In which too much is revealed

THERE ARE SO MANY amazing things about this video, pulled from Atlanta Public Television. This is why we invented public access, for all the learning.

Heads up: This is NSFW, unless you have headphones.


"You can't let every man hit the root of your vagina." It has a root? I know now why it's called "deflowering."

"He won't take you to Long John Silver for some shrimp, but he will give you a mouthful of sperm, or a rectum ful of sperm... The penis will have ejaculated all up in your brain." Apparently, LJS shrimp is the way to a woman's vagina root.

A friend in college had the jackrabbit. The day she got it, a few of us went down to her apartment on our way out for the night, and she answered the door wearing her robe, hair all sexed up and a mess. "Hiiii guuuyssss... I think I need to stay in tonight..."

Now I know why, and I kind of wish I didn't.

In which I reveal my fervently held secret wish

MY FRIEND K sent this to me. She may have been implying that my friends and I are like the unicorns -- the conversations in the video are disconcertingly similar to ones I've had at Halo.

Episode 1

"We've got to do something." "That sounds dangerous."

Episode 2

"I don't like your shoes."

When I was a little boy, I had a My Little Pony. But, I mean, I had the boy My Little Pony with the blue mane and tail, so it was totally fierce. I mean butch. I mean masculine. I mean, I had no male friends.

Trillions! (Episodes 1 and 2)

A GOOD FRIEND shared these -- his brother's boyfriend is one of the actors.

Episode 1

"Congratulations children, I'm on my deathbed."

Episode 2

"I'll alert the papers that we need a new chauffeur's son."

"Triiillionssss!" I can't wait to see what happens next.

In which I reveal how I attract and retain boyfriends

From www.foundmag.com

In which I reveal what I do when alone in my apartment

MY FRIEND LEFT ME a link to this video, saying, "This is what I imagine you do in your apartment by yourself. Tell me I'm wrong."



"Yes, although my routine involves a lot less clothes and a lot more mirrors."

In which I share the secret to my popularity

WHATCHU KNOW 'BOUT ME?

Go turn on my tree

SEASONALLY INAPPROPRIATE, but who's keeping track?



My mother has a similar obsession with Christmas trees. Every year she becomes unreasonably attached to the idea of the perfect tree. The woman can point out a tree's bare patches like none other. We all stand around at the tree place while she has our tree attendant and/or my father shake the tree's branches free, then walk it in a circle so she can take a good look. Despite her best efforts, once the tree opens, there's usually lopsided patch anyway, which we have to hide with the bigger ornaments.

Every year, my parents fail to account for our enormous tree stand and inevitably wind up buying a tree that is at least six inches too tall. Turning the tree upright always scrapes the ceiling, which leads to a bout of muttered cursing by my father -- usually of my mother, who insisted that a smaller tree would be diminuative in our GIANT CONNECTICUT HOME. He then has to chop the top foot off the tree in order to affix the star at the top.

Jackie and Debra

IN WHICH DEBRA explains why she and Jackie are no longer BFs.



Please note Debra's puppy purse.

Apparently not that interesting

I JUST GOT a fortune cookie that said this:

"In order to discover who you are, first learn who everybody else is. You're what's left."

What the fuck?

In which I decide to always wear khakis

MY COMPANY, like many, has Jeans Casual on Fridays when we don’t have clients in the building. They will occasionally give us Jeans Casual as a special treat on other days, like the days between Christmas and New Years for the poor suckers trapped in the office while the other poor suckers are trapped with their families.

I will occasionally give myself an unsanctioned Jeans Casual Friday. I’m not really one for breaking the rules, so giving myself Jeans Casual is my way of sticking it to The Man. I feel anxious every time I do it. I feel the way I imagine people at the Boston Tea Party would have felt, only they were dressed as Indians, and I’m a denim-wearing pansy.

Normally, my minor rebellion goes unnoticed – just the way I like it – but today was different.

As I step into the elevator this morning, who do I run into but our company’s CEO. He is not, I should mention, wearing jeans. I look from him, to my pants, back to him, and then try to slide inconspicuously beside him. I then do what everyone does instinctually in elevators: I stare up at the floor number display.

Silence. I exhale. This is going to be fine.

“It’s cold today, huh?” he says.

I panic. What is he implying? That I’m wearing jeans because it’s cold? I look over at him.

“Yeah. But I like it,” I respond. Great. Good job. Don’t say anything stupid. Pause. But what if he hates the cold? Normally, in that situation, I go on to say that I like cold weather because I went to school in New Hampshire. Thick blood and all that shit. But because my mind is so preoccupied thinking about my bedenimed legs, the 10% still focusing on the actual conversation decides that the whole school thing would be far too complicated.

“I’m from Canada,” I blurt out.

No you’re not! You’re from Connecticut! Why are you lying? Abort conversation! At this point, the panic has grasped my brain in a death-like vice, and I start imagining a conversation between my CEO, my boss and me. In this imagined conversation, my CEO brings up the fact that I’m from Canada, my boss looks confused. The truth comes out. I’m shamed. It’s horrible. I’m sweating.

“Really? My family has a house in Vermont,” he says, “right on the border. Beautiful country.”

“Yeah,” I say. My mind is totally blank. “Yeah, but Vermont’s not Canada.”

Nice job, asshole!

“That’s true,” he says.

Silence. The doors slide open.

“Well, uh, this is my floor,” I say. “Have a nice day.”

KILL SELF.