Tell me if you see anything unusual in this screen grab from my Facebook homepage this evening (click to enlarge). I'll give you a hint: it has nothing to do with Duane Reade.
It's the title of this post. Just give up.
That's right. According to Facebook, people I may know include Nathan Thomas, friends with Anthony P. G. Berger, and Joe Rogan, host of Fear Factor. Obviously I clicked on Mr. Rogan immediately because this sparked my interest. Do I have a mutual friend with Joe Rogan? Here is what I found:
Do you know Joe?
8 friends?! You hosted a show where people won trips to Las Vegas based on how many inches of cow rectum they were willing to digest on national TV and I literally have 719 more Facebook friends than you. Congratulations, Joe. Evidently friends are not a factor for you. You must be the most miserable human to interact with face-to-face. When your friends want to hang out, do you make them walk barefoot through a tank of hypodermic needles and then feed them a pizza topped with coagulated blood and giraffe tongues? Is that why you're so lonely? Good lord, that gig messed you up.
Aside from your Fear Factor psychological trauma, though.. UFC (Color Commentator)? Seriously? You get ONE line from the resume that goes on your Facebook page and you're going with UFC Color Commentator rather than Fear Factor or NewsRadio? No wonder Brooke Burns won't accept your friend request. You are the Balthazar Getty of reality show hosts.
Given the fact that we have zero mutual friends and that this is clearly a fake Facebook account, I am curious as to why Facebook has suggested that we know each other. Has Facebook been pushing Joe Rogan on anyone else? Please let me know. I'm probably going to lose 12 minutes of sleep over this once I'm done writing this post.
Before I begin, let me just start by congratulating my brother Nicholas for being a monster on the track, finishing the 10K with a personal record of 32:01. After he finished, we were talking and I told him he had a poppy seed stuck in his teeth. He picked it out, looked at his finger, said "that's a bug," and just carried on like a boss. When you end up with bugs stuck between your teeth, you know you're running fast.
Just awful.
Alright, so about the Greyhound bus. I know I throw around the term "the worst" often, but when I use it to describe Greyhound, please know that I do not use this expression lightly. First of all, it departs from the Port Authority, which is one third of the worst-places-in-New-York trifecta (accompanied by Penn Station and Times Square). I drank all of the whiskey gingers one night at a bar in the Port Authority with a few of my co-workers and as far as I was concerned, it blew up the next day and I would never see its hideous, Jack-and-shame stained face again. But alas, Springfield-bound, I begrudgingly returned to this hell hole an hour before my bus was scheduled to depart per the directions on my online order confirmation. This was unnecessary. Never get to your Greyhound bus more than 20 minutes ahead of time. Save yourself. Protect your sanity.. and your general health.
At our gate, the waiting area was divided into four lines by boarding number (1-10, 11-20, etc). There were 12 people in the 1-10 line. Not surprised. Already mad. When a Greyhound employee showed up to herd us onto the bus he asked if anyone in line spoke English (??) and then repeatedly asked everyone to check their tickets for their boarding number. I grew increasingly angry at whichever two idiots in line 1-10 were not getting this. Oh wait, Greyhound man says, sometimes in order to keep things efficient and affordable our online system ends up assigning repeat boarding numbers. Uhhhh... how is your shitty ticketing software keeping things efficient and affordable for us? Ok sure, I didn't think it was possible but I officially hate you more than line 1-10. Oh wait, two bossy black ladies are on my side and are now telling this jag-off that Greyhound is NOT affordable. This is true. This round trip ticket cost me $66. To go to SPRINGFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS. They don't even have a Chili's there. Ladies, you're my favorites. If you sit in front of me and recline your seat, I won't be mad.
There is an art to avoiding other human beings while riding public transportation. My cousin Eddie told me he likes to put his headphones on and turn some abrasive music up super loud so people won't want to sit next to him. Some people spread their bags across the seat next to them. Some people bust out food (there is nothing more offensive than a tuna salad sandwich). But when a bus is sold out, you've just got to hope for the best and plead with your eyes when you see a normal person creeping their way down the aisle, scanning for you, their normal-person soulmate, to sit next to.
I am not a normal person, though, so I usually end up with the crazies. This time I got a fat lady who sounded like Uncle Frank from Mrs. Doubtfire. I think she sneezed out a carton of cigarettes. At one point, given her girth, she didn't have room in her seat for her giant Pepsi, so she shoved it in my seat next to me, thinking I was asleep? Nope, not happening. I picked it up, handed it to her, gave her my best grimace, then went back to fake sleeping.
Here are some more terrible things about Greyhound. If you need to change your ticket, you can't do so over the phone or online (hang on a second.. ok, yeah, just wanted to make sure this was 2012). You have to physically go to a Greyhound station to change it. After paying $66 for a service 50x worse than Megabus, I now had to spend 45 minutes navigating the worst automated phone system of all time before pressing "4" for an "emergency" just to speak with a human being the devil's minion who told me that I would have to haul my irritable ass to the Greyhound station in Springfield to pay $15 to change my ticket to a bus three hours later so that I could attend the meet on Sunday with my dad. For $81, I could have ridden Amtrak with the rest of civilization. Total bullshit. Also, when my dad dropped me off at the station on Sunday, I walked inside and asked the dispatcher which gate the bus to New York was going to depart from, to which he replied, "Gate 1. And another thing, if you're ever going to ride this bus again, you will not enter from the back door here. Cars are only allowed in the front of the building to drop off." I said, "Don't worry. I'm never riding this bus again."
Before I get to the Bill highlights of the weekend, you should know that there was a ladies' barbershop quartet competition happening in Springfield, and our hotel room (#1115) was next door to the party room.
And finally.. #MyWeekendWithBill:
- My dad picks me up at the bus station and there's a whole pineapple wrapped in a newspaper in the front passenger seat of the car. "Who needs an air freshener?" Totally normal.
- I asked him if he'd been following The Voice, which he claims is not as good as American Idol (LIES), and then asked him what he thought of TheRealXtina cutting Jesse Campbell. For those of you unfamiliar with #TheVoice, Jesse had what should have been a winning combination of a killer voice and unbeatable sob story - his wife left them because he wasn't making enough money and he and his daughter were homeless and had to sleep in his car... Are you crying yet? No? How about now? After singing crushing Beyonce's "Halo" while pictures of his daughter were projected on the stage (obviously I wept), Xtina rudely eliminated him because she wanted a team that had the most potential for growth. YOU DON'T NEED TO GROW WHEN YOU'RE ALREADY THE BEST. I can't talk about this anymore, I'm getting angry. Anyway, I told my dad I thought Ms. Aguilera was high on prescription drugs. My dad just matter-of-factly responds, "I'm telling you.. Christina Aguilera is a lesbian."
- While my brother was warming up for his race, my dad yelled "I've got my money on the kid in red" and then followed that with "I like it a lot" in his best Lloyd Christmas impersonation:
- He asked me if I remembered seeing the space shuttle launch when I was in high school (we happened to be in Florida at the time).
Yes..?
Do you ever feel bad that you were video-taping it when it blasted off?
No... why?
I don't know, I worry that it distracted from the overall experience for you. That was so cool seeing the space shuttle lift off. Do you feel like you missed it because you were holding the camera?
No. Where did this come from?
Just something I think about sometimes.
- He referred to this guy as "Captain Amherst"
Tell me, what's the catch of the day?
- I was wearing an elephant pendant necklace that Kelly gave me for my birthday and my dad asked me if it was a Brooks Brothers emblem. Sure, because what 23-year-old female isn't a Brooks Brothers label whore?
- After Nick ran, my dad kept asking him if he was going to celebrate that night. He then kept reiterating that he should only be drinking a light beer to stay in shape for summer training. We went to dinner that night and my dad - a notorious lightweight - had a beer called Rye on Rye which was 11% alcohol. He apparently decided light beer was no longer an option for young Nicholas and texted him that he hoped he was drinking the "sweet nectar of the agave plant." Bear in mind it was Cinco de Mayo. Then he said, "I wish Devin was here," referring to Nick's bff who went on vacation with our family last summer. I asked where that came from and he said something to the effect of "Devin gets me" or "Devin would get it" and then just left it at that.
- I had forgotten to bring toothpaste and asked my dad if I could borrow his.
Dad, can I use some toothpaste?
You didn't bring your own?
No.
Turd.
... Ok, I'm taking your toothpaste.
Don't use all of it.
(Later on)
Dad, where's the toothpaste?
Oh my GOD, seriously?
Oh my GOD, SERIOUSLY? How much toothpaste do you think I'm going to use?!
I don't know. You could use the whole tube on one of your hillbilly teeth.
[ed. note: flabbergasted]
[ed. note: my dad is a dentist. He has a box with a hundred travel-size toothpastes under his sink at home]
Update: I now have 6 followers and 14 votes in my poll! Is this what being Justin Bieber feels like? I’m going to resist the urge to compare myself to Kurt Cobain and shave my head. Shaving my head sounds pretty good right now, though, because according to weather.com we're experiencing "suffocating heat" and, as I’ve mentioned, I don’t have air conditioning. Summer is the devil's playtime, and I'm the kid to whom he's giving an atomic wedgie in the sandbox. As it is, I sweat like Ruben Studdard chasing a Mr. Softee truck after a steam bath, so you can imagine how disgusting I am during the months of July and August.
Additional update: I am experimenting with the Turbie Twist I received in a white elephant gift exchange and wearing it while I type this. So, um, I look like this:
but minus the makeup, perfectly placed curl, and smile that suggests someone is holding a gun to my back. Also, my Turbie is white with pink polka dots.
Anyway, my fury with the summer and the fact that I've made a resolution to blog at least once a week has led me to write Part II of Things That Are the Worst, as promised (to view Things That Are the Worst: Part I, click here). 2011 is the summer of the sequel anyway, right?
Things That are the Worst: Part II
1)When people say that this is "the summer of the sequel." I want to roundhouse you people in the throat, because every summer is the "summer of the sequel." In fact, every year is the year of the goddamn sequel. Just because it's alliterative, doesn't make it a good headline. Nor does it make it true. Just because I ate eggplant for dinner, doesn't make 2011 the summer of the eggplant. I eat eggplant all the time. Congrats, summer, for giving me another reason to hate you.
Did I mention Kirsten Dunst's stupid red hat?
2)The movie Elizabethtown. Oh man.. this movie was awful. My friend Kelly let me hang out in her air conditioned apartment while she was at the beach with her family on Saturday, and I wanted to watch a movie I hadn't seen yet. I happened to have my most recently received Netflix DVD, Catfish, with me so I watched that first and it was AMAZING. Also, the filmmakers are a smokeshow triumvirate. Go rent it right now. Anyway, I still wasn't ready to leave the AC so I sorted through Kelly's DVDs for a movie I hadn't seen yet. I knew that both Alec Baldwin and Paul Schneider were in Elizabethtown and I have a mad crush on both Jack Donaghy and Mark Brandanaquits so I decided to give it a whirl. Following Catfish with Elizabethtown was like following a week in Bermuda with a weekend in the Wisconsin Dells. Disappointment is inevitable. Also, Alec Baldwin was in it for about 2 seconds and Paul Schneider had mutton chops. Why was the movie terrible? Orlando Bloom's American accent. Kirsten Dunst's southern accent. Kirsten Dunst's presence. Susan Sarandon's awkward tap dancing/comedy routine at her husband's memorial service. The plot.
It tries to be Garden State and fails harder than a Paula Abdul sobriety test. I'm not sure that an unpopular shoe design is really a billion dollar mistake. I think that probably happens all the time, right? I don't think it earns a cover of Forbes magazine with the headline "Fiasco of the Century" or whatever the hell it said. I also don't think it merits wanting to kill yourself. Speaking of which, duct taping a kitchen knife to an excercise bike is the stupidest way to kill yourself. Even if Judy Greer hadn't called you and interrupted your suicide attempt, Orlando Bloom, it probably wouldn't have worked anyway because your sternum/ribs would have provided enough resistance to shift the knife's position in the duct tape. Then, you'd probably end up with just one stab in the chest and a mess on your hands. However, I would have been happy to eat my words had that worked out in the beginning and you saved me an hour and a half of a shit movie.
3) Shoes that look like feet. And the people who wear them. Go back to the tree canopy you came from.
4) Recent law school grads. I was at a bar a couple of weeks ago and met two people who had recently graduated from law school. When they told me they were lawyers, I said "Oh, that's cool," and should have frozen time to walk over to the bar and put money down on what they were going to say next because I would have made $20 on their response (and promptly spent it on drinks, being the irresponsible bachelors-degree-holder that I am): "Ugh, don't ever go to law school." For some reason, everyone who went to law school feels the need to tell everyone else to never make the same mistake they did. Well, no, it wasn't a mistake for them, but it will be for you. This doesn't apply to adults who are happy making bank, carrying cool briefcases, and saying things like "no further questions" while fantasizing that they're Sam Waterston. It's just the recent grads who are reveling in a state of self-importance because they put in a few more years at school and now they get to be an "esquire" which kind of sounds like someone in the feudal period who would have had a serf or two doing their bitch work. Umm.. yeah, you're right. If going to law school makes you a pretentious dickweed, thanks for the warning.
5) People who change their Facebook status 20 times/day. I really don't want to have to sift through your constant life updates to find unflattering recently tagged pictures of people I don't like before they untag them. Time is of the essence. I hate you even more if your status involves emo song lyrics. No one feels that many different emotions in one day. If you do, paint a watercolor about it. Get off my newsfeed.
6) Smudging/chipping your nail polish right after you thought it was dry. This obviously just happened.
7) Girls who dress as slutty [fill-in-the-blank] for Halloween. Ok, I'll admit freshman year of college I wore a slutty Hermione costume purchased from a website that probably also sold nipple clamps and Plan B, but freshman year was a practice round at life. Puhlease, I didn't even have bangs yet. Everyone knows you're supposed to get ugly for Halloween. This year I went to a bar where I'm sure at some point a slutty Sarah Palin was making out with a slutty Chilean miner on top of the bar in exchange for tequila shots out of test tubes, and I was dressed as the Monopoly Man. You know, ladies, it's hard to compete when you have a monocle, moustache and bushy white eyebrows. On October 31 every year, can we just agree to level the playing field and alllll be fugly pieces for one night?
8) The "Christmas Shoes" song. Speaking of holidays... this song is just the worst. You know, there are just too many Christmas songs about being happy and not enough about people dying of terminal illnesses, right? WTF.
The video is kind of the worst too. It looks like it was filmed with a FlipCam in a Bass Pro Shop in Akron, Ohio. I even hate the way that guy is chewing his gum. He looks like a high school wrestling coach. Wait, he's supposed to be the one singing? I thought a black guy sang this. Oh shit.. I'm looking up the band to see the lead singer's ethnicity and apparently a movie was made based on this "hit song" and Rob Lowe starred in it. Wtf, Rob? Were you on a bad acid trip and hired one of Santa's elves as your manager? He was probably just a homeless dwarf in the right place at the right time. For God's sake, you were Sam Seaborne, man. Anyway, back to the music.
You couldn't find a cuter kid for this video? His teeth look like they were meant for opening cans of Old Style for his daddy on the front porch while shooting at opossums. I also find it unsettling to hear this singer's voice behind the kid mouthing the words. Creepy. Umm.. that kid totally scammed the high school wrestling coach, by the way. He threw a handful of pennies on the table ... he was definitely banking on $30 worth of sympathy from the fool behind him in line. 'Tis the season to be a buck-tooth little snot rag apparently. Oh, wow, those are the shoes? This whole time I imagined a pair of conservative black Pilgrim-ish pumps. Those shoes look like a carpet bag. Notice how the kid goes into the hospital and we never actually see his mom meet Jesus. He's probably selling those to a blind lady for a $10 profit. Congrats, kid. You may actually be a worse human being than Balthazar Getty.
I conclude with a letter to summer and all that is terrible in the world:
Reminder: Just one more week to vote in the WiFi-naming poll!
They say all dogs go to heaven. Well, I beg to differ. I'd say that when they're the less charming canine reincarnation of Attila the Hun, they spend a little time in doggie purgatory before descending into a deep circle of hell where they are sentenced to an eternity on a tight leash, chewing on a rawhide bone that never wears down while a squirrel just out of reach points and laughs (my favorite thing about squirrels is their human-like hands).
I hate you.
Without further ado, let me introduce Lucy (short for Lucifer), my uncle's yellow lab that I have dogsat for on occasion:
The last time I took care of Lucy, I swore it would be the last. She is, to put it simply, the devil. I love dogs. My dog Liam was both adorable and hilarious. Lucy is neither of those. If I had to choose between spending time with Lucy and having a colonoscopy, I'd take the latter without anesthesia. Even as we speak, I can hear a crashing in the living room and I'm just hoping it's the demon exiting her body...
No worries, guys. She's just eating a coaster (sigh of relief). Hmm.. where to begin... Well, the first time I dogsat Lucy, it began with her just being incessantly annoying (scratching my legs up until they bled, jumping all over me, dragging me down the street while I walked her, etc.) But it turns out that no, it wasn't just puppy energy... it was homicidal behavior. My uncle had asked me to keep the door to the bathroom closed so she wouldn't eat anything in there, but I forgot to heed his warning. Before I knew it, she was chasing me around the apartment with my razor in her mouth. That wasn't all, though.. I have to point out at this point that at my uncle's surprise birthday party Lucy came up in conversation.. as I bit my tongue, he acknowledged that yes, she "has a lot of energy, but she'd never hurt a fly." Umm.... Once when I was dogsitting, I made dinner and while I was eating in the living room, she went into the kitchen, got up on the counter, got the kitchen knife out of the sink, and started chasing me with that. The violence has escalated.
Heeeeeeere's Lucy!
She is just absolutely the worst. THE WORST. I remember when my dad and aunt and uncle came to the apartment, I had warned them that Lucy was the Pol Pot of household pets and they thought I was exaggerating. "She's just a puppy," they said. "She just doesn't like being cooped up." Well, they came to the apartment and as she ran in circles they laughed and said, "See? She just likes to be around people." Then, on cue, the dog stopped mid-psychotic-run, looked us in the eye, and peed on the hardwood floor. "Fuck you. Don't try to explain me. I'm crazy." Hey, don't look at me. We've been on the same page from the get-go. You's a crazy bitch.
My cousin left me a note thanking me for taking care of her and he mentioned that I should destroy the letter once I was done reading it. No worries, the dog just tore it up.
Christ, I remember my uncle warning me not to walk her in Central Park because she was "in heat." I guess because my dog Liam was a male and we had him fixed after he rode my giant Meeko stuffed animaldown the stairs (Meeko got put in the storage room after that traumatizing incident), I forget that animals have reproductive systems. Can you imagine how cuckoo bananas she is at her time of the month? If Lucy had opposable thumbs, she would probably light a church on fire and shoot a cop while she was PMS'ing.
The last time I sat for Lucy was the absolute worst. First of all, my uncle doesn't pay us for dogsitting which only makes this all the more painful. He just leaves money for "food" (which translates to alcohol in order to get through the ordeal). The last time I was here, my cousin had bought some groceries for the week and there was still about $60 left. The little shitstain tore up the money and left it in a neat little pile for me to find when I came home. "Hey, remember the chana masala you were going to order for dinner? Mmm... that sounds good. FOR ME TO POOP ON."
"Sit? Am I doing 'sit?!'"
Once when I was taking care of her, I had a couple of friends stay over. I insisted they take the bed and I'd sleep on the couch. In order to win the argument, I said that I wanted to sleep on the couch so I would be in the other room in case Lucy acted up. The moment I said this she barfed all over the kitchen. After cleaning all of this up, I went to sleep on the couch. I woke up during the night to go to the bathroom and as soon as I walked past the kitchen where she was gated up, she looked me in the eyes and insta-puked again. Now that is talent. I can understand how she feels, though. I kind of want to throw up when I look at her, too.
Taking her on a walk is like wrapping a Twizzler around your wrist and attaching it to Mufasa with a wildebeest 20 yards away. She is... awful.
She isn't just uncontrollable in a cute dog way.. like when they see a squirrel and want to chase it. She's just a moron. Once while walking her, we had been trying to get her to poop for 20 minutes. Please just poop so we can go home. When does she decide to pinch a loaf? (Yes, Andrea, that one is for you since you had never heard that before you came to NY) While crossing the street and the red hand is blinking, Lucy decides to get comfy and take a shit.. Ok, now the hand is no longer blinking and there are cabs coming at us.. quickly.. Lucy, they're.. oh SHIT. LUCY. MOVE!!! WE'RE GOING TO DIE. Apparently yesterday she pooped an entire roll of coins when she was with my cousin. Not shocking. She was probably stacking them up so she could beat me with them when I came to watch her.
There is one thing I'll give Lucy.. she knows how to give a guest a proper welcome. The last time I came here, I already knew how much I hated this damn dog but at the time, I was still living on Long Island with my grandma so when choosing between the two, I'd pick the chemically imbalanced pooch over the LIRR commute any day. Anyway, I walked in the door and she immediately sank her claws into my arm flesh.. As I tried to swat her pterodactyl talons off of me, I threw my purse down so I could defend myself. Without missing a beat, she dropped down to all fours, reached up with one paw (I swear over everything unholy - particularly Lucy's soul - that this is true), and turned on the stove burner underneath my purse (which I had dropped in the effort to stop Lucy's attack). So to sum it all up, the dog tried to set my shit on fire.
Alright, ya'll, I should probably go. I'm looking out the window and I see a doll that looks suspiciously like me hanging over the window ledge and now I'm feeling a sharp pain in my right side.
Update: she chewed the handle off her leash while I was blogging this. Lucy for the win.
I'm not feeling particularly inspired this evening but as I have a couple of friends in town this weekend, if I don't post tonight I won't post until Sunday, and I'd hate for all my loyal followers to think I've abandoned them. Well, still just one loyal follower (thanks again, Nathan! also, thanks for the phrase "softer than a curry shite." it's my new favorite) but a girl can dream!
Anypoop, as I wrapped up my four years at Notre Dame, on one particularly booze-fueled day during senior week, I sent the following text to a friend former friend:
Hi! It's Mariel! Just wanted to say go fuck yourself. Yep, you're the worst. Well, just wanted to get that off my chest before graduation.
Needless to say, this was detrimental to our friendship but instrumental in making me a texting legend. So the phrase "yep, you're the worst" became part of our colloquial. Now, since I don't have anything I'm itching to write about this evening, I'm just going to tell you a few other things that are the worst.
1) Penn Station. Maybe it's because I associate it with my frustration to move out of my grandma's house when I was commuting from Long Island and saving up to live in the city. Maybe it's because of the heartbreak that I felt one too many times upon running down the stairs, watching the train doors close, and waiting another 2 hours for the 3:19 am to Port Washington. Maybe it's because once I missed the 3:19 am and woke up next to a homeless person without my shoes on. Who knows? It's the worst. Period.
2) Balthazar Getty-- We've already talked about the fact that Balthazar Getty aka Tommy Walker is the devil but I just found out a little background info indicating failure is in his DNA. His father J. Paul Getty III was kidnapped and held for a $3 million ransom in 1973. J. Paul's grandfather (Balthazar's great-grandfather) was oil magnate Jean Paul Getty. Jean Paul and his son insisted that the ransom was a hoax and refused to pay it. They received JP III's hair and SEVERED EAR in the mail. Is that proof enough for you, idiots? Then, JP III gets married at the age of 18 and Jean Paul the Grandpa disinherits him for marrying too young! JP found a girl who was ok with whispering sweet nothings into a gaping hole and seized the day... and now - after the trauma of getting Van Gogh'd by the Italian mafia - his dick of a grandpa takes away his inheritance. I guess the gene for being the worst skips 2 generations because Balthazar seems like Jean Paul, Jr. to me. P.S. Jean Paul probably would have disinherited Balthazar for that hideous eyebrow and his ineptitude at charades.
3) When uninformed people claim to have a political stance but are really just repeating what they've heard other people say so that they can keep up with things that really matter.. like the Kardashians. I remember when President Obama was elected and my newsfeed was bombarded by 8th graders at my high school whining "Ughh can't w8 4 a socialist govermint." You don't even know what that means. And your parents are rednecks. Also,if you're getting your news from The Onion, please never operate heavy machinery or donate to a sperm bank.
4) Not having air conditioning in my apartment. I'm sweating like Louie Anderson in the home stretch of a 5K charity walk.
Well, I'll leave you with that image. Until next time, kiddos.
