Accent-uate The Positive (OK, that was totally gay and un-original)

If one more person tells me I still have my New York accent, I'm going to very politely tell them to go fuck themselves, after they've removed my foot from between their asscheeks.

First of all, I haven't even lived in New York for the last fifteen years, and eight year olds can't even have what constitutes a pronounced way of speech. But every time I talk to someone, especially a guy, they usually end up asking me where I'm originally from. When I say I was born in Brooklyn, they say, "Yeah, I can tell." Then, as if this would make this asshole seem like any less of a douchebag, he will most likely finish up with, "Don't worry, I think it's hot."

I wasn't worried. You should worry about just how you're going to remove your ball sack from your lower intestine after I deliver a swift kick to your jobblies.

In order to finish this blog on time so my adoring public gets off my ass, I took a small, informal survey of some of my most perverted male friends and my brothers, who are actually two of the biggest pervs I've ever met. All of them agreed that 1) accents make a romantic- or sexual- prospect- hotter, 2) that French accents remind them of French maid outfits and 3) that they were hungry. Coincidentally, a bunch of my girlfriends told me that they like accents on guys too, and I can totally back them up on that one. Right now I am maddeningly obsessed with this totally hot bartender who has an inflection that would put Colin Farrell to shame- and I love Colin Farrell. Not to mention this dude is always giving me free drinks and last week when I talked to him he put his hand on the small of my back just above my ass and I almost fell over. I had to remind myself that I don't want to marry this guy, I just want to see him naked. I'm praying that the "Irish Curse" is a total myth. OK, that was WAY too much information. Sorry.

What I like to call the "Accent Anomaly" apparently works both ways. My friend Amazing is tiny, brunette, and really, really pretty in one of those obnoxious ways that make you want to totally hate her, but you can't because she's such a good friend and also smart and funny. She's like the pinnacle of masturbatory fantasies- but wait! There's more! Because she just moved to this country a few years ago, she still has an adorable Polish accent that has guys tripping all over themselves- and me- just to buy her a drink. I'm definitely no troll (although with this shit weather, my house has felt kind of cave-like lately), but I can't compete with that.

So now I'm wondering- what is it about different voice tones that makes someone more or less attractive? If my Irish Bartender guy spoke like Porky Pig I guarantee I wouldn't be mentally naming our children right now (I really hope he doesn't read this). Any thoughts on this would be greatly appreciated- but please refrain from informing me that I'm, y'know, psychotic. 'Cause I already know that.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It...

...And I should feel fine, but I don't.

This weekend I was in Brooklyn (and here I quote Motley Crue: "Home Sweet Home") to support my brother. He was playing his first solo show, so of course I got a little camera happy and he made fun of me. Anyway, the point is, both of my brothers are amazingly talented musicians. It takes a lot to get me to admit that. I mean, these are the guys that used to burst in whenever I was with a boyfriend and show him my underwear straight from the washing machine. If you don't believe me (not about the underwear, you fucking perverts- I meant about the music), check out their band's page. This is some serious shit.

I actually know a few people that are in bands. They all have more musical capability than I would know what to do with, and what really pisses me off is that they're all struggling to get some kind of recognition while lame-ass, no-talent acts like Justin Trousersnake and Lindsay Lowlife get to make albums because they're already famous and they happen to sound ok in the shower.

Then there are the bands that actually put records out, but no one listens to them because they're not tall and blond and they don't resemble Skeletor on a three-day coke bender. I went to the Prodigy show alone this winter because all my friends were scared of the lead singer. I'm sorry, guys- next time I see the Backseat Boys I'll be sure to take you along. By the way, how many copies did their last album sell? Five? Six? And just for the record, if you're 35 years old you are no longer a "boy." Unless, of course, they're really stating their sexual preference.

This is why I haven't bought a CD in the past ten years. When the number one album on the charts is a CD called "High-School Musical" (I am NOT making that up- that actually happened this year), and shit like American Idol gets renewed for five (!) more seasons, you pretty much have to give up hope. I'm going to have to keep going to my friends' shows and praying the music industry gets a swift kick in the ass. I would volunteer, but they might mistake it for a dance move and try to put me in a video.

Since I live in a house with two 21-year-old guys (and a guy who thinks he's 21- that's my dad for ya), Stuff Magazine comes in the mail every month. I forget what issue it was, but there was some chick on the cover named "Tila Tequila." I'm guessing that's not on her birth certificate. Anyway, this girl is recording a pop album and has been on all those dumbass music channels and- get this- on MSNBC. And apparently, all of this is because she has the most amount of friends on Myspace. I actually went to her website and listened to what's going to be the first single- I was appalled by the lack of talent and the abundance of overproduction. I used to have a Myspace page, and at one point I had 63 friends- do I get a present too? Maybe my own reality show?

This is what I like to call the "Myspace curse," and it's why I deleted my account. When I first signed up for Myspace a year and a half ago, I thought it might be a fun way to keep in touch with my friends who I never see (one of my best friends is in medical school in Poland, and keeping in contact with her is the main reason I got Myspace in the first place) and to hear about new bands. Now Myspace is a fucking joke. The people that "police" the site (and I use that loosely) claim that you have to be 18 to create an account, but everyone knows that's total BS. I have friends that leave me messages in my Myspace inbox instead of calling me (uh, ever hear of a phone?), and every single one of those gay-ass teen magazines have quizzes with questions about that stupid, annoying website (hey, don't look at me. I don't read that shit- I know a twelve-year-old). Recently I even saw an episode of Law and Order: SVU where they were talking about a website called Mysite.com. Then, yesterday, one of my friends discovered that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the people I hung out with in high school were on Myspace, and they were all in each other's "Top 8." Geez, branch out a little. High school was five years ago. Time to move on.

So my shit came down. No more Myspace profile, no more stupid "Top 8," no more "friend requests" from perverts who are really just trying to get me to meet them in person so they can solicit blowjobs in the back alley- and, by the way, that never worked. I'll no longer have to deal with that slow-as-shit website that I can't even sign on to half the time because too many people are on it. And what's the deal with those "Myspace Murders" anyway? Since when does a website have a criminology degree?

I'm always joking that the town I live in is Amish because the people that live here voted against having cell phone towers, and complaining that it sucks, but if I were Amish, I wouldn't have Myspace or have to see all the shit comes with it. So maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

First Base and Blown Saves

As human beings (well, most of us) forced to interact with each other on a planet laden with litter, smog and Paris Hilton, we are faced with countless questions every day; such as, “Why are we here?”, “What is the meaning of life?”, “Will this stain ever come out of my sheets?”, and finally, “What’s up with those sex/baseball metaphors?”

Ever since I was in junior high, my favorite sport has been used to describe the various stages of hooking up. Everyone seems to have a different definition, but here’s the one my friends and I have always used:1st base: kissing2nd base: “up the shirt” (keep in mind, we were only eleven or so)3rd base: “down the pants”Home Run (otherwise known as “scoring”): Oh please. If you can’t figure it out, I don’t even want to know you.

It makes sense, really. Baseball has always been described as the “American Past Time,” but what has always been the OTHER American Past Time? Sex. All forms of, and not of. Kissing. Groping. Cuddling (man, I hate that word. It’s so gay).

I haven’t thought about this in a while- whenever I hear “first base,” I think of Carlos Delgado, the first baseman for the New York Mets, and not some drunken retard’s tongue in my mouth. But this weekend I watched some assclown mentally destroy my friend, and I realized why this whole scenario is referred to as a “game.”

Friday night I went out with a friend of mine who I will refer to only as “Awesome” (names have been changed to protect the totally innocent, and also to incriminate the incredibly stupid dumbasses and raging psychotics). She’d been waiting for a call from some loser who’d blown her off before, so I already didn’t like him. Believe me, this was not the way to NOT make me kick you in the balls upon our first meeting. Especially because Awesome, is, well, awesome.

We hit up a couple of bars, and Awesome keeps checking her cell for some signs of life. Finally, at 11:30, she gets a text message from said assclown, who shall heretofore be referred to as Heywood Jablome (say it out loud). All it said was, “What are you doin come hang out.” Nice grammatical skills. Aren’t you like, 29?Anyway, despite the fact that we’re 20 minutes away, Awesome drags me to where this is, where we meet up with Heywood and his extremely annoying friend, who proceeds to grind against me all night. Awesome later informs me that I was pretty mean to him, but this dude had no shame. First he begged me to dance with him, then he started touching and rubbing me all night. Hell no.

Heywood, on the other hand, turns out -surprisingly- to be a total douchebag and ignores my friend all night, only coming over to us after, like, an hour to make out with her. I was really starting to hate him, especially because he kind of looked like a cartoon character that I couldn’t place, and it was bugging the shit out of me. Plus he knew I didn’t like his friend, and he kept making these obnoxious jokes about us being a couple. How about...no?

Awesome had had a few drinks, so she convinced Heywood to drive me home. Here’s where the story gets funny, if you weren’t laughing at me already. Awesome called me the next day and told me that this winner, who, by the way, is 29 and divorced with two little kids, actually begged her for a blow job. I don’t think there’s a word in the baseball lexicon for oral sex, especially not when you skip over bases two and three. Plus...begging? Lame. According to Awesome, Heywood actually told her that it would only be five minutes. Dude, I wouldn’t announce that. Seriously. My friend just laughed at him. Good for her. He hasn’t called her since then, so I’m guessing she made a wise choice.

After recuperating from Friday night’s debacle, Awesome and I and our friend Amazing all decided to dress up and hit a local watering hole. We all wound up wearing the exact same hairstyle and the exact same color dress- I shit you not. My mom is starting to get scared. Anyway, Amazing was hoping to run into this guy that she used to have a thing going on with, but unfortunately, it was not to be, and the place was dead anyway, so we decided to head to the bar that we would have eventually wound up at anyway.

So we arrive, and in between praying that my boobs don’t pop out of my dress and trying to ignore the blisters that are slowly forming on my feet due to my hot but painful shoes (hey! it takes a lot to look this good!), I do my quick spot-check of the crowd. I see a couple of familiar faces who I say hello to, and one that I ignore totally because I’m pretty sure it’s Nurse Lola. Yes, THAT Nurse Lola. Inside my head, my inner monologue is screaming, “BLOG! BLOG!” Wow, that’s sad.

Amazing, Awesome and I go get our drinks, and Awesome sees this friend of hers who she’s trying to set me up with. At this point, there have been a couple of free Coronas involved. I don’t particularly like Coronas- I actually think they taste like piss- but hey, it’s alcohol and it’s free, so whatever. The guy’s rocking that punk look- kinda like that kid in Good Charlotte who’s minutes away from unhooking Hillary Duff’s bra, and that look is so over- but he’s actually not that bad looking. So we start talking and he goes outside to smoke. Amazing comes over and says something that sounds like, “I think he likes you,” but could have been, “Pee. Bike. Who?” (The music was pretty loud.) I tell him that the three of us might be going out tomorrow and he says that maybe he’ll come.

We all decide to go to the diner after the bar closes and we wind up sharing a table with a party of six guys who actually aren’t hitting on us; they just seem like a group of cool, funny dudes. We start talking about movies, and I’m-So-Over-You-But-Hey!-Free-Coronas actually starts eating my food out of my hand and trying to feed me his. Then he starts kissing me on the forehead and stuff. I’m thinking, He might be crazy, but he’s also kind of drunk. All of a sudden there’s definite first base action going on. I go along with it because of the free Coronas and hey, I don’t want to embarrass the poor guy. Strangely enough, he doesn’t use any tongue, which is weird on its own, but I still wind up with enough of his saliva on the corners of my mouth to make a nice pool for the gnat that attacks the chicken finger on my plate.

Awesome drives us all home and Raging Psycho asks for my phone number. I figure he’ll get it from one of my friends anyway, so I give it to him. The next day he calls me six times in four hours, and three times in twenty minutes. Awesome picks the phone up, and I’m thinking, “Fuck you! Now he’ll hear me laughing!” Surprisingly, I’m able to bite the inside of my face and keep quiet, because I rule. Anyway, because the guy is clearly nuts, he’s left me, like, five voicemails, explaining in detail, where he’s going and what he’s doing. Apparently he’s driving all over town, going to places to find me and hanging out by himself, hoping to run into me.

The next day, I'm at the mall with Awesome, and who should we run into but Raging Psycho? After some awkward conversation between the two while I stand there silently and pray for death, I excuse myself, but not before he makes me hug him. Awesome actually doesn't start laughing until we're a good hundred feet away. Commendable, considering I almost cried while I was standing there.

So would he be considered the Grand Slam of losers? Or does that title belong to Heywood Jablome? And did my friends and I just have the Word Series of Shitty Guy Weekends?

All those baseball metaphors are really starting to make sense.