fml?

I'm sure we've all recently squirmed uncomfortably at fmylife.com, 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.

Don't Be Afraid

HighFive

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.

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 already...how 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.

SeCATary

SNUGGIE BAR CRAWL

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"