Friday, March 27, 2009

Well Great Guys

Apparently the higher ups at google noticed that my tiny but loyal fan base was clicking on my ads. Apparently this is uncouth in the google community and they just sent a notice that they're quitting my ass.

Although it saddens me that my bank account and liver will in no way benefit from this termination, your efforts have somewhat melted the iceberg that is my heart.

Many, many thanks and prease, keep preasing.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Aussies are Funny

I found this website looking for cool new craft ideas. Although it embarrasses me to admit that, I feel that the following site will add enough Cool points to my Identity Bank to even out for the day.

God I'm busy.

No Big Deal

It's getting really hard to go ANYWHERE these days. If I could stop being so famous for ONE second maybe I'd have more time to brog.

Here are my latest media clippings. Sigh. I'm really proud of my hard work in making the Snuggie a cultural phenomenon. I think we can all agree that millions of Americans would still be struggling to stay warm while knitting blankets if I hadn't so graciously stepped in and shined a spotlight on their plight.

America- you're welcome. Stay Warm, Stay Productive.

It seems EVERYONE is super famous today. Please notice the sad clown panda in the pink shirt. I like, know her.)

The Ultimate Invisible Friend

I'm pretty creeped out and excited to see Where the Wild Things Are. Though my fear of people in costumes has stopped me from living my life to the fullest (no Orioles bird hugs, birthday clowns or 4th wall-breaking theatre), I'm sure I'm going to see this when it comes out.

Unless it's in 3D.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


Oh, the Japanese. You may have invented Herro Kitty and hilariously translated signage, but you can't tempt fate.

An artist couple (who clearly have no idea about the Current Economic Climate) have spent tens of millions of dollars building reverse aging apartments and homes around the world. They feature uneven floors, oddly placed windows and doors and spherical rooms. The point is not to kill the renters, but to challenge them to adapt to their new surroundings and think differently about space. Some guy has lived in one such apartment for two years. He's lost 20 pounds, no longer has allergies, and his wife regularly hits her head on the tiny door to the laundry room as she navigates her womanly duties in the Fun House from Hell.

I think the idea of this is really neat, but I break bones like this guy break dances , so I think uneven flooring and a dizzying array of color would put me in the most literal interpretation of a domestic abuse situation. I'd be walking into walls and not a fist.

The couple also dabble in high-end art. Like, art that takes ten years to complete and should sell for almost 20 million bones, but won't because no one has 20 fucking million dollars to give them.

The couple also got Ponzied by that dick Bernard Madoff, so now they have no money, no one to buy their art, and- assuming their calculations/theories are correct- an abnormally long time left to live.

Monday, March 23, 2009

This Effing Week...

Because I'm an asshole, I sort of broke my foot building a small bookcase in my office last week. This marks the second time in three years I've been on crutches, and the 8,993rd time I've appropriately called myself an asshole since the beginning of 2009.

Last week I also saw New Kids live (pics to come), watched Twilight and realized that in one week I will be moving to a new house...on crutches. I have impeccable timing.

I will post New Kids stuff later today. In the meantime I'm going to keep sitting here at work with my foot elevated and wrapped in ice until it's time to go home and pack.

In light of my recent injury, I think everyone should click on all my ads twice today. Namaste.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Dave Matthews makes sense right now.

I've spent a decent part of the day researching Twitter. (I realize I'm being weird about this, but I get random spurts of curiosity and I've had a really hard time understanding this whole social networking phenom.)

I've been gchatting with friends about it- at least gchat is in real time and demands actual conversation- and I've been getting mixed reviews and opinions. After exhausting my friend pool, a simple google search led me to one site, which led me to another until I hit the jackpot. The following video cleared up my confusion, made me laugh, made me nervous and made fun of the twitterverse.

Prease enjoy. And make sure to read the floating posts in the background. It explains the title of this post.


Dammit dammit dammit. I like Twitter.

I still have no clue what it's all about, and I find it outrageously self-indulgent, but it's slowly creeping up my daily routine of website checking.

I've only updated my status twice because I'm WAY more preoccupied with finding as many famous people as I can to follow. And by famous, I mean Kathy Griffin and MichaelK. And Shaq.

I really rebelled against joining Twitter. I had precious few friends on it, and I didn't realize you could follow anyone you wanted. I had the same issue with facebook at first too- I had no idea what the point was, or why you would want your face all over a website made from the residue of a stalkers wet dream. I now would contemplate giving my first born to the founders of facebook.

It's only day 2 of my new life as a Twitterer. I'm sure I'll keep the ol' brog updated as my obsession waxes and wanes- in terms of self-indulgent internet forums, preasebrog is still my best gal. At least here I have more than 140 characters to bore you with.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


I'm sure we've all recently squirmed uncomfortably at, the website devoted to giving poor, awkward saps an outlet to not feel as bad about themselves. As someone who often identifies themselves as a poor, awkward sap, I've thrown myself headfirst into devouring each post the way an aardvark would an ant farm. (yeah, I just unleashed an aardvark analogy. suck it.)

After reading about 30 pages of horrific stories, it occurred to me that I should post something. I figured a true FML reader would want to give back to the pathetic community...give the other schmoes a chance to cringe and giggle and immediately copy/paste the tale to their Twitter page.

Well, fuckmylife, they haven't posted a single effing one.

Which leads me to ponder two important questions: Who is this asshole that gets to not only read, but deny the FML stories, and also, am I living the ultimate FML?

Today, I realized fml has never and will never post my suggested FMLs. FML.

I have sent literal gold to these dickwads. My own father mentioned to me that I'm pretty lucky to be alive because I was $100 bucks away from being aborted. (Apparently his dad wouldn't loan him the rest.) HOW DOES THAT NOT QUALIFY AS AN FML?

All I can say is that the creators of this site are French, and that maybe that's the answer to my confusion. So while le FML frogs sit on their throne of judgement and money, I will sit at my desk, shove FREEDOM fries in my mouth and be grateful that my grandfather happened to be strapped for cash at some point in early 1985.

Don't Be Afraid...Part II

preasebrog got a facelift.

I know...I know. I fear change too. But I got bored at work, discovered that I can actually get paid to write this shit and went to town.

I'm willing to take suggestions on the new look. I can't figure out how to make it fancier, and I love fancy things, so if you possess this knowledge hit me with it.

Speaking of hitting, go ahead and Chris Brown the ads on the right side of the page. Mama makes some money each time you do.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Don't Be Afraid

This is one of the first youtube videos I ever saw and it's still amazing. I hate the South but I love a good leprechaun sighting. It really reminds us about the true nature of St. Patrick's Day and bullshit. Also, I need to remember to unearth the magic leprechaun flute that my great-great grandfather made thousands of years ago. How else will I protect Mobile, Alabama from the elusive little fucker?


First of all, to the three of you who read this brog, I would ask you to kindly get off my case about not writing recently. And before you get all bitchy and upset, allow me to interrupt because I have the ultimate excuse: Someone with a PhD after their name told me I probs have HIV.

Let me back up here. I'm going to magicallllly whisk you away to beautiful Hartford, Connecticut circa winter 2004. Imagine a younger version of my current self waking up, stretching, and as the blue birds pull back my white silk comforter, noticing a large, red circle on my arm. And then realizing I'm seeing it through one eye. Because the other one is sealed shut.

Yes. One morning I woke up with ring worm and pink eye.

"Where is the relevancy here?" you may wonder as you secretly make a note to never let me borrow your clothes or wrestling mat. Well my unfortunate one-two punch of conjunctivitis and whatever ring worm's medical nomenclature is inspired my floormates to start calling me High Five. As in, HI 5. Or...HI V.

Well the joke was on THEM last week as I stumbled into the Patient First in Glen Burnie, flanked by a 100-something fever and useless but delicious Luden's cough drops.

I sat in my little cubicle as a nurse came in and gave me a strep test (gag), a flu test (is it fucking legal to shove a q-tip that far into my brain?), drew blood (lucky me, I got the new nurse...always be weary when two people come to take your blood) and finally an x-ray (I'm super siked to see how much that useless test will cost me.) After a 20 minute wait, the doctor finally came in and said, "Well, all your tests came back negative, although your white blood cell count is pretty low. We like to see the count around 4.0 and yours is 2.9. I'll go run an HIV test you can go ahead and get dressed."

BOOM just like that. I tried not to panic, especially because last year a doctor told me I probably have a brain tumor because I checked "Occasionally" under the "Do you ever get headaches" question. (Uh, back off bitch I get hangovers like everrrryone else.)

After two days of freaking out and trying to recall if the last person I shot heroin with happened to mention a certain auto-immune disorder, I finally called back and was told my results were negative.

The morals of this story are simple. Don't go to Patient First in Glen Burnie; don't share needles, and leave me the hell alone if I haven't brogged in a few days.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Mon Dieu...You're Soooo Post Modern

Back when I was a Terp, I found myself in a course taught by one of the most interesting people I've ever encountered. His name was Metcalf, and he was a Georgia-bred former-hand-model-turned- film-critic-turned-professor. The man was memorizing. He knew everything about every movie, book, movement, etc and taught class wearing sunglasses and chugging two liter bottles of RC Cola.

I found the course interesting, inspiring and entertaining... so you can imagine my surprise when I realized (quite far into the semester) I wasn't actually "enrolled," per se. Turns out you actually have to "go online" and "properly register" to be in a class. To be fair, I didn't realize that 'University of Maryland' is code for Nazi Germany. My B.

Undeterred, I continued to make the mile-long trek through College Park to class with my two roommates who, you know... belonged there. I turned in assignments and had an almost perfect attendance. Though I basically wasted my time, lost credits and prolonged my shall I put this..."overdue" graduation, I did walk away with a few feathers in my cap.

I had planned on completing the 15 page final paper on post-modernism and some shit, but then I opened my freezer and saw I had a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman's finest and proceeded to get hammered and chain smoke in direct view of my registrationally-unchallenged roommates while they were writing their papers. BOOM. Totally scored an apathy feather. The second feather came during a in-class screening of Last Year at Marienbad. I was able to see through all the black and white surrealism and fixate on the sweet matchstick game, Nimm.

The characters play it throughout the whole movie, and if you've seen the film and played Nimm, one can assume that the game serves as a mirror of the plot; it is almost impossible to win or get what you want unless you go first. Or was it; if you play with matches you will catch on fire? Whatever, I said I wasn't actually enrolled.

Here is the site for Nimm...give her a whirl. I played for the 20 minutes leading up to this brog entry, and unless my work phone rings, I'll play until I beat this damn computer.

Good luck. And if you ever see a man in sunglasses pounding RC Cola with ridiculously attractive hands tell him Megan says hey and thanks for the 3 credits.

Monday, March 2, 2009



Captain Larry's hosted a Snuggie Bar Crawl on Saturday. It was by far the best (and only) bar crawl I've ever been on. A ton of warm and cozy people showed up and we all paraded from bar to bar in our Snuggs. South Baltimore's never seen so much synthetic fleece.

There were some awesome "altered" Snuggies like the ShamWow! Snuggie and Mardi Gras Snuggies and Star Wars Snuggies.

Good Ol' Lauren and Mitch earned second place for Best Snuggie for their interpretation of Octo-Mom and her sperm donor:

And I beat them out by one dollar (my prize is $26 and theirs is $25) as Jon-Benet Snuggie.

Unfortunately, at the end of the crawl I had on so much make up that I broke out in hives, took two Benedryl and woke up 12 hours later. Despite my poor form, Capt Larry's took me back under its eyepatch the next day by pumping me full of giant mimosas and friendship.

Here is the official Snuggie Bar Crawl site if you want to see more pictures from Saturday and other pictures from around this great nation. I take great comfort in the words of some robed-drunk we met this weekend; "The economy can't be that bad if we're at a Snuggie bar crawl"