaiting not good (i.e. BAD) news from someone in my family, so I thought this might be it. The conversation went as follows:

Megan: Hello?
Lady: May I speak to Megan?
Megan [shuffling papers acting very important]: Speaking.
Lady: Hello this is _______, from Executive Registry [actual name of company] in Boca Raton. I have a great opp--
Megan [EYES BULGE OUT OF HEAD]: I AM SORRY. I AM NOT INTERESTED.
Lady [raises voice]: EXCUSE ME MEGAN. THAT IS QUITE RUDE!
[CLICK]

Yep, the recruiting bitch called MY cell phone, and then hung up on ME when I wasn't receptive to her job advances. I was calling her company all morning to give her a piece of my mind, but it wasn't her direct line. The line I was calling just goes right to voicemail. CUNT (that's my pet name for her) is quite lucky I wasn't paying attention to her name or else she'd probably receive Gwyneth Paltrow's head in a box tomorrow morning from me. You know, as a thank you gift.

And if the below post wasn't enough...

I just put a Twitter feed on my sidebar. I put that off for a year before I caved and joined.

EVERYONE, ADORE ME.

No.

I had a post up, but it made me sound like a narcissist so I took it down. BLOGGING IS HARD.

Fine people, here is the post.

This last weekend I ran into a "friend" of mine. I was sitting in a bar on Saturday (surprise) when the man lovingly referred to as Mr. Softie appeared before my very eyes. This is the first time I have seen him since the "incident" when, he you know, flopped about like a raw hot dog (ok I suppose a raw hot dog would be giving this guy too much credit). A couple weeks ago he emailed me to go out again, and I politely declined citing that I was dating someone else. Lies, all of it. However since the guy was cool, I thought we could be friends.

His response? "I'm sorry. I can't be friends with pretty girls." What the fuck?

I immediately inquired if all of his female friends were ugly, and he replied, "No, but I don't want any new friends that are good looking." Part of me was flattered that he considered me too beautiful to even be around [eyes rolling], but I still thought it was a lame fucking excuse.

So back to the bar. I was politely sipping my beer on Saturday (I know!) when he strolled in. He noticed me right away, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He said he immediately had to go to the bathroom, but he'd be back. My roommate ushered up to me and asked, "WHO was that?!" I told her that was the one and only Mr. Softie, and she seemed a little disappointed. 1) She apparently thought he was good looking enough for her to date and realized he was tainted by me already and 2) Someone that good looking can be so...cursed in other areas.

Mr. Softie's timing was unfortunate as we were all about to go to another bar. I told everyone I would meet them outside as I wanted to say goodbye to him. Not cause I wanted his jock (we all know that isn't true), but because I didn't want to be rude and look like I was blowing him off. I told him what bar we were going to next and he said he was going to stay there.

About an hour or 2 later, I left the 2nd bar to go home, and no other than Mr. Softie was standing at the bar practically necking with this girl with too much makeup and a horrible fake tan. It was pretty obvious to me what he was trying to do, and I did not appreciate it. I do NOT like it when people play games with me. If he was trying to make me jealous, he should have tried a little harder. Jealousy would require that 1) I like you and 2) you have someone interested in you that I am threatened by. Both criteria were missing, so I simply patted him on the shoulder and gave him a smile. He looked at me waiting for me to say something, but I just left.

It's done.

(Not like it wasn't done before, but now it's REALLY done. OK, you know what I mean)

VOTE FOR DMBMEG.

My friends JebusHChrist, Oops Pow Surprise, and Hawkeye State have created this little bracket over at Black Heart Gold Pants in honor of Marchifornication. I'm not really sure what that means, but it seems super fun.

Take a good look at the bracket and you will see yours truly seeded 6th against none other than former Illini linebacker, J Leman. Why I am seeded lower than a future NFL draft pick is beyond me.What does all of this have to do with you, dear reader? Well, I am going to tell you. I need you to vote for me. There is no way I deserve to lose to a graduate of the University of Illinois, no matter who it is.

I know you guys are loyal, and I didn't want to make J Leman feel embarrassed by having me kill him so I did what any other girl in my shoes would do: send him a picture of my tits email him on Facebook. What J Leman and I emailed about is private, but let's just say I got the distinct impression he was smitten scared.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO VOTE HERE NOW. It'll take like two seconds, and I need to win this bitch. PLEASE.Oh, and J Leman, if you are reading this, I want to let you know THAT I DO NOT ACCEPT THIS ROSE.

SWORDS AT DAWN, J LEMAN. SWORDS AT MOTHERFUCKING DAWN.

(Note: For those of you coming from BHGP, I want to let you know I don't have any extra chromosomes despite what it looks like. That picture is unfortunate, and I'd like to show you what I look like normally)

(That's better)

Seriously, why are you still reading this? You're supposed to be voting.

OW.

Immediately after purchasing my new baby, I realized I needed a lock to prevent her from falling into the wrong hands. I bought one of those super awesome Kryptonite locks that not even Superman could cut.

I on occasion, have strange people "working" on the roof of my building, so I felt the need to lock her up against a banister as I was keeping her in the hallway. I pulled out the lock from my bag with unbridled excitement. I attempted to pull off the tag, but noticed it was looped on there by one of those super thick tag binders (technical term). I went searching for scissors, but alas could not find them. I am pretty sure my roommate hid them from me for scrapbooking purposes (note: she doesn't actually scrapbook, I'm just trying to embarrass her for stealing the scissors.)(note: the scissors are probably underneath my bed somewhere in my room).

I went over to my knife block and contemplated using one of my super awesome Wustof knives to cut the bitch off, but I knew that would dull the blade. I then fished around and found a really crappy steak knife and decided that would work. I tried sawing off the tag, but that bitch was tough (or my knife just sucked). I tried another plan of attack: rather than sawing, I would put the blade in between the tag and the lock and pull as hard as I could.

I think you see where this is going.

Finally the plastic tag gave away, and I was unable to stop to momentum of the knife in my hand as it managed to cut the tip of my fingertip clear off.

I stood there for a moment in shock, and then the blood came. A lot of blood. I did not panic but quickly put my hand under water and grabbed some tp to stop the bleeding, and eventually it did. After a good 45 minutes.

I had to inform some friends in an email that I cut off my arm in case I died of blood loss and they would know where my body was decomposing. They suggested maybe going to the hospital, but I don't do hospitals.

My roommate finally came home and saw me sitting there with a bloody clump of toilet paper. She asked what happened, and I told her without showing the wound. She then went on to say that her ex-boyfriend once cut his thumb clear to the bone in an accident.

I looked down, removed the toilet paper and showed her my wound. "Yep," I declared. "I'm a huge pussy."

In my defense, that little cut bleed A LOT and is on a finger that I use to type. And no, CrimeNotes, I don't want to hear how you have had worse paper cuts again.

I am sexxxy.

I picked up my new baby today.
And I can't wait to ride her (that's what he said). Now, if you're anything like me, you're picturing how hot I will look in my spandex shorts (yes, I have them) riding my new bike in Central Park with the wind in my hair and a smile on my face.

Not so fast.

The thing about biking in Central Park is you are biking amongst the elite. They go flying through the park at 40 mph. Because of this I decided I needed a helmet so, you know, I don't flip over my bike and die (also, they are kind of mandatory through Team in Training). I haven't really been biking since I used to bike to travel to and from class in college (which I promptly gave up in favor of driving to class mid Junior year), so I never wore a helmet before. Back when I was a kid, we didn't wear helmets. Playing outside just wasn't fun unless you risked your life. What can I say? Kids today are pussies.

Anyways...

I thought maybe because of the spandex and the tight biking clothing I might be able to score a date on my rides. It would go like this:

[Megan is biking. Handsome dude pulls up beside her]
Him: Hello, gorgeous.
Megan [seductively]: Hi there.
Him: Let's make babies.

That's pretty much it. They didn't tell me though that when I bought this helmet that my dream of bike sex would be shattered just like Spitzer's career in politics. Why? BECAUSE I LOOK LIKE THIS:Oh, but if the humiliation factor isn't big enough, they decided to kick it up a notch in our training. Yep, I HAVE TO WEAR A SWIM CAP when swimming. They didn't tell me wearing it would be like trying to put a condom on my head (not like I would know what that feels like. Nope). I'm not even kidding when I say I make that face every single time I put the thing on.

Yep, you see my name on the side of my head? They're making us write our names on our swim cap not in case we slip on wet tile, hit our heads, and forget who we are like I originally thought, but rather for them to should fascist workout orders at us while we are in the pool. "I SAID DO THE BUTTERFLY, NOT THE BREASTSTROKE YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A TRIATHLETE!!!!"

Oh yeah, and I have to wear goggles too.Not so much.

Jesse McMartney

My ex-boyfriend used to be a high school teacher up in Westchester in a affluent suburb of New York City. His first year of teaching he informed me that Jesse McCartney was one of his students. This made me very excited. For those of you who don't remember, he was the teen idol who sang one of my favorite shower songs, Beautiful Soul.Every time he would come home from work I would ask about Jesse. "Megan," he would say. "He's 17. That is illegal, and I'm not 'setting you up' with one of my students." Whatever. I was hell bent on cougaring Jesse's underage ass up. Statutory rape laws will not contain me!

One day I was up in Westchester meeting my ex after work, and I picked out my cutest skirt and the wife beater that made my tits look the best "just in case" Jesse were to walk out the door and I could make him a man. No such luck. All that appeared before me that day was my grumpy boyfriend who when realizing my disappointment about not seeing my underage love interest declared, "Megan, he is on tour or something. He is gone for the rest of the year."

What a jealous asshole! No one gets in the way of me and my Jesse!

Soon after my ex and I broke up, and I forgot about Jesse. That is, until today when I discovered his new music video on You Tube. And you know what? I was right. We were meant to be together.



I mean REALLY. How hot does he look? And he is legal now! So Jesse, if you are vain enough to google yourself and come across this blog, you email me you here? I'm available.

I'm thinking maybe if I type his name enough, I'll be one of the top google searches and we can finally get this party in my pants started. Here goes!

Jesse McCartney
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PS -- I TOTALLY PUT OUT.

A Survey (it's raining out and I am bored)

No, I'm not too old for these. Shutup.

1. What bill do you hate paying the most?

All of them. Seriously, who likes paying bills? But I guess my rent. That 4th digit on my check is killer.

2. Where's the best place to eat a romantic dinner?

My pants

3. Last time you puked from drinking?

2 weeks ago. I get hung over pretty easily

4. When is the last time you got drunk and danced on a bar?

Most would probably say, "Oh...way back in college, etc." Nope. I got drunk with Gatesy and did the robot on top of the bar at Uncle Mings. I was 25. And it was the awesome. (Seriously, who does the robot on the bar anyways?)

5. Name one of your first grade teachers?

one? Jesus I only had one. Mrs. Barnes.

6. What do you really want to be doing right now?

lying near a body of water somewhere in the sun

7. What did you want to be when you were growing up?

Doctor

8. How many colleges did you attend?

IN HEAVEN THERE IS NO BEER. University of Iowa, RECOGNIZE!

9. Why did you wear the shirt that you have on right now?

Cause it was clean, close by, and makes my tits look fuckin' awesome

10. GAS PRICES!

I'm sorry, what? Someone pays you for flatulating?

11. If you could move anywhere and take someone with you?

Europe, and many people for different reasons.

12. First thought when the alarm went off this morning?

I was awoken with a phone call. It was about 10,000 more pleasant than my alarm. Altogether now: AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

13. Last thought before going to sleep last night?

I hate computers.

14. Favorite style of underwear?

I like 'em low and the ones that make my but look good (which is of course, ALL OF 'EM)

15. Favorite style of underwear for the opposite sex?

Boxer-briefs. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

16. What errand/chore do you despise?

Laundry. I pay people to do it for me now. Now joke.

17. If you didn't have to work, would you volunteer at an art gallery?

No. I'm not an art person. Last time I went to the MoMA I got in trouble with my ex-boyfriend for saying I could buy most of this stuff at Ikea.

18. Get up early or sleep in?

Sleep in. Some things with me never change

19. What is your favorite cartoon character?

Dora the Explorer. SWIPER NO SWIPING. SWIPER NO SWIPING!

20. Favorite NON sexual thing to do at night with a girl/guy?

I'm sorry, what? Does not compute.

21. A secret that you wouldn't mind everyone knowing?

Isn't it not a secret anymore then? I dunno--maybe I don't like Caddyshack as much as people think I do? Stop looking at me like that. You tell people you don't like Caddyshack. It's like telling people you enjoy killing puppies.

22. When did you first start feeling old?

excuse me, what? I watched Hannah Montana on the Disney Channel the other night. I do not understand this question.

23. Favorite 80's movie?

Wall Street

24. Your favorite lunch meat?

The kind thrown at might naked body. Wait, what?

25. What do you get every time you go into Costco?

Dude, my apt is 750 sq feet. I can only hold so much toilet paper in there.

26. Beach or lake?

Lake. Hello? I'm from the LAND OF 10,000 LAKES

27. Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual that was invented?

Uh, what? Seriously, just do what you want, just know I will ridicule you if you spend $75K on a wedding.

28. Who do you stalk on MySpace?

FACEBOOK, bitches.

29. Favorite guilty pleasure?

None of my pleasures are guilty. I am proud of them all. (ok maybe Big Brother and gossip websites)

30. Favorite movie you wouldn't want anyone to find out about?

Are you kidding me? I brag about owning 13 Going On 30? You think I have shame?

31. What's your drink?

Grey Goose dirty martini. Lots of olives.

32. Cowboys or Indians?

I'm a Twins fan and I hate anything Jessica Simpson touches. So, neither.

33. Cops or Robbers??

Don't care. Handcuffs? Yes, please.

34. What would you do for a Klondike Bar?

Ask for one?

35. Favorite Childhood Cartoon?

He-Man

36. Favorite Late Night After Party Eatery?

I usually eat pizza or go to a diner, but in Iowa City it was PANCHEROS

37. What was your childhood fear?

I was telling a friend the other night that I used to be scared by room would flood with water and Jaws would come and eat me. Now I'd be lucky to get anything to eat me.

38. Who from high school would you like to run into?

Run into them? That's kinda violent, no?

39. What radio station is your car radio tuned to right now?

Oh, you mean my Hot Wheels that I cruise around NYC with? Mine is the pink Barbie Wrangler. It does not come with a radio.

40. Why do you fill out these surveys?

Boredom, and I like writing about how awesome I am.

41. Is it better to reign in hell or serve in heaven?

Like I have a choice? I mean, have you read this blog? We all know where I'm going so no point in answering this question.

42. Norm or Cliff?

dude, NORM.

43. The Cosby Show or the Simpson?

OMG SOOOOOOO Cosby.

44. Worst relationship mistake that you wish you could take back?

Having one?

45. Do you like the person who sits directly across from you at work?

Yes.

46. If you could get away with it, who would you kill?

Don't even doubt that I would cut Paris Hilton's throat if given the chance.

47. What famous person(s) would you like to have dinner with?

Eric Bana

48. What famous person would you like to sleep with?

Eric Bana. See above. Don't doubt if I ever had dinner with him I'd let him leave peacefully.

49. Have you ever had to use a fire extinguisher for its intended purpose?

Pervert.

50. Last book you read for real?

I'm reading The Omnivore's Dilemma now.

51. Do you have a teddy bear?

Yes, his name is Cubby.

52. Strangest place you have ever brushed your teeth?

In the back of a Volkswagon.

53. Somewhere in California you've never been and would like to go?

Napa!

54. Number of texts in a day?

maybe around 15?

55. At this point in your life would you rather start a new career or a new relationship?

I'm indifferent.

56. Do you go to church?

I would spontaneously burst into blames if I walked into a church right now

57. Pencil or pen?

Pencil. I make lots of mistakes (just like in life)

60. What do you want to achieve in life?

Oh god, SHUTUP ALREADY.

61. How old are you?

27! It's the cursed age!

62. where do you see yourself when you are 40 ?

Probably living in my same 2 bedroom apt, paying $10,000 a month in rent, updating my shitty blog and watching Big Brother 215.

Gross

Tonight I came home from work and was craving my favorite breakfast--eggs over easy, wheat toast, and a side of bacon. And you know what? I cooked the fuck out of that shit. I fried my bacon too so my eggs would have that delicious bacony fat taste.

Since I had a little excess grease in my pan I poured the fat in a nearby drinking glass that was not in use and left it. Then I ate while watching Project Runway (soooooo happy with the outcome).

An hour later after the show was over, I went to clean my dishes and realized I was rather parched. I grabbed my nearby water glass that I keep by my sink, filled it with water and chugged.

It was ice cold and delicious.

Then I noticed a weird opaque white film all along the bottom of the glass. I examined the glass further only to realize I PUT THE BACON FAT IN THAT GLASS AND THEN DRANK WATER FROM IT.

[heart quivers]

Luckily most of the fat was congealed so I didn't swallow it, but the water had a bacony after taste that I assure you was not as good as actual bacon.

Seriously, I'm fucking grossed out as all hell.

St. Patrick's Day came a little early for me

This last weekend my roommate invited me to Hoboken for the St. Patty's Day Parade there. Yes, it was only March 1st, but we don't ask any questions when it comes to how they do things in Jerz.

I knew I was in for a treat when upon boarding the Path, I was confronted with girls wearing furry boots tucked into their jeans, ginormous sunglasses, and various "Everyone loves an Irish girl" paraphanalia. What does that mean? It means I was the oldest one celebrating my most beloved of all holidays....by a long shot.

Basically this whole entire outing was like I was in college all over again.
This is what greated me upon leaving the Path station in Hoboken. You see that? That's a line. Charging a cover. No thank you.

We walk briskly by the bars while I mumble insults about how I am better than all of them, and reach our destination. Our lovely host was kind enough to buy Guinness, Jameson, and Baileys for all of us to drink. The only problem was we had plastic shot glasses, so when drinking my first car bomb, the Jameson/Baileys just kinda floated up top and immediately curdled. Fear not, friends. I am resourceful (read: I just took shots of Jameson).

Needless to say, I got drunk. Fast.

When it was time to move to our next destination (we are a very popular group), I already knew this day would be special. On our way to our next destination, I found a bar easel lying on the sidewalk. While most would pass the by without second thought, I was determined to find this sign's home. It looked so...lost. So lonely. I looked around and found no bar in sight. It appeared as some drunk asshole stole the sign from beneath a bar's nose, most likely became fatigued by the wait of the sign, and then dropped it.

I looked at the sign, and knew what I had to do. I had to get the sign home. I heaved it over my head, and began walking.

Michael Collins t-shirt not included.

Now, back in New York, we have this nice little grid system (I'm ignoring what the fucking Dutch did to the Village). Basically you have 1st St. After 1st st comes 2st. This goes on way up until the 200's. It comes in handy in determining how far away you are from your destination. However, in New Jersey, they like to kick it up a notch. I believe our next party was on Jackson St. The lovely ladies I was with did not want to walk that far, and I was carrying a sign, and we could have been walking to the Poconos for all we knew. I look at the street name and read "Adams". The light bulb went off: BY GOLLY THEY GO IN PRESIDENTIAL ORDER.

I smugly tell the girls I am with that we have 8 blocks to go. Adams being the 2nd president, and Jackson being the 10th. Maybe those folks in Hoboken are smarter than they look. We walk by Jefferson, and I am thinking how I am the smartest person alive. I mean, could it be I actually get smarter when I'm drunk? We walk by Madison....then...uh, Monroe, then...Jackson is before me....uh, "HEY WAIT A MINUTE THOSE AREN'T IS PRESIDENTIAL ORDER."

I guffawed for a good 5 minutes, before I was reminded that there was beer inside. So in I went. I presented the host with my sign, and he loved it. I mean, who wouldn't? Look at how happy everyone is.

Frizzy wind blown hair also not included.

I was in fact so adored, that the hosts gave me a beer in a size I could handle (that's what she said).

Drunk creepy guy also not included.

Before I knew it we were off to ANOTHER party, but this one has the piece de resistance. Yep, you guess it....A FUCKING ICE LUGE.

Seriously, 1999 called and it wants its good times back.

Prom hair-do with ringlets circle Prom 1994 not included.

Oh you better believe I luged my fucking face off.

Disgusted friend from cheap vodka luge not included.

I managed to stumble home and pass out at 7pm. Yep, 7pm. I'm too old for this shit.

Stay Away

I saw The Other Boleyn Girl last night.

The Boston Globe's review summarized my feelings about this movie perfectly:

Whenever the movie switches to a new location, we get a shot of someone riding! riding! across the downs. I kept waiting for one of the Monty Python boys to step out from behind a shrub and clop a pair of coconut shells together.

Look, I understand this is an intriguing subject. I love The Tudors, but I feel like that show doesn't take itself as seriously as The Other Boleyn Girl. There is an absolute abhorrent scene 3/4ths the way through that had my clutching my side in laughter with all the ridiculousness. It's seriously like Maury Povich decided to tape a show in 16th Century England--filled with baby daddies and hair-pulling sisters, but instead of tube tops, we have corsets.

I'm surprised Natalie Portman chose this movie. She usually makes semi-respectable decisions regarding her film career. Anyways, I'm off to drink (11am!!). More later. That is all.

dmbmeg OUT!