What Happens In Vegas Should Always, ALWAYS Stay In Vegas: Part The Second

I know, it's been a couple of weeks since I delivered the first part of this Unexpected Journey. Pretend like you give a shit. I would have posted earlier but my computer literally committed suicide and the hard drive decided to crash after less than a year. The external that Apple "provided" me with (for 100 of my hard-earned dollars) didn't work and I lost all my data, so I had to download everything all over again. I still hate you, Apple. So, so much.

At any rate, I fixed everything, and now I'm back, and ready to go. And I apologize for that mid-90's reference. I'm really old.

If you remember what happened in my last entry, good for you! Or, I'm sorry. If not, you can refer to Part the First through this handy link. Basically the story begins with me meeting a guy in Vegas, actually thinking that he might not be a complete tool, and turning out to be very, very wrong, as usual. Enjoy.

Part the Second picks up on my couch, where I was actually dumb enough to sit, on my ass, on a SATURDAY NIGHT, and wait for this asshole to show up at my apartment after his friends informed me that he would like to plead his case. I can't believe that I did this myself, so don't bother telling me what a complete idiot I was.

At least I had the good sense to exchange hate texts with Coyote Tits. My favorite was the one about how she would get her dogs to bite him repeatedly.

Look at these little faces! 

The next morning, after my roommate came home and went down a list of various detailed humiliation techniques that somehow all ended in ice cream, I realized that it was definitely time to cut this douchebag and everyone associated with him out of my life for good. At this rate, the only way that The Bug could get me to even entertain the notion of being in the same room with him (without a tire iron) would be to:

1) Purchase a private island for myself and three friends of my choosing (the lottery draw begins now);

B) Become Superman and use his powers of time travel to erase the last few months and therefore all remnants of his dumbass behavioral tactics;

SNOW LEOPARD) Learn the lost art of calligraphy, hand-write a detailed, formal letter of apology and have it delivered via adorable puppy (bonus if this letter arrives tied to a Nestle's Crunch bar);

I accept.

DD) Sit through every Ryan Gosling movie ever made and allow me to point out exactly what all the characters are doing correctly and how he himself has, in fact, managed to fuck himself over time and again. This includes stomping some dude in an elevator.

God, that's hot. Again, I question my own moral fiber.

I was also getting really irritated with the way his friends would constantly text me asking to crash at my place when they went out near my apartment, even when I wasn't with them. This was made even more obnoxious when I received another phone message from The Bug, using someone else's phone, not even acknowledging the fact that he stood me up and suggesting we meet up for sex later. In his defense, he did suggest dinner first. Probably at Chick-Fil-A or some other romantic four-star eatery with paper wine cups and vomit on the tables.

I'd had enough of this bullshit. I called the number back and demanded an explanation for the week prior, and I was informed, by another party, naturally, because The Bug is a total pussy and afraid to talk to me in person, that we don't have a "relationship."

What a complete load of fucking crap. I don't care if you're my boyfriend, my friend or my brother- if you make plans with me, I expect you to show up. And if you have to break them, there's this new invention called a phone. Here's a picture, in case you're unfamiliar:

Also, here's the definition of courtesy, since you've clearly never heard of that either:

This is where he reached the winning trifecta of having my roommate, my two best friends and my mother all detest him, which is a feat not accomplished since The Supervillain. Congratulations; that's like, the Lottery of Hate!

I really, REALLY wanted to tell this asshat to go fuck himself in person, so I told whoever was on the phone that I would speak to him if he would talk to me, himself, while sober. The reply I received?

"He says OK."

HAHAHAHAHA! Seriously, all you can do is laugh. Anyway, I haven't heard from him since, not like I would answer if he called. I canceled plans with his friends, who were pretty mad that they had lost their crash pad and parking spot, and they haven't gotten in touch with me since then, either. My girls all offered to be a bitch for me, but they're all really not worth my energy. I'd much rather focus my efforts on much more important things, like blogging, or the new season of Breaking Bad, or calling out sick to work.

YEEEEEES.

Anyway, so there's the end of that. I wish I could tell you guys that I told him straight-up to go drive off a bridge, but seeing as how I deleted his number months ago, sadly, I never got that opportunity. I will say, however, that this entire spectacle has finally inspired Tits and myself to start that dating blog that we've going back and forth on Facebook chat about for the last six months. It's in Blogger Drafts right now, so we've actually taken that first small step for (wo)mankind. Look for it really soon- I promise it will be as horrifying yet hilarious as you imagine.

What Happens In Vegas Should Always, ALWAYS Stay In Vegas: Part The First

I know I don't usually post about dating in That Ain't Kosher, but to be honest, that's because I've pretty much forgotten what dating is. All my female friends are appalled by the lack of penis in my social life, but that's nice for them because they're not the ones who actually have to hit on me. I never know when I'm being flirted with and basically have the romantic skills of a frustrated fourteen year old boy- when I went to NOLA with Sara she let me know that when it came to dudes checking me out I was "borderline retarded." She's married, so she must know what she's talking about.

I took this advice to heart when my friends and I went to Vegas for the Superbowl and I actually noticed when some Van Wilder, Alpha-Kappa-Whatever-looking motherfucker glanced in my general direction. After about twenty minutes of intoxicated conversation I found out that he lived about an hour away from me in SoCal and that he was with a bunch of dudes. We wound up watching the game with said friends and I managed to get him to change his bet from the Pats to the Giants. HAHA! Sad Tom Brady FTW! Also, score one for my bank account.

I hung out with Van Wilder (shortened to "VW," or simply, "The Bug") and his boys for a couple of days, and by "hanging out" I mean, um, stuff hung out. Of our clothes. There was a lot of tequila, yo. And a taxi, if I remember correctly. A taxi in which we did things. And after these things I got dropped off at my hotel, and invited him up to my room, and I don't think he got the gist of what I was implying, because The Bug went back to his room alone and I wound up back in mine. With more tequila.

Later I was informed that the cab driver had called him a "fucking idiot." I mean, The Bug was ridiculously hammered (which I soon learned is pretty much his natural state), but when a girl is practically doing a striptease in your lap and invites you up to her hotel room, you fucking do it. Hell, when a girl is practically doing a striptease in your lap and invites you to discuss the Higgs boson with her, you fucking do it. You can admit that you don't know what that is later, when you're manhandling her boobs like you're controlling the Enterprise.

Actually, a lot of men have gone here before.
And not that boldly, either.

In my defense, I never actually expected this to go anywhere past the slot machines. When was the last time anyone ever said, "I met my husband/wife/future deductible in Vegas?"

Oh. Except for those times that people get wasted in chapels and shit.

Anyway, about a week after we were both settled in our respective living spaces, The Bug actually texted me. He and his friends, who were cool as shit BTW, were going to the Laker game about twenty minutes from me that weekend, and if I was free, were down to hang out. Yeah. I bet. They also wanted to stay over, since the drive back was really far, but hey, I was feeling generous. And tequila-y.

So basically, we all got pretty smashed again, and uh, yeah. Shit happens. They left the next day, and I figured that was that, but we actually corresponded pretty steadily. Yeah. "Corresponded." I also hung with his friends a lot, too. Like I said, cool as shit.

So this went on for a few weeks until one night when I got a call from him. He was already an hour late and when I picked up the phone he was in jail. JAIL. He had been biking to my place, too drunk to drive, and gotten a BUI. Classy. There were some muffled sounds and then he hung up, and I spent the next few days trying to get in touch with him. I even got sent to voice mail.

Oh, fuck no. FUCK NO. Delete.

I immediately called everyone I've ever met since I was ten years old to bitch to them, and spent the rest of the night on my lesbian neighbor's couch watching shitty re-runs of American Idol.

Also, did I mention that this assclown is 25 years old? Throughout this entire hilarious (?) chronicle, the Nipclique kept sending me emails that looked like this:

About a week passed of me completely losing my shit, and then I got a text from his friend. He informed me that a few days ago, The Bug had had a family emergency (he sent me photographic evidence, lest I thought this was a classic case of dudes sucking each other's dicks to cover for each other), and that eventually, I will get a phone call and to hang tight. I'm not supposed to know anything though, so "keep this on the DL."

So, armed with this new information, I waited. For about a month. His friends were still awesome, so we kept hitting up bars and such. I also received periodic information on this clown- such as, "he really likes you, but he's dealing with a bunch of bullshit right now." Meaning, "he's a pussy and he's too scared to call you." Then, one evening I was home, probably watching the SyFy Channel or some crap, and I got a text. From his friend. Saying that The Bug is now "feeling better and 'down to fuck.'"

People like this actually exist. Like, in reality. I could not make this up if I tried. I responded that that was eloquent as fuck, and I would be right over. Then I called like, eight of my friends.

I'm aware that I should have cut this entire group out of my life by now. Just go with the story.

Another week passed, and his group was in town for a birthday party. The Bug, of course, did not accompany them. However, I did get an apology from the guy who Cyrano'd that romantic proposition from before, claiming that The Bug, is, in fact, an idiot. FYI, girls: when the members of a guy's own crew use the word "idiot" to describe him, that is WAY MORE than a red flag- you have now hit Defcon 1.

I received a request- through a third party, of course- for a meet-up that weekend. Supposedly The Bug would be coming back from the airport and wanted to discuss how badly he had fucked up. He didn't even plan on staying over (right), and he said that even if I hated him, he would settle for "being friends."

So of course, being the stunning, dynamic intellectual that I am, I SAID YES, and you can probably all guess how that turned out.

This is getting super long and possibly very annoying, so I'll divide this into Parts 1 and 2. If it's seriously that suspenseful, I guess you can read the next half of this thrilling saga when I post it in a couple of days. Or whenever I stop being lazy and finish writing it.

SPOILER: I'm currently still single.

So You Have Chosen... Death

Earlier this week one of my best friends, who will heretofore be referred to as Wonder Woman, finally dumped her loser-ass boyfriend. I never approved of this guy, but in the beginning I thought that it was because I tend to be really harsh as to who I choose as suitable lifemates for my girls. I mean, one does not simply walk into Mordor.

This is what guys have to live up to when they date my friends.

Wonder Woman (the one in my life) is amazingly pretty with an epic rack, super long legs, a sense of humor that rivals only mine and a Masters degree. She can bake you a dessert that will throw her into a cosplay round with Sara Lee while explaining to you what "cosplay" means. She can throw down winning arguments about who would emerge victorious in a battle between Harry Potter and Star Wars villains. She's a devoted mom to two ferociously adorable, yet horribly behaved, mixed breed puppies. Sometimes she roots for the wrong sports teams, but that's OK because we're both ardent Jets fans (Superbowl 2013!).

The fact that this dickhole didn't wake up to her every morning and ask himself what the fuck just happened for him to deserve to see the boobs in front of his face is reason enough alone to take a torch to his balls. I was waiting for her to pull the plug on this one when she realized that he needed her to reach things on the top shelf (technically, they're the same height, but she can actually wear heels in public without having to go on RuPaul's Drag Race) and that the most he has going for him is that he can be easily killed.

For some reason, though, she really liked him, which made her reaction to their breakup all the more heart-wrenching, especially when he was such a cavalier asshat about the entire situation. She forwarded me their conversation, and I literally hope he gets kidnapped by irate, hungry mountain lions. I would throw a raw steak in that cave if I could. Also this video, just to get the party started:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD8OP0-bIFU

Out of respect for my friend I'll leave out what went down, but suffice it to say that this dillhole is an immature baby with so many issues he could be his own magazine. Here was this girl, way out of this turd goblin's league, who was essentially laying it out on the table (not like that though, because EW), and all he had to say was, "I care about you," which apparently scared the shit out of him because he's a five year old with the emotional range of a teaspoon. When Wonder Woman finally said "FUCK NO" and canceled her subscription all of us practically threw her a party. She was pretty distraught and down on herself, so I finally sent her this text:

"Make a list of all the reasons why you're awesome. If you can't right now, I'll do it for you. Also if you keep blaming yourself I will come over there, embarrass you John Cusack in Say Anything style, and beat you to death. Love, Nugs. PS- Sharks."


I think it worked- she's already arguing with me about how much tequila I've been drinking, so that's a plus (according to her, NEVER ENOUGH. How is this girl single?).

Basically what it comes down to is this: it's understandable if you're in a relationship and you part ways because you're not on the same page- you want marriage and kids, they don't; one wants to move, the other wants to stay; they won't watch Game of Thrones with you; one of you is into dressing up sexually like Falcor from Neverending Story.

You know who you are.

However, if you know that this isn't going anywhere, don't be an asshole- have mercy and end it before someone wastes their time and really gets hurt. And by someone, I mean you, because the heels on my shoes are super pointy and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

PS- When I brilliantly came up with that Neverending Story reference, all I did was type the name "Falcor" into Google Images and that picture came up. These people actually exist. I was just kidding. WHAT IN THE NAME OF FUCK.

Oh, Canada! *FACEPALM*

This weekend was my last chance to party in NYC before I head out to Hell-A for work. In order to give me a proper burial that included one final taste of Ray's Pizza, Hurricane came out for the funeral procession. We decided to leave my mark on as many Manhattan neighborhoods as we could manage, until we either passed out from lack of sleep/too much alcohol or collapsed due to the 118 degree (!) heat index. Unfortunately, that bitch Mother Nature had also altered her plans to revolve around me, and, with a combination of my immediate departure, the scorching temperature and my debilitating "physical problems" I wasn't exactly looking for my next Captain America, ifyougetwhatimsayin.

Such is my life.

Since guys never notice that I'm alive and I rarely get hit on, I figured this probably wasn't going to be an issue.

Hurricane and I chose our first destination mainly due to the fact that the wind chill had dipped to a frigid 98 degrees and we were basically looking for somewhere- anywhere- where the doors closed all the way. As soon as we stepped inside, we got accosted by some a-hole in a business shirt. That's almost as bad as Ed Hardy as far as bar outfits go, BTW. After I had entertained this jerkoff for no more than five minutes he "suggested" that I accompany him back to his apartment.

He actually said to me, "I'll be honest, I want to hook up with you." I told him that it was pretty obvious, as from ten feet away he probably wasn't attracted to my scintillating personality. He then advised that we skip the usual conversation and date part. What an incredible asshole.

I politely turned him down and he asked me to "explain my logic." Dbag. I said that I wasn't going to go home with a guy I just met five minutes ago and he immediately went into some philosophical rant about how that's not a good reason because

1) I can Google him and find out that he's not a serial killer and

2) he would be totally open to having some kind of friendship/relationship afterward.

I told him I didn't want to see him afterward, let alone right now, and also judging from this conversation he probably had body parts in his closet. He also said he detected some kind of "physical attraction," unless he was off. I replied that he was off. He added that I hadn't told him to fuck off yet, so I "obviously felt something." I told him I feel like I'm interested in this conversation because I find it hilarious and I want to see where else he's trying to go with this. I also wanted to know, BTW, who wrote his scripts.

PS- I should have told him that he was about to "feel" my knee in his crotch. I always think of the best shit when it's too late!

Then he told me that he would be the best hook-up I ever had. I laughed in his face. I told him that the fact that I said no 800 times and he's still harassing me is enough to get me to never go anywhere with him, ever, except the nearest precinct. Also I admit the that I kept the conversation going partially so I could be a total bitch.

Then, just when I thought I was safe, he countered with, "here's what we should do. Hook up." I proclaimed that here's what I should do- then I grabbed Hurricane, put our drinks on a table, and exited stage right. Out of the corner of my eye I watched him make a beeline for another, even younger girl who I almost thought about saving but I decided not to push it since I was already in the clear.

After that we decided to stick to places I had previously gotten loaded at and may have already made out with somebody already knew and loved. We chose one of the West Village music venues and this time it was Hurricane's turn to meet some guy who, while decidedly pretty cute, was not taking the RealFeel all that great, while I agreed to play wingwoman. I talked to this dude's friend for a while before I realized he was a total creeper. After a while he started yelling that he just HAD to see me again and he offered to give me a job at his company to get me to stay in NYC. I was terrified that he was going to offer to marry me. I was almost ready to smash my glass on the ground just so I could stab myself with one of the shards until I happened to look to my left for some assistance and realized that Hurricane's future alimony check had a much hotter friend OH HAAAAI.

As it turned out, dude turned out to be from Toronto, which I could tell immediately because he actually said "ABOOT" and "EH." HAHAHAHAHA! That is amazing! (PS, Tabs- I asked him if he knew you and he said no. If he wasn't a total Canada stereotype I would have assumed he was lying because everyone knows you.)

Despite the fact that he looked almost EXACTLY like Peyton Manning but way hotter and with a decidedly more perfect nose, Canadian Bacon of course was a hockey fan , so we traded barbs about the Rangers vs. the Leafs. As a Blue Jays fan, he also harbored a disdain for the Yankees (sorry, Tits), so I decided right there that I was going to bear his perfect 6'3 children.

Seriously, imagine our genetic mashup.

He asked for my number within five minutes and I felt kind of bad because this other dude was watching but hey, you snooze, you lose. It's not my fault that this guy implemented the MAC System.

Creeper Dude turned out to be a pussy that admitted defeat by just going home without saying goodbye or anything, so the rest of us- Hurricane, Sweatstack,  Bacon and myself- went for late night mac and cheese. After a couple of hours, Hurricane and the Stack were heavily making out on some bench while I silently cursed my own bodily functions. 

Hurricane had to get up super-early for work the next morning, so Bacon and I decided to hang out. Over the course of the night he had dropped hints that I was welcome to come back to his apartment, and I almost cried because STUPID STUPID PERIOD. When he finally asked me straight out to come home with him I made moving-related excuses because I was NOT telling some dude I just met about my womanly issues. It may have seemed kind of ballsy on his part to assume that I would just up and fuck him when I had known him for like, three hours; however, at this point we had already made out in the middle of the street and almost gotten hit by a car twice. So, uh, yeah. One can't exactly blame a guy for "going there."

Before you guys get all judge-y and shit keep in mind that again, I rarely get hit on and have not gotten any action in like three months AND there was vodka involved. I am usually not this big of a whore.

Anyway:

I did kind of like this guy and besides, his Canadian accent was hysterical and he let me make fun of him, and I didn't want to be that girl- you know, the girl that lets a guy grope her in the street and then is like, "Well, thanks for doing awesome shit with your hands there. See ya!" So I decided to come clean (Ha. Ha ha.) and tell him,  "look, I wasn't going to say anything but I'm having girl issues. Like, GIRL ISSUES." After some minimal blinking, he figured out what I meant and basically told me he was cool with it if I was, and we could do "other stuff." Works for me! Let's get a cab!

NYC Cab Driver and Elevator Personnel- if you are reading this, I apologize. That is all.

The last time I was in a guy's apartment, he acted like a total pussy and pretended that he hadn't invited me there for a session of deep railing (no, I don't want a snack, just take off your damn pants already) so I was seriously impressed by how Bacon did not waste ANY TIME. He didn't offer me a drink or anything, he just turned off the bedroom light, picked me up and like, practically threw me on the bed (that shit hurts, yo. I'm small and frail. Like a Smurf).

Come on, now. That shit ain't right.

Sidenote: his boxers said "Canada" on them. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

What I did not appreciate is how he kept telling me that there would be a "next time" and that he would pay me for me to fly back to New York whenever I wanted. I once hooked up with this guy I thought was my friend and I was expecting nothing else- just a fun night that could possibly (but probably not) lead to some interesting, sporadic hookups. The guy had the tendency (and by "tendency" I mean "constantly") to treat women like doggy chew toys, so I didn't even want it go any further. Then he totally ruined everything by declaring his "feelings" for me and spouting off a whole bunch of other shit that I knew wasn't true (he admitted it later), and basically treated me like all the little 20-year-olds that follow him around and actually believe that they're going to be his wife or something. It wasn't what he said that pissed me off, it was the fact that he said it. BTW, I did confront him about this and we no longer speak. Guys, seriously- not every girl needs you to fall in love with them. Some of us really just want to acquire a booty call or- try not to fall over- really do want what you refer to as a "hookup." Get over it.

Anyway, back to the Bacon. We had already come to the mutual agreement that we weren't going to do what he had previously referred to as EVERYTHING, although things were getting pretty hot (dude is a dirty talker, which I have to admit was making me curse my girly problems even more). What made it even worse for both of us is the fact that he had an immaculate bedroom and white sheets. We got as far as we possibly could without actually going as far as we possibly could. Bacon got a little stingy when it came to the give-and-take; like, we already knew I wasn't going to get any; but he expected me to do everything (and I mean everything) else? I think emphatically not. I wasn't that much of a hard-ass, but all his begging made it even worse and I almost walked out. Oh, also: what I got WAS pretty good, but the constant self-accolades were seriously annoying. I don't need a "preview," I get it. You're awesome. Let's move on.

Here's where the night got weird: My gross menstrual state left a lot to the imagination (hey, I was ABSOLUTELY willing; but I definitely understood his issues). I get that. Why, though, when he was totally willing to, ahem, make good use of his hands, was he so adamant about the no-sex clause? Wouldn't that be like, less disgusting? Was it a no-sheets thing? I don't know. That was totally bizarre. Has this ever happened to you guys?  I'd really appreciate some insight here because I am seriously confused.

Oh, Canada. Thanks for tarnishing my final memory of my home and native land.

At least I have a hilarious story to blog about. 

BLOGRING: TRAINWRECK MOVIE MASSACRE

It's that time of the month again (I wonder how many of us started our posts off that way. Gross.)- Horrible Movie Reviews! I still can't come up with a title for the 'ring, so I'm going to keep experimenting with different ones until I get enough positive feedback to pick a permanent. This one came from Tsa, who I forced to join in this month. Diplomacy FTW!

This time around I get to participate in the sexiest blog sandwich ever. Not only was I lucky enough to post for Risha (rhymes with Dish...ah!), but I get the honor of hosting Shelly. I swear to God I don't rig these things.

Anyway, the Shellator is totally adorable, even when reviewing shitty sports movies. I swear she's a secret dominatrix. It's always the quiet ones.

I love you, Shelly. I raise my nipple tassels in your honor.

And now, I give you the best and most accurate portrayal of Air Bud ever.  Take it, Shells. Take it hard.

Hi everyone! My name is Shelly and I'm frolicking over from Shelly Talks Too Much.  Please be sure to go over to my site and read about Ginny's movie.  She's pretty awesome, and I'm super excited she's gracing her presence on my blog.

When my dear Nuggette told me that we were doing sports movies, one movie came to mind.  I had to review it, I had to watch it...right...that...MOMENT! Some of you may have watched this movie when you were younger or maybe you've seen one of the many spinoffs of this movie.  I am talking about the movie Air Bud.

I was little, but I was sure it would be perfect.  And I knew it was about basketball.  There's one problem.  It wasn't terrible.  It was adorable.  Who doesn't love dogs who play basketball?  Really, now!  Okay, maybe it's just me.  I'm probably the only adult (obviously using that term loosely) who enjoyed sitting and watching Air Bud.  I can't help it.  I spend my days thinking about sparkles, Star Wars, kitties and puppies.

Anyway! I'm sorry! Back to Air Bud.  I had a hard time actually following the plot line because I was constantly calling Nick into the room saying "Watch what the dog does! Look at him! Look at him!"  And at the end being like "Awww puppy! Make the right choice! Make the right choice!"

Basically, Buddy the Dog is owned by an evil clown that drinks too much.  The weird thing is, the guy who plays the clown, I totally remember him on Murphy Brown.  So that was a little weird in itself.  The drunk clown is getting ready to ship Buddy off to the pound for being a bad boy when his kennel falls off the truck.  He then meets his best friend, Josh.  A new kid in town who has a dead dad.  His mom has a midlife crisis and they have to start over. Josh joins the basketball team, Buddy runs in on a game, causes a ruckus, and mayhem ensues!  But the crowd loves Buddy!  I mean, who couldn't?!  Look at that precious fuzzy face!  So Buddy becomes the mascot of the team. Dog becomes a local celebrity, kid rides Bud's coatTAIL (get it...because the dog has a tail!) and then drunk clown comes back saying "THAT'S MY DOG! YOU STOLE MY DOG!"  In the end, some guy suggests to let Buddy run to his rightful owner.  Obviously, Buddy chooses the boy, but not before attacking the scary drunk clown.  And suddenly, all is right in the world again!

So, even though I shouldn't recommend the movie...I'm going to.  It's just so gosh darn cute!

BLOGRING: INSERT CREATIVE TITLE HERE

Hey, Guys.

Welcome to this month's installment of the Horrible Movie Review Blogring. I never took the time to think of a creative title, and honestly, I'm way too lazy. If anyone has any ideas, I'll accept them, no credit given questions asked.


This month, we all reviewed shitty romantic comedies in honor of Valentine's Day. The theme changes every time we attempt this, so if you want to be part of this innovative conception, drop me an email- thataintkosher83@gmail.com. The swap list goes up on the 21st of the month and the postings go up on the 2nd.

I created this blogring so I would have an excuse to review the epic Academy Award winner Thankskilling (and not look like a total psycho) after discovering it on McGriddle Pant's blog, and this month, I'm all energized and shit to have her join in the merriment and post her rom-com review for me. In fact, it's almost arousing. Read on; she's hilarious. And when you're done, why don't you meander on over to Coyote Rose's place and witness me destroy Valentine's Day? I'm still recovering.

When charged with the daunting task of reviewing a RomCom for my super-fun-number-one blog friend Nugs @ That Ain’t Kosher, I was super excited! So many ridiculously unrealistic, boring and all around craptastic movies to choose from! Which, in itself, was a bit overwhelming. I mean, honestly almost any Katherine Heigl movie would be a prime choice. Then I made the mistake of Googling “shitty romantic comedies” and so many cinematic delights popped up. But the worst part was that most of the top shitty pics were movies I actually liked. Oh dear.


One movie in particular that I pretty much hated from the get-go was How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. I mean, I could write a book on how to lose a guy in 10 seconds, who needs ten whole days? So I decided to watch yet another Kate Hudson/McConauhey debacle called Fools Gold.
The synopsis according to Rotten Tomatoes is thus: A new clue to the whereabouts of a lost treasure rekindles a married couple's sense of adventure -- and their estranged romance.
Talk about a recipe for comic GOLD!!


First off, there’s nothing a girl likes better than to see a shirtless, sexy, tan man in the first .00045 seconds of a movie (much like men like to see boobies – see: Thankskilling). HOWEVER, seeing Mr. McConauhey shirtless is about as new and exciting as watching the Kardashians hock diet pills (or shoes… or clothes… or booze…) Its tired. And as for the two of them? I felt like I was watching an episode of Jersey Shore, as the two stars overly tanned, overly taught skin was sickening.

Excuse me... I just threw up a little in my mouth.

You’d think that with the premise of multiple underwater fights, high-speed shenanigans involving motor scooters, Jet Skis and prop planes, that this would be a fun-filled Actromedy (Action-Romantic-Comedy; yes, I’m allowed to make up words.) However the two leads, who were mildly more electrifying in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, appear to be failing a class in high school chemistry. Even the villains are too goofy to provide any real sense of danger.

Look, Nancy Drew... A CLUE!

I’ll be honest, I took a phone call, went to the bathroom without pausing the flick, refilled my beer glass multiple (five) times and even dozed off once. So maybe my opinion is moot.
Will Finn and Tess find the treasure before the bad guys? Will they put aside their differences and rekindle their love?


Yes to both questions!


No, I haven’t spoiled anything, by the way. But perhaps I’ve saved you some trouble.


--McGriddle Pants

PERSONAL FOUL

First of all, I don't want to hear any shit about how my football season is now over and how the Jets are an epic fail. We got further than you did, Pats fans, and we knocked you out anyway, so fuck off.

I spent NFL Championship Day with Bad Monkey and a bunch of her co-workers, bar hopping for 10 hours straight and hosting our own Sad Celebration in Hermosa Beach. All of the rest of my friends were rooting for the Bears, so at least I wasn't totally alone on my ledge, in theory.

Bad Monkey is the only acceptable companion I've found in SoCal. She's the only female within a hundred mile radius that didn't drop off the planet because of a sugar daddy boyfriend or care too much about how her fucking ankles look in Prada (read: phenomenal. She's 5'11, blond, thin and I HATE YOU).

Bad Monkey waitresses in Hermosa Beach, so I went to visit her at work and watch the Championship games. I had just dyed my hair the day before (oh yeah- I'm kind of a redhead now. You'll see it when I finally record my vlog, which I will do now that I bought a Flip), so I hadn't showered that morning. I was also coming off three hours of sleep, hadn't bothered with makeup and was wearing a football jersey. I had almost been vain enough to shave my legs, but since I would be wearing long pants, it was Winter Leg FTW. In short, I was a hot mess, minus the hot.

Almost immediately upon arrival I was assaulted by some  Moronasaurus who thought that by agreeing to speak to him, I was already freezing my eggs in order to create a 50% perfect hatchling (half-perfect because hello- it's my kid, yo).

I couldn't transform into full-on bitch mode because this was, after all, my friend's place of business, so I tried subtlety. I attempted to squirm out of his grasp a few times, but he was too stupid to figure out that I wasn't feeling it. He kept trying to rub me and give me massages and shit, and then he (HELL, NO!) drank from my straw. I wanted to whittle the top into a point and stab him in the throat. I thought that tossing said straw into the trash might make him go away, but then the Bears scored a touchdown and he got extra handsy. He also told me, unsolicited, how tall he was, consummated with the declaration, "I'm a man." I just laughed and advised him that generally, "men" don't sip daintily from a straw.

When he tried to follow me into the line for the bathroom, that was finally it. I went into the back to find Bad Monkey and let her know that if this asshole tried to kiss my forehead again I would rip off his balls and fashion them into a stylish coin purse. In between fits of laughter, she and her manager accosted some regular customers to be my bodyguards. This was going well until one of them started rubbing my back and calling me "babe." Even when Bad Monkey clocked out and met up with me, all of my future alimony checks decided to invite themselves along. Come on, man, what the fuck? I just want to scream obscenities about my sorry-ass losing team without having to worry about a marriage proposal.

His hanger-ons were also pretty annoying- at one point Bad Monkey and I were engaged in an intensely aggressive air hockey battle and the two dillholes kept trying to throw me off by knocking on the window. You've probably figured out by now that the fastest way to piss me off is to break my concentration, especially during a competitive event, so if any of these guys had a glimmer of a shot of seeing me naked (they did not), they basically blew it in those two minutes.

Despite having to fend off aging frat boys, the rest of the night was pretty awesome. Bad Monkey's co-workers are all just like my friends back home, and I fit into their group within five minutes. It was one of those nights where you wake up with bruises on your arms, beer in your hair, dirt between your toes and NO recollection of how anything got there, but you know you want to repeat it next weekend. No one was threatened by the fact that I'm a walking Wikipedia page of football trivia, although that could have been due to the fact that the drinking had started around lunchtime. The only major party foul? I'd forgotten my camera. OF COURSE. The only genuinely amazing night I've had in LA thus far and I have absolutely no documentation. I fail at life.

Fortunately, I hang with Bad Monkey pretty frequently, so these characters will more than likely make a few repeat appearances. Despite the Jets' depressing loss and some uninvited grabbiness, I managed to make some killer new acquaintances and discover exactly how much alcohol 10 people could pack away in a day (hint: A LOT). And as for the AFC Championships, well there's always next year- to fuck up again.

BLOGRING: TWO "THUMBS" UP

So here's a shocker: I get jealous sometimes. I know, what could I possibly have to be envious of?

I totally want to join in on this Karaoke Blogring of Death that all my friends are doing every month, but I don't have a webcam, so I decided to make my own swap. I asked a bunch of my fellow Bloggi (I'm totally going to pimp that word, yo) to pick a terrible movie of their choice and review it, then stick said review on another unsuspecting blogger's page. First up for 2011: Shitty Horror Films.

I got to post for the sex-tastic Christina, and you can read my post on the Citizen Kane of direct-to-DVD's Thankskilling here. Before you do that, read Brian, from phonon505, right under me (RAWR). This was supposed to go up yesterday, and it is TOTALLY his fault that this is late, but he's forgiven because he promised me pie later on (Double RAWR). Whatever. Just enjoy.

Oh, PS- Brian is really smart and there's lots of engineer-y stuff in here, so my head kind of exploded. I'm SO going to check out this movie.

Hey all, so my movie review of the month is of this awesome move entitled "Primer" , which turns out is nottt exactly a horror movie. But it is a crazy movie, and everybody loves le crazy. But hey, it was between that and Twelve Monkeys, and who wants to talk about the possible destruction of the human race via biological warfare?

This movie opens up with a bunch of guys sitting around a table trying to formulate the next get-rich-quick scheme. These are pretty smart dudes, too, the kind of people that mere mortals would call an engineer.

WOOT Engineers!

They want to solve some of the worlds major problems, but to make a long story short, they build a really shitty time / aging machine. It's basically a box with some awesome pseudophysics going on, and inside of this box an object experiences time at something like 4000 times the normal rate, so you can put a piece of apple pie in here for 5 minutes, when it comes out it's going to be disgusting and nasty, so nasty that I really just can't let you have a piece, Nugs. You'd get sick! But whats even cooler about this box is that is makes absolutely no sense - because een though you would mega-age if you got in here, if you get out at specific intervals of time, you don't age at all and instead go back in time to the time when the machine first got turned on. Essentially, they realize that their machine ages things really fast, and say "Hey, we can use this to go back in time" and it works. I just want to re-iterate, it's a really crappy time machine, because if you crawl out of bed at the wrong moment, you age hundreds or thousands or days instead of going back in time 4 hours.

One of the rules in time travel is that you never go back to visit yourself. Well, this machine can only go back in time to the day it was last turned on, so that doesn't really work here. These dudes start going back in time a few hours, knowing what happens in the future (aka stock market going up) but what's really creepy is that there are "doubles" of them. This is where things get really, really strange, and your head explodes.

Plot Flow-Chart, Courtsey Randall Munroe

It turns out that because you get stuck in an endless loop of time travel you end up with lots of time to make spare time machines, and that's really important because you can only use a machine to go back in time when it was first flipped on. So these dudes keep whipping out these time machines that they have turned on earlier and earlier, and getting attacked their doubles. But the really, really sad thing, is that once you decide to travel back in time, you're sort of, well, dead, and it's actually a duplicate person who appears back in time. Like I said, this is by far the biggest piece of junk time machine ever invented. But the movie is actually pretty good if you can prevent your head from exploding int he last third of it. Lots of emotional crap with the doubling, fun pseudo scientific talk, a little Wall Street. On my scale of movie ratings, this move is "The Best".
Cheers!


-Brian M


OK, so I understood like seven words in this review, but I'm a gigantic nerd, so I still find time travel talk to be pretty hot. Call me, Brian. <3

If you guys want to participate next month when we do crappy rom-coms in honor of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, drop me an email at thataintkosher83@gmail.comby January 20th. I may do a vlog because apparently that's what you guys voted on last month, so I don't really have a choice.

GINN AND JEW(S)

It’s been a long-ass time since I checked my wallet and realized that I was stupidly low on cash. So of course I decided to take a weekend road trip (HOORAY FOR POVERTY!). I commissioned Ginntastic and let her know I was in dire need of some toxic refreshments, and it took her all of two seconds to give me a when and where.

I got in on Friday, and our Vodkatronic weekend took effect immediately. Ginntastic and her cousin Ale-xis took me to Dick’s, a seafood place where the waitresses make fun of you and make you wear penis hats. I should totally work there.

The best part about Dick’s (besides the moniker, of course), was that the guy performing the awful Dave Matthews covers was seriously loaded.

PS- not to get all dramatic and mushy on you guys, because I’m so not like that, but Fanueil Hall is beautiful at night. If you haven’t been there, you really should go.

So, yeah. We also met this guy who was in totally in love with Ale-xis and followed her so closely all night she could feel his breath on her face. Not cool, A-hole. He looked like the Mad Magazine guy on a three-day coke bender if he’d just run a marathon. Try to picture that without dry-heaving.

So that was my low-key Friday. Saturday was spent pretending we were back in college, and by that I mean sleeping 'til three, having pizza for “breakfast,” and not going to class. Ginntastic introduced me to Boston’s Channel 38, which plays a spectacular array of food porn. I swear that you have never seen cakes that look as amazing as the shit I saw on those shows. We stared slackjawed at the TV until it was time to get ready to go out with Ale-xis and a couple of her ridiculously hot and awesome friends.

I don’t remember shit about Saturday night as a whole (haha… “hole”), but there’s some funny stuff that went down that’s forever sealed in my brain thanks to Facebook. I do remember that we bar-hopped until last call and that the pictures that I have show us getting progressively more hammered as the night wore on. Probably because we had Ben & Jerry's milkshakes for dinner. YES.

Classy as shit, yo.

PS- Check out Gin’s “come over here” face.

The Harvard bar we started out at was actually a lot cooler than I expected. First of all, I didn’t think people at Harvard actually ventured off campus, but most of them were wasted (and, like, 11 years old. Am I really that ancient? I guess so, because I was ready for feetie pajamas at around 1am). Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I asked them to do math problems or something while they were drunk? “Add the shots in this drink! HAHAHA!”

All the specialty drinks were named after awesome songs, like the Sex Pistols’ “Pretty Vacant,” and since we knew all this (or because we were taking semi-pornographic shots with my camera), the bartender was pretty into us. So, sobriety… that was an interesting concept.

Bartender of the Year? Perhaps.

In between downing shots and Facebook sexting with Mandy Moore, we did manage to meet a copious amount of tools. One of the guys that came over to talk to me mentioned that he loved live music, so I gave him my card and told him I know when a lot of shows are. This guy had NO shot with me or any of my friends, but I figured I would network. At 2am, I got a call from this tool accusing me of having a fake number. Uh, you’re actually talking to me, and I gave you my fucking business card, so how about you’re retarded? Also, you look like a rabbit on steroids. FAIL.

BTW, I have never heard so many Boston accents in my life as I did at that bar- and I’ve been to Red Sox games. It was hilarious.

After our 3am snack of- what else?- CRUNCHY NUGGETS!- we finally hit the sack.

Only the finest white meat...

I got super excited and a little turned on when I woke up later and there was a tiny hand on my boob, but it turned out it was just her cat. The last time I felt a nose on my leg was like, a year and a half ago, though, so I'll take it.

When Gin dropped me off at the bus on Sunday it was fucking nuts how sad I was to leave. When I do eventually have to go back to LA I’m going to be totally devastated, but let’s not think about that right now.

BTW, Ale-xis recently started a blog herself. She’s a little nervous about how she’ll be received because she’s dyslexic and her grammatical skills aren’t great, but to those that have the nerve to say anything, Go Fuck Yourself. Her blog actually has the word "dyslexic" in the title, which makes anyone who comments on her mistakes an idiot. The only reason I’m not going to link to it here is because she has pictures up from this weekend, and I’m still pretending I’m totally anonymous and not friends with 2/3 of you on Facebook, but I really admire her for putting herself out there on the Interwebs. Actually, I’m considering having her guest post for me.  I’m in your corner, Dude!