Biebs in love: is it a match?

My criticism and fascination with Justin Bieber began sometime in the early fall of 2009. He had just hit the scene and I had just discovered that it was actually a male singing "Baby, baby, baby ooohh". From that day, his popularity has soared to a sick sort of cult following. Biebs even had one 3 year old girl crying her eyes out for him. Lucky for her, he met her in real life and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I wonder if he would do that for me if I taped myself crying for him. Then again, he cannot pick me up and i'm pretty sure I'd face legal charges.

Well, I am writing again for the sake of dear little Justin Biebs because it seems he has found a chick: Selena Gomez. Because girls develop faster than boys, He looks like he's 7 and she looks like she's 20. In all reality, she is 18 and he is 16. Normally, if they were both legal adults, this would not be so notable. But technically she is dating a minor who looks like he's 7. Therefore, she is at risk for statutory rape. Take a look at the photo below:

Gomez could easily be Biebs' babysitter. But more importantly, I thought it was trendier for 18 year old starlets to become entangled with 30 something bad boys like, oh say, Wilmer Valderama. I actually think Selena and Wilmer would make a great couple:
Pretty cute, huh? I mean, here are Wilmer's perks: despite association with Lindsey Lohan and a bevy of subsequent drugs and alcohol, Wilmer has had a driver's license for more than 2 months, has graduated high school, can attend R rated movies, and can buy cigarettes and lotto tickets with Selena for sport. He can also buy her liquor.

My vote is Wilmer and Selena.

Old Man Face Baby

While home sick with a 24-36 hour bug, I had the gross opportunity to watch an obscene amount of TLC, including shows about regular babies, babies born in tents, and babies born unto former junkies. That said, I found myself deliberating over whether the crack baby or the homeless baby was cuter. I know I should feel bad about this, but I was feverish and trying to keep down gatorade.

All of this got me thinking about how the disparity of attractiveness among babies is just as broad as that of children and adults. Sometimes, babies are just plain homely. Luckily, their parents have no idea.

One Sunday morning, right before heading to Sedona for a day hike, my boyfriend and I stopped into an Einstein's on the way. After paying for our bagels and waiting a little too long for the toasting process, we came face to face with Old-Man-Face Baby. Or, rather, Reid did as OMF B could have really cared less if i was there or not. OMF B craned his head around and scowled at Reid with his shriveled up face and baby food sodden grin. He had the tenacity of a mongoose. He also had a six-head.

"that baby's staring at you," I said to him, pointing at OMF B. OMF B had worry wrinkles on his sixhead that were tensing by the moment. OMF B's mom turned his head away to feed him again, but the moment she turned to another child it was game on again.

"Do you know that baby?" I asked, starting to wonder if he had made fun of it in grocery store in passing one day or something like that.

"No, why would I know that baby? Maybe he likes me," he said, raising his eyes at OMFB.

OMF B just smirked and driveled baby food down his chin. Reid stuck his tongue out at OMF B. The baby didn't blink but the mom was not amused.

Luckily, our order was ready. We grabbed it, hopped in the car, and made fun of the baby for about 20 minutes.

Sexycat

For some reason, I rope myself into pet sitting for mentally deranged animals. The latest adventure included a bout with an orange tomcat named Roux. Roux came to me one afternoon bearing a blood curdling meow and a sparkly collar. At first glance, he seemed nice enough; he would occasionally come up to me for a pat on the head and politely let me know when he was hungry.

And then he got comfortable. I mean, reallllly comfortable. It happened one night when I had returned home late from work. As I sat on my couch checking email, he siddled up next to me and all of the sudden I felt something dripping on my leg. The cat was drooling. AS far as I am concerned, cats should not drool.

"Ew!" I said, pushing him away. Oh no, he was not phased. Not unlike a typical Scottsdale bro, sans the v-neck though, He kept throwing himself at me, in the most literal sense of the word. However, to Roux's credit, his meows and drool were much more pleasant than any form of conversation/advances attempted by barside lurkers.

As days turned into nights, I had to develop a new routine for barricading my bedroom door. I did not have to do this until one fateful day when, after spending some QT at the pool, I had decided to take a quick nap. Just as I began to doze off, I felt something on my leg pushing my dress up.

"Oh my god!" I screamed. The cat, who at this time rightfully earned his new name: "sexycat", was trying to sexually assault me within the supposed safety of my own home. I was disgusted. How far did he think he would get with me? Did he really think I was that type of girl? This was the most perverted cat I had ever encountered, even worse than Besos, a former roommates' big, white cat that would hide in the closet of my room to watch me change.

Because of this incident, I found myself hastily stacking chairs, brooms and other assorted items outside of the not so secure french doors that led into my bedroom. For roughly the first 20 minutes of the night, I would be safe and then, no matter the combat strategy I provided, Roux would slide his pay under the door and jimmy the latch. Additionally, he was on the talller end of cat heights and could reach up to turn the door handle traditionally designed for humans. Roux's height, horniness, and harassing nature were a triple threat and my bedroom door was no match. I was beginning to contemplate purchasing a chastity belt.

After roughly five weeks of Sexycat's advances, his time with me came to a halt. On the night of his departure, I returned came home after happy hour with my boyfriend and his friend only to realize I had left my bedroom door open. This could only mean one thing: Sexycat was in my bed.

Sure enough, he was on my bed. What I was not expecting to find, though, was that he was also face down in the cup of one of my bras rubbing his head back and forth. Yes, he was motor boating my bra, quite fervently to say the least. Because he is a cat, he could not make the side effect noises, but I am sure he was thinking them.

"Oh my God!" I yelled, shooing him off my bed. There was, of course, a large deposit of drool in my left bra cup.

Deep Thoughts by White Kong

Given that White Kong has side stepped his way into the mensa category as far as IQs go, I find his deep thoughts rather compelling and a bit contradictory.

With the help of my sister, Emily, I have gathered a couple of conversational snippets surrounding the following topics: food and chicks. These topics, of course, consume at least 70% of male brain capacity. White Kong, evidently, is not all that much different. He is also obsessed with Rhianna.

White Kong on Food

the scene: White Kong chats with Emily on Sunday afternoon via google chat.

For the last five years, my sister Emily has been seeking hard evidence that White Kong is, in fact, not straight. I am not certain where this burning desire has come from, but she is convinced that one day White Kong will be clipping along at her side to help her decide between Oliver Peoples and Tory Burch shades:

Emily: our brother is for sure gay

3:10 PM
me: why

Emily: he said that he has perfected his crepe making techniques

and then said: jill loves to ruin potentially good stuff with her horrible tastes;
case and point: loaves of banana bread made today were tainted with nuts
they were thus rendered inedible.

Then he said this: my crepe prowess is unstoppable

me: wow, are you saving this as documentation?

Emily: then I asked: how were the lasagna rolls?

he said: theyre probably gonna suck- jill fucking put spinach in them.

me: i mean....

3:12 PM
Emily: oh and this too: Me: father of the bride is on!! WK: what movie is that - cus im in the mood for a tom hanks meg ryan duet.

me: he said that?!?

3:13 PM Emily: yes

Do I think Emily's beliefs are just a bit unfounded? Yes... I mean, just because White Kong enjoys whipping up french pastries does not render him a homosexual. He was also pretty adamant that he does not like nuts, nor was he certain of the contents of Father of the Bride.

White Kong on Chicks

the scene: 10 pm EST White Kong chats with Emily's 21 year old roommate, Amanda, via google chat.

amanda: WK do you like bcbg dresses?

WK: which line

amanda: wow you are so gay... max azria duh

WK: well in that case i guess they're not too bad, a little pricey but you can't really get past that

amanda: its okay you can redeem yourself at prom with kitsi if you know what i mean

WK: you want me to hit it and quit it

amanda:YES!
WK: despite this little 18 year dry spell, ill do my bestfor you, at least

Later on, Emily got in on the action... never did it occur to her how mentally disturbing it is to hear one's 17 year old brother utter the phrase: hit it or quit it:

Emily: are you going to make out with kitsi after prom

WK: oh, of course

Emily: reallly??? damn Kong!
WK: well duh, im not spending 100 bucks on this bitch and not getting at least a little lip
After reading this, I was not sure whether I should laugh, cry or be impressed by WK's grasp of his dry spell reality and decision to take some very concrete action steps toward hooking some lip. Was my sunburned little brother who could say his alphabet backwards in 37 seconds at 16 months (thus giving my mother Aspbergers paranoia) really capable of hitting it?
I much prefer to picture White Kong in intense gaming mode instead of working on his game. I guess he listens to too much Rhianna lately.
In any case, I have documented both of these conversations as burdens of proof against Emily's allegations about WK's sexuality. I also would prefer not to hear Rude Boy by Rihanna.

"We could have NBA babies together"

In lieu of the NBA play offs and the onslaught of ads for Jennifer Lopez's assinine new movie about getting herself artificially preggers because her clock's a ticking ( the first time I saw the ad, I thought she had been impregnated "knocked up" style; I was a little intrigued that her G in the flick had decided to stick around as the surrogate baby daddy), it is only fitting that I write about one of the more disturbing things a guy has ever said to me.

About a month or so ago, I met this seemingly normal guy at a local watering hole. There wasn't anything particularly special about him, but, in a sea of creepers, he seemed like a safe choice so I started talking to him. Once I found out he could speak in complete sentences, I convinced myself to give him my number. I mean, we had a few things in common as we were both from the same state and had a mutual friend with whom I had gone to high school. He also worked in some supply chain management job that somehow yielded free cereal and breakfast bars. I love love cereal. And so, for a moment, I thought that maybe this could be a start of something great. Nothing would thrill me more than having unlimited access to honey nut cheerios.

As it happened, Cereal had friends in town the entire next week, but persisted to text me to check in and to arrange a date for the following Tuesday. He was starting to grow on me a little. Especially since he had boasted having far too many free cereal products. It was obvious he wanted to adorn me with them.

Come Friday, Cereal called to see what I was up to that night. As it happened, I was already at a happy hour on Mexican Restaurant's patio chilling with Boozehound and other assorted friends. While Boozehound restrained himself from mauling Margarita soaked limes, I casually told Cereal that maybe we could meet up later.

Following the happy hour, Julie and I ended up alone (never a good combination as we will inevitably lose each other and end up bar hopping with strangers or getting a ride home in a tow truck, whichever happens first). Around 1 am, after we had exhausted our very favorite bar, American Junkie, I ceded to Cereal's advances for my presence: "come hang out! I'll buy you girls drannks"... really? Dranks? I wasn't going to judge. This was during a phase in my life where I was working on not being so rude about people.

Once we entered Cereal('s) bar, I had a split second of panic that I would not recognize him. I have terrible facial recognition. Fortunately, I remembered that he was really tall and was not exactly Jillian Michael's brother. He also spotted me immediately and engaged me in some really mature conversation about how he was taking a GMAT class. Like I really cared about that. Fortunately, my mother taught me manners and I know how to feign interest in just about anything.

And then, all of a sudden, he paused looked at me and said, "wow, you are really tall!" Seriously, I thought, you just realized this. You know, i really do not understand why people do this. I never walk up to midgets and say "gee, you are really short" or, worse yet, "wow, you look like a midget". That's just rude. But I guess I don't understand a lot of things. Like, for instance, why Justin Beiber and Miley Cyrus are not in love. Or why people pay money to go to Jennifer Lopez movies.

Just as I was laughing it off he said it, "yeah, you know, we could have NBA babies together." Good thing it was dark because I am very certain that I swallowed my greyhound down the wrong tube.

What an awkward thing to say. First of all, you do not say that to some random girl you have met at a dark bar twice. Secondly, you have got to have a lot of nerve to think that I am going to jump on it and spawn a chid with you. Especially an NBA baby. There is no guarantee that child will actually have a successful basketball career just because it is tall. And if it does not, it is just, well, tall. Most importantly, why would I voluntarily get knocked up?

I ended up blowing off the statement and meeting up with him again the next night. Once again, I was working on my personality. Unfortunately, he said it again. If I could turn back time, I would have told him my tubes are already tied. I also did not want my child to look like Steve Nash.

Instead, I simply bid adieu and said give me a call before Tuesday, the day of the previously proposed date. The following day he texted me to make small talk and I responded with more small talk. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

And then Tuesday rolled around. I figured he would call me on his lunch to confirm a meeting time and place, but there was no call. This struck me as weird because: a) I had gone out of my way and restrained myself from making him feel stupid about making creeper comments and b) did he not want to have NBA babies with me anymore?

I called Julie and Jen, both of whom who had met Cereal. Both of them thought that something must have happened. I mean, it was kind of eerie. Usually when you blow someone off you have the decency to make up some lame excuse like, for instance, that your pet rabbit is having a seizure or that you have a urinary tract infection. It's common courtesy.

As it happens, I never heard from Cereal again. I do, however, have some theories: a) he is in a coma after getting hit in the head with a cereal bar or b) ran away to Burbank to be an extra in Jennifer Lopez's The Back up Plan or c) he found this blog.

I Love You, Babe.

When Jen told me he was a dentist, my jaw dropped. I looked back across the pool at him: sleeves of tats, Ed Hardy shades, and laughing like a 12 year old every time the six year old in the pool screamed, "motorboat! motorboat!". Shortly after, the boy's grandmother called him in from the pool, probably for fear that he might soon be drinking a bud light with Dr. Dude and his girlfriend, Babe. Maybe even experiencing his first adult motorboat.

"Yeah," Jen whispered, "he was talking about buying a practice in San Diego before you got here." And so we sat there, pretending to be really focused on eating our Paradise Bakery salads so we could listen in shamelessly on the most asinine conversation.

Babe was pretty typical: skinny, tan, bottle blonde. I learned that she was a server at a chain restaurant in North Scottsdale. She was sipping something out of a tall tumbler. I assuemd it was not water.

According to the current exchange, Dr. Dude had done something to upset their relationship. In retaliation, Babe had slept with "some 20 year old", according to Dr. Dude.

"You don't understand, Babe," Dr. Dude said taking a swig of of BL, "I don't think you are ready for all of this." he motioned to his torso, also tatted out.

"No! you don't understand!" Quibbled Babe, "I am being honest with you! You need to respect that!"

They went on and on like this for about an hour. It would be super boring to write down all of their conversation because it was cyclic and melodramatic and, mainly, stupid. At some point during the conversation, the elderly man from Nebraska (also the grandpa of the child that was exposed at an early age to an alternative definition for 'motor boat') piped in to no one in particular, "Spring has arrived! It's mating season!" Jen and I cracked up. I looked over to the older man and responded, "Yeah, the birds are going crazy." He chuckled, "And the boys!".

Dr. Dude, who was now on the same chaise lounge as babe, looked up helplessly, "You've gotta understand, man, how much I love this girl!"

Nebraska responded in true Nebraska form, "Then maybe you should marry her. You know, marriage is a fine institution." Babe smirked at Dr. Dude. Dr. Dude braced her shoulders and stated very profoundly:

"Babe, if we are gonna be we are gonna be. I love you so much. I know you don't know how lucky you are to have me right now, but maybe some day you will see." Dr. Dude looked lovingly into her eyes as he lifted her glasses. Babe had tears glistening in her eyes. Or maybe that was side effect of the muscle relaxers she was on.

"Even when you were mean to me- like when you wouldn't tell me where you were going or when you'd be home-" [pregnant pause] "I never stopped loving you!" she professed.

"Babe, that's why you should have never listened to your stupid friends! They just didn't want me in your life!" Dr. Dude popped the cap of a bud light for her. I was not sure if I should cry, throw up, or ask them for some of their drugs.

Dr. Dude began cooing some sort of gibberish in Babe's ear. Unfortunately, the sound decibles were to low for me to hear. This made me wish I was a whale because whales can hear at low decibles.* I began to doze off in my chair; as i slipped in and out of consciousness, I heard mumbling of Babe's desire to move to New Zealand "'cuz all I need in life is to be on the beach!". Moments later, she was nearly in tears because, sadly, Dr. Dude is a litter bug.

All the while that I listened to this bullshit, I wondered who was the most normal: 1) me, sitting in my chair trying to gather enough material to exploit the two lovers 2) Dr. Dude and Babe's love affair that was about as stable as Whitney Houston (not even bringing bobby into this simile) or 3) the recent addition to the pool deck- a huge German man in a French cut speedo face down on a Teletubbies towel while drinking a Capri Sun.

In trying to suspend my judgements, I thought about all of my dating inadequacies and inabilty to maintain a stable relationship. If you have read some of these snapshots within other entries, I feel this is fairly obvious. Granted, I never cried if a guy forgot to recycle.

I spent a moment wrapping my head around which was worse: a failure to commit or a commitment to failure?

In the end, the answer was clear: Hanzel over there on his Tinky Winky towel was the only one who had it going on. Especially with the Capri Sun. It made me really want one very badly. The rest of us were a bunch of dipshits who either over think or under think any possible incident or relationship. Hanzel, however, though deep down inside he knew it was fucking weird to watch PBS children's shows, clearly, was just glad to be himself. Or he was simply waiting for the six year old to come back outside.

* you are tremendously stupid if you believe everything I say. I know nothing about aquatic creatures.

Booze Hound

"Melissa, you are the worst babysitter in the world!" I looked up from my phone conversation with Jen to find Noreen shaking her head and cradling her newly adopted Tea cup Yorkie, Oliver.

"Ummmm, sorry, he was just playing with those people over there-" I motioned toward some rando's behind me on the W's pool deck, "I don't even know what happened!" I knew I could not defend my carelessness by saying I had to have a pressing conversation with Jen about which new running shoes to purchase.

Apparently, the security guards at the W had picked him up and dropped him off promptly in her arms. What she did not understand was that I had already kindred-ly connected with the dog; in so many bodily gestures, he had said to me: fuck off, Melissa.

So, like any agreeable person, I had let him carouse around the pool deck as any little dandy likes to do on a Tuesday afternoon. Though the little fucker and I have not had a ton of time to connect and bond, I felt like we were getting along fabulously during this fine afternoon at the pool.

For starters, we had a lot in common. Namely, we both like to party. Yes, Noreen's 3 month old puppy is, so to speak, a bit of a booze hound, in the most literal sense. And by booze hound I do not mean that anyone was shoving a natty light in its face frat style. No, the little bugger was basically trying to get blitzed by tipping random cups of cocktails and sipping some sangria. I am not going to lie, I was just a little bit impressed. I meannnn, even though he did get caught trying to snag some loser's mai tai, he almost got a pull out of it. Oh, and he had perseverence. After I snagged Noreen's vodka soda from his dog lips, he bopped to sip the sangria of the 50+ New Yorker who had been annoying us all afternoon with his chauvanist commentary. On more than one occasion, this dinosaur stated that both of us would not have careers and would be staying at home to raise children. He was sunburned, fat and had a really annoying accent. Dinosaur was also not buying us drinks. If you are not going to serve it, then please don't dish it out, sir. Anyhow, if the dog's health and sobriety had not been at odds, I would have fully encouraged Oliver to ravish that asshole's drink.

After several hours at the pool, we were gathering our belongings to leave when Noreen casually mentioned a fear that her dog might be blind. I had not seen the dog run into any chairs and had seen it stalking out opportunities to nip the bottle so, at this point, I had very little concern that it might be blind. Booze hound? yes. Blind hound? negative.

Anyhow, her irrelevant paranoia only inspired me to act like a jerk. As we were exiting, Ollie was bumbing around at some man's feet by the doors. Clearly, Ollister was pretty slammed after accruing about 3 sips of vodka in his 3 pound body. . This man had decided to engage Noreen in small talk about her pooch, as had about 23 other people on the pool deck that day.

I looked at the man and said, "Isn't it great she adopted a special needs dog?" Then i went on to explain how he was legally blind. I don't understand why this man was dumb enough not to question me or if he really just didn't care.

"Wow," he replied, "well i guess that explains why he seems to run into things a lot!" I smiled fondly on our little special needs dog, "Yeah," I said. What a dipshit- clearly he had no idea what a drunk dog looks like. I mean, I guess I had not either until now.

We decended the steps to the front of the hotel where Noreen's boyfriend was going to pick us up and take us to dinner. She looked at me, "That was bad karma, Melissa." I shrugged, and watched the dog try to sober up while drinking warm water out of a dog bowl outside of the hotel.

"Bad karma in what sense? Do you mean i'm going to get a blind dog or have a blind baby?" I did feel a little bad: I actually liked the little freak a lot more than I had expected to and he could hold his own amongst poolside pricks. Like I said before, we truly had a kindred connection. I also was beginning to realize that dogs that are too small to shit might not be so bad.

Once inside her boyfriend's car, we contemplated where we could go to dinner while accompanied by booze hound. Sadly, we were turned away at many a venue as booze hound's presence could potentially ruin the ambiance.

"No room at the inn, " I muttered under my breath as we crossed the street to Saddle Ranch which obviously had to accept him as they accept so many degenerates that a small dog was hardly an issue.

Once seated, I decided to mention that I had told someone the dog was special needs. Noreen's boyfriend was not remotely amused so I decided not to push the bill and try to convince the waitress.

Booze Hound, in the mean time, had already whored himself out to some woman at a nearby table. I looked over at him and I swear he winked at me. Or maybe he was just eyeing my vodka soda.

Man Maid

Sometime around early August, I got dragged out of my Scottsdale Kingdom down to the trenches of downtown Phoenix. The primary reason I look unfavorably upon going out in downtown Phoenix is because door bouncers and bar tenders do not know my name. Though, in retrospect, maybe this is a positive.

Anyhow, at this time in my life, I was casually dating a remarkable alcoholic who would basically become catatonic when drinking heavily. And by remarkable I really just mean that i was totally over it.

After jumping on and off Phoenix's light rail, which is more of just a novelty than a viably useful form of transportation, we popped into an irish bar somewhere in the downtown area. I was pretty happy to be off the lightrail as i was tired of sitting next to meth heads with 3 teeth slurping off brand energy drinks. While posted up at the bar I spotted this man. The minute I laid eyes on him, I wanted his name but not necessarily his number. He was 75, fat, and wearing a coogi sweater... well it may have been argyle, but wouldn't it be funny to see a 75 year old man in a coogi sweater?

Jen and I hopped to it and engaged him in some sort of mindless conversation. Moments later, I found myself reviewing the various vowel sounds in the english language. He was Irish and had not learned proper phonics skills. I also made sure to tell him I liked his sweater.

While Jen and i jabbered on with old man O'Leary, Noreen was flitzing around the bar for a drink and had taken up talking to some tallish blonde boy. Then i saw her look over at me and point. Noreen thinks it's a fun game to find boys for me at the bar. And i thank her for this because sometimes she just finds me really huge weirdos that she knows i'll want to 20 question, for example, the weird computer nerd who i spent 20 minutes successfully convincing to hire White Kong to work for his start up. White Kong is 17 (see previous entries "White Kong" and "White Kong in love" for more details on White Kong and how i know him).

Before I knew it, blondie had come my way and was chatting me up. He spent the rest of the night hanging out with us and got my number, called me, and took me out the next week. Now, he was a super nice guy, pursuing a law degree, and clearly from a nice family. When he referred to his mother, he said 'mom', throwing out the possessive pronoun 'my' altogether. This kind of pissed me off. I mean, She was not my mom. He also liked to wear pastel v-necks and knew a little too much about my favorite brand of purses. On many occasions, I thought about calling up my Marv in LA and having him analyze with his supreme gay-dar capacity. I already had a wonderful gay boyfriend and was not looking for another.

At any rate, these flaws aside, he liked to party but was not a remarkable alcoholic. Basically, if i were to describe him to my mother, she would be fairly supportive of this G.

The main problem was, apart from my suspicions, that the whole thing was just off from the start. My crazy friend Mark, who is both a hopeless romantic and a supreme bar star, always says, "never settle for anything less than butterflies." There were no butterflies. I'm not trying to be queer, but when you know you know. However, He was nice enough and i was ok with keeping it casual. However, I just couldn't get that excited about new jeans.

This little ditty carried on for about a month and a half. Day by day, I was losing interest and it was sliding into a slow fade. Toward the end of it, Jen called me one day and directed me to a web page: Man Maid. The page boasted jack of all trade services that included your general scrubbing and dusting, yard work, and fixing odds and ends. Interesting concept, no? Then I realized that the one and only man maid was actually the boy who I had been dating for the last month. Holy shit. He had been prostituting himself out to wash other women's windows and trim other womens' hedges. In my head, I tried to picture him in a french maid's outfit then got really disturbed and almost threw up the Luna bar i was eating. At that point, his masculinity plummeted to rock bottom depths. He could have my purses.

Amidst all of this nauseating analysis, I stopped for a minute and played devil's advocate against myself: maybe it would be a nice to date a guy who would so eagerly clean my humble home? But then I realized that I'd probably have to pay him.

Girls with Dumb Names

I tend to get a lot of flack for ripping the male population apart. In all honesty, I love men; I just find them anywhere from mildly to moderately amusing on many given occasions. It's not my fault that you walk around the gym in flip flops, or that you chose to bring firecrackers into the W and set them off under my skirt, or that you are married and trying to get my number.

So, in honor of my male readership, today I am pondering the following topic: girls with dumb names. When I speak of dumb names, I am speaking of names that end in a long 'i' sound, namely. Really, you had to name your daughter Trixi??? Well it's your own damn fault she got caught with the captain of the Lacrosse team behind the bleachers.

There is a fine line between preppy nicknames with that long i sound at the end and trashy, made up names that literally end in an i. For instance, Missy, Muffy, Kitty, Betsey and Lacey can be cutesy. Not saying they make you sound brilliant, but they are acceptable. I can even handle an I ending as long as it's a REAL NAME. I may be saying this because I have a nickname with a y at the end. But fortunately, my mom was not dumb enough to name me after a Disney character. Naming her Bambi, Roxi, or Trixi is not ok under any circumstance. At that point, you are hoisting your daughter on a stripper pole and giving her a bottle of lotion that smells like pears.

The following names, I believe, are truly the worst: Bambi, Misti, and Rikki. Especially when they are all in a public restroom together. Girls with retarded names must get together at a convention, trade hair spray and pear lotion, then say omg we are so bff4L. I was so lucky to nearly get esphixiated by Bambi's hair spray as she was re-teasing her bleached hair.

"OMG... it's been like this since 7 am... do i still look good to be out???" Bambi squealed to either Misti or Rikki. It really doesn't matter who it was, considering that combined they had enough brain cells for a lemur.

"Omg, no you look so hot. I love it short!!!" Misti/Rikki shrieked. Meanwhile, Rikki/Misti exited a bathroom stall donning some gross synthetic black dress that she was falling out of purposefully.

"Ohmigod, I'm so excited for tonight!!!!" Rikki/Misti trilled while running up to snatch Bambi's hairspray. I wondered if Bambi was still scarred from when the hunters shot her mother in the forest.

They squealed together like sick cats and I hurried out of the bathroom. On my way back to the table, I passed a table of bros. One looked at me and shouted, "Tiffani!?!?!?!" I'm not sure what kind of look I gave him but it must not have been very nice.

"Do i look like a Tiffani to you?" I asked. Seriously, I was not about to leveled down to Misti and Bambi.

"Whoa, what's your problem? I thought you were Tiffani. Tiffani's a great girl she's having my friend's baby." He looked so sad.

"Nope," I replied wondering if I looked like a pregnant Tiffani or a dumb whore, "maybe she's doing her hair with Bambi and Misti in the bathroom." I shot him a wide smile and made it back to my table, sniffed my shirt to see if I smelled like pears.

The Top 100 Things that Amuse Me Mildly: #96: From the Fra-rority Corner: You totally PAMed him last night.

From the Fra-rority corner: "Sorry about that P.A.M. last night!"

"ohmigod I totally PAMed last night."

"With who?"

"Derek. I mean, I was fine... and then... all of the sudden-"

"Do you think he knew?"

"Ummmm, didn't seem like it, but who knows???"

"Do you think you are going to see him again??"

"errrr depends on how much he likes Baja Fresh quesadillas."

"so probably tonight, then, huh!"

The art of a solid, inconspicuous PAM cannot successfully executed by all or, in fact, by most. The majority of intoxicated, single Americans ranging from 18-30 ( I know, the range is long, but i don't want to discriminate) will not make it past the first stopping point: P. The A of the acronym PAM, the connector the bridges the initial P and the ultimate goal of a solid M. If you make it to M, you may even make it to even loftier late-night logistics. But don't get your hopes up.

At this point, you have either a) decided that PAM is an extremely dirty acronym b) gotten thoroughly confused and will inevitably keep reading c) gotten extremely bored, annoyed, and have not even made it this far or d) reminisced about all the PAMs in your life- you know exactly what I am talking about.

The highly scientific acronym PAM stands for the global late night phenomenon: Puke And Make-out. It is most successfully maneuvered by those who lack respect for the soon to be PAMed. Even better executed by those anticipating the likelihood of a PAM and pack their pockets and purses with mouthwash and mints.

The true key to PAMing is not to think about it to much. Realistically, one should say to himself, "Gee, I just vommed into a pitcher under the table... I should probably go home." No. That is what happens to the majority of the population: common sense and sobriety kick in as soon as your sphincters and digestive track fail you and your capacity to party.

Instead, change your perspective: Pitcher half full or pitcher half empty? pitcher half empty! I mean you did not fill the enitre thing, so you are probably good to go. And, to boot, no one saw! As a matter of fact, because you rolfed your Chipotle, you now have more room left in your body to throw back a few more and that hawty shawty across the bar has been checkin' you alllll nighttttt. ...

When you think like this, you have hurdled over the moral dilemma that accompanies a P. You now have a PA and are oh so close to achieving that M. Not only are your inhibitions down from heavy consumption, but, in fact, you are able to gloat and stumble in that sense of achievement: "I rolfed and rallied!"

So go on, amble over there, you are a warrior. You have fought the urge to puke, failed, but are still ready to win the battle.

And there you have it: 15 minutes, 20 steps, and 2 SocoLimes later, you have successfully achieved a PAM to the tune of "Tik Tok" by Ke$ha deep in the dark of a dance bar.

Versin'

Tonight, my sister g-chatted me with a playful challenge that she had been assigned for her class: pair a grossly romantic line with an extremely unromantic line. Given that I have accrued several thousand dollars of debt to study Creative Writing in Undergrad, I was pretty excited about this challenge. Here is what I came up with, and, of course, I felt the need to address them to and from celebrities, primarily tiger woods- ( if you can think of more, feel free to post comments):

"oh, my dear, my body to yours i would sucher;

except for the times i was sleeping with the producer "

-girl who got kicked off the bachelor to the bachelor

"your soul and mine like flint did clink,

until i f***ed hookers on our kitchen sink."

- tiger to elin

"alas, the sun rises and sets in thou eyes,

and still beyond them, i can't stop checkin otha chicks' thighs."

-tiger to elin, after a few shots

"roses are red, violets are blue

sugar is sweet and so are you-

but not as sweet as the settlement

I shall get when, thou ass, I sue!"

-elin to tiger

Ok so these are only a few, but... there will be more to come!

xoxo,

MAG