Dear Lindsay,

Oh our goodness how we loved you in the Mean Girls and haven't seen one of your bombs since then -- well, we've seen your bombs but not the cinema kind we're talkin' about wink wink nudge nudge hahahahaahaa -- anywhores, we're so gonna BandT (hah! We're killin'! Where's Katz to comment when you need him?) to what we like to call the Alphabet Village in Greenwich Lower City tonight and hey, we figured since you and Lane aren't going steady anymore, want to meet up? We'll be the handsomely old but not really lad rockin' the pink and black tie. Holla girl. Seriously. How could you not want *this*? The tie that makes us an honorary Hart Foundation member and we're totally wearing too much Old Spice deodorant! Chicks love the Old Spice almost as much as they love the Old Man Snap!

Love,
OMS

Yes, we're a suck up.

Vince McMahon, in our dream, walking toward the basketball courts: And that's why our policy is what it is. No one issues comments to anyone but me. I'm the source. No one else is allowed to give public statements unless they clear it with me.

OMS, walking briskly next to Vince McMahon: Agreed, sir. It's the perfect media plan. Let (us) just say (we've) been doing this for a long time now and your media policy is spot-on. And if you need a spokesman, (we're) your guy.

Oh that Screech

So Zach is all wow, chick that will be on King of Queens, you'll be hot and a total MILF in 10 years and Kelly is all Jesus I can't wait to have boobs and a pot problem on the 90210 and Screech is all I have a metal detactor and oh the hijinx and Lisa Turtle is all damn I'm fine and way they gotta pair me up with Screech and Kelly is all seriously, can't I take these shorts off? I shaved and Zach is all not now Kapowski I'm about to get my Doug Heffernan on.

Not as fun as 90210, we know.

OK. The Tara Reid line was a hoot.

"I'll suck your c*ck for a $1,000," is a pretty good line, we'll give you that.

But the other 45 minutes and 18 seconds? We just. Kept. Waiting. For. Something. To. Happen.

But enough about the Dude (get it? Because he's a middle-aged stoner who doesn't give a f*ck) and the others.

The thing about the Big Lebowski

Twice we've tried to watch this cult "classic" over the last week. The first time, we made it about two minutes in. Tonight, we made it 46.

Um. The movie, in a word, sucks.

Hey! A Christmas story!

"Honey," said the rotund goateed man inside the Borders, loudly, into his cell phone. "If I got you the Grey's Anatomy DVD, would that be good? Oh. You saw all the episodes? So if you saw them, does that-- oh. OK. Yeah. You saw them all already. OK. I'll keep looking."

And then, about five minutes later: same guy. Same phone. Same wife, hopefully.

"Hi honey, it's me again," he said. "Yeah. I found a good one. Would you like Live Free or Die Hard? Yeah. It's Bruce Willis. It's kind of a light-hearted action movie. It's supposed to be really good, I think."

Meanwhile, darned if we didn't catch the holiday spirit while we shopped in the same store, sans honey guy.

"Iiiiii saw mommeeeee kissing Santa Claus," the adorable li'l 4-year-old sang, pitch-perfect, while listening to the head phones.

And then, about five seconds later: same adorable li'l 4-year-old. Same headphones. Same mommy.

"Mommy! I have to pee!"

Who smokes inside?

Remembering one thing, at least

So on the way home, darned if we didn't crank the ol' DMB when it came on. And oh how we busted out the old school 1999 Dave singing. And darned if we weren't in the best mood ever for the rest of the trip. And hoarse.

And now back to things we say outloud

To bunny rabbit, Tuesday night: "Hop li'l fella! Hop! Wait. How do you hop on the ice like that? Careful, li'l fella! Careful with the hopping! Awww! You're so cute!"

To ourselves, once we forgot about the bunny rabbit a second later: "Tits! (We) love tits!"

And here ends another episode of "And Now Back to Things We Say Outloud."

This one's for Katz

Why. Um. What happened to petting? Or the oral? Wrapping before slapping? Using two? Pill? Using two, plus the pill, and then with the pulling out and not so much with the slapping because you're 16? Anything but bare and, um, in.

Anything.

Right?*

*Remind us someday, when it's time for us to have the, um, talk with our kids. Remind us about what we wrote above. We might try that as the speech. Word for ever-loving word.

It's certainly better than hearing, "Sometimes girls want things, so you have to be careful" just minutes after hearing that Magic Johnson has the AIDS.

But what was the problem?

So we ordered the HBO On Demand more than a week ago because we wanted to watch, for like the fifth time, season 4 of The Wire.

So for more than a week, though, The Wire wasn't available -- despite being heavily advertised all month by the HBO.

So (enough sos for ya?) we called the Cablevision last night, and a nice gent named Wilbur helped us out.

He asked us to turn everything off and unplug the system, which we did. He asked us to wait a few minutes, which we did. Then he asked us to plug in, wait three minutes, and turn on the cable box, which we did.

Voila. The On Demand que was miraculously updated!

But wait, Wilbur. What was the problem?

"We did it together," he replied.

OK. Yay, team. But what was the problem?

"Well we handled it together so it's OK. We did it together."

Thoroughly Jedi-mind-tricked, we then *took* the survey on customer service *and* rated Wilbur as high as we could. We guess we didn't want to let down the, um, team?

Tom Burlington said what, now?

Oh poor *35-year-old* Alycia and her fame overtaking her, um, sane.

Who calls the freaking governor, allegedly, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania? Doesn't she know he was too busy rooting for the Eagles?

What. Nothin'? Commonwealth jokes normally kill.

Rest in peace, Mr. Fogelberg

From the AP: Dan Fogelberg, the singer and songwriter whose hits "Leader of the Band" and "Same Old Lang Syne" helped define the soft-rock era, died Sunday at his home in Maine after battling prostate cancer. He was 56.

Singer Dan Fogelberg discovered he had advanced prostate cancer in 2004.

His death was announced Sunday on the singer's Web site.

"Dan left us this morning at 6 a.m. He fought a brave battle with cancer and died peacefully at home in Maine with his wife, Jean, at his side," it read. "His strength, dignity and grace in the face of the daunting challenges of this disease were an inspiration to all who knew him."

Fogelberg discovered he had advanced prostate cancer in 2004. In a statement then, he thanked fans for their support: "It is truly overwhelming and humbling to realize how many lives my music has touched so deeply all these years. ... I thank you from the very depths of my heart."

Fogelberg's music was powerful in its simplicity. He didn't rely on the volume of his voice to convey his emotions; instead, they came through in the soft, tender delivery and his poignant lyrics. Songs like "Same Old Lang Syne" -- in which a man reminisces after meeting an old girlfriend by chance during the holidays -- became classics not only because of his performance, but also for the engaging storyline.

Fogelberg's heyday was in the 1970s and early '80s, when he scored several platinum and multiplatinum records fueled by such hits as "The Power of Gold" and "Leader of the Band," a touching tribute he wrote to his father, a bandleader. Fogelberg put out his first album in 1972.

Holy sh*t to the millionth power. It's the best 90210 episode ever. Finally.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

ohforf*ck'ssake

From the AP: SPRINGFIELD, Mass. - Expect cheers among hardcore online game enthusiasts when they learn Merriam-Webster's Word of the Year. Or, more accurately, expect them to "w00t."

"W00t," a hybrid of letters and numbers used by gamers as an exclamation of happiness or triumph, topped all other terms in the Springfield-based dictionary publisher's online poll for the word that best sums up 2007.

Merriam-Webster's president, John Morse, said "w00t" was an ideal choice because it blends whimsy and new technology.

"It shows a really interesting thing that's going on in language. It's a term that's arrived only because we're now communicating electronically with each other," Morse said.

So what hardcore gamer is going to be able to break away from lancing and creating a better online life so he (let's face it, they're hes) can sprint away from his everyday problems because God doesn't love him enough to actually celebrate the choice of his G33K word?

Just sayin'. Tough love, y'all. That's how we role.

PS: CL1TOR1S!

Does it make us a bad person?

Sunday night: ice cream.

Tuesday night: ice cream.

Last known physical activity: running Saturday morning.

We actually turned down a cookie offer yesterday in the elevator.

"If you can't do it this time of year, when can you?" someone astutely butted-in.

Oh that Tina Fey and our love for her

With her January 2008 Playboy Interview, we remember why we adore Tina Fey so, so much.

"When I was growing up," she says, "to have a good body, you actually had to have a good body. You know what I mean? You had your shape, and whatever your God-given shape was, that was your shape. But now -- and this is what these young Hollywood ladies seem to do -- even if you don't have a great body, you can lose a lot of weight and get superskinny, get a fake tan and fake tits, and you're in the game."

Damn, Hollywood starlets. You just been heidied. Um, we mean, owned.

And then we remembered why we blog

OK. Don't even get us started on the kiosk ladies and the Sir? Sir! Sir? EXCUSE ME SIR! Um. If we don't even acknowledge you breathe our air, than maybe you shouldn't sir us to death, kiosk ladies.

But we digress.

Best moment of an otherwise David Akers field-goal-off-the-uprights day?

"Yes, yes," the Barnes & Noble guy said. "This is the kids' section." We looked down and saw Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Wow. Not so much with the knowing what he was talking about, that guy.

OK. Back to the Tell Me You Love Me marathon.

But we actually got sh*t done, too.

So 24 hours after reupping with the HBO On Demand, this was the list under "Viewed":

Tell Me You Love Me Ep. 5
Jungle Fever
The Wire 27
Sopranos Ep. 5
Six Feet Under 63
Six Feet Under 62
Katie On Demand
The Wire 26
Six Feet Under 61
Six Feet Under 60

But like we said, we actually got other sh*t done. Puzzled, are we, by this.

Rock Bottom? Or Life Evaluation?

So there we were on the couch, maybe drunk, watching Katie Morgan on HBO On Demand teach viewers about this so-called G-spot. And then she taught viewers about this mysterious U-spot, and then we wondered what we were doing on the couch, maybe drunk, watching Katie Morgan do something other than oral.

And then we continued with our Six Feet Under marathon. The last four episodes of the series are almost perfect television, and the lessons about life and death are somewhat astounding. So now we're going for a run, and not so much with the Katie Morgan later.

More with the planning the next phase of our life, which is pretty much a daily chore unless one actually sits down, makes a list, and then breathes. A lot.

Yay for quiet pensive introspective Saturdays!

Meanwhile, back at the work party

Guy in Flannel: MAN! Loosen up!
OMS: (We) are. (We're) good. Good times.
GIF: Man I saw you in that sweater vest and I thought, "HE'S GOT TO LOOSEN UP!"
OMS: (We) are. (We) are. No doubt. Definitely good times. This is good.
GIF: Man you stuck out like a SORE THUMB when you walked in. I knew you needed to loosen up when I saw you, man! This is an 80s theme! You look like you came from work!
OMS: (Thinks to himself) Christ. Again with the loosening up. Does this guy have anything else? (We), um, did come from work. But (we) loosened the tie, so there's that.
GIF: HAH! THAT'S RIGHT YOU DID! GOOD POINT!

Have a holly, jolly Christ-- HOLD UP.

So Rudolph is all hey I'm cute uh oh my nose is kaflooey and Donner is all how the f*ck did this happen, Mrs. Donner, and how the f*ck you been wit bitch and Mrs. Donner is all dunno and Donner is all this can't be and here, put some black on that and people will accept you more and Rudolph is all aiiight let's go do this jump thing and but my node sound like ith duffy and the cute li'l Bambi chick is all hey now that's a fine black nose you have there and good ol' Rudy is all YAAAAYYYYEEEE WATCH ME GET MY JUMP ON and then oh with the coal coming off the nose exposing him for the fraud that he is and oh with Bambi's dad with the whole you can't date that kind thing and Rudolph with the screw you guys I'm goin' home.

But Rudolph can't go home because Donner is a one pissed off raindeer so Rudy is all I'm out hey who's this twinky lookin' fella and the twinky li'l fella is all I'm Hermie I want to be a dentist and Rudy is all hey you sure you don't have the gay and Hermie is all no, why would you say that? and then with the abominable snowman and Yukon Cornelius and blah blah blah land of misfits blah blah blah Hermie's so gay blah blah blah the racial undertones are striking blah blah blah.

And then Rudy with the whole save Christmas thing.

The End.

There's got to be a plausible explanation

So in our dream, we're on stage.

(Surprised? Huh. Didn't think so).

But hah! We're not us. We're actually standing in for Boy George. See, he couldn't make the gig, so Old Man Snap donned the Boy George garb and, yes, opened his set with "I'll Tumble for Ya."

OMS then convinced the stage manager and producer to let him play an original song on the geetar as a "new Boy George single." Since the only Boy George music they had was "I'll Tumble for Ya," OMS also asked the sound guy to go to the local record shop to get Culture Club's Greatest Hits CD and then he rounded up the kids in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles outfits to perform an extended number about pizza.

Sound guy came back with the CD just as the pizza bit ended and, voila, Old Boy George continued with his brilliant impression. With a standing O and calls for an encore, even.

Never fear, readers. We shall analyze herein henceforth to wit:

1. We busted out our Cartman voice last night on the phone with the baby sis.
2. We were thinking about The Rock yesterday, and how he really was a nobody and then he turned the volume up, became The Rock, and then became a movie star.
3. We love our local record store.
4. We do like to play originals on the stage.
5. We have no f*cking clue why with the Boy George. None.
6. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? WTF, indeed.

So to recap, the equation is thus as best we can decipher:

(Impressions) + (Volume on 11) + (Records) + (Audience Adoration) = Um, Boy George

Sh*t.

File this under things you can't really say

See? Supermarkets...

Woman in line at deli counter: I could kill him.
Other woman in line at deli counter: Who?
Woman, still in line at deli counter, not even ordering: That fat shlubby principal. He's awful.
Other woman, equally not ordering and certainly blocking the entire aisle with both her shopping cart and her conspiracy to commit murder: Yeah. He needs to go.
Man: Excuse me. Can I get through here?
OMS: *Sigh*

When Larry Met, Um, Um, Well, Harry?

What. Nothin'?

Look, Larry. Baby. Just embrace it. At this point, it's more than somewhat ridiculous, no? Start a band. You know what the name should be. Make millions. Be happy. Be yourself. Isn't that what life is all about, this being one's self and being happy?

A User Friendly Guide to All Things OMS

Because none of you asked, here is a quick, friendly and helpful User Friendly Guide to All Things Old Man Snap. Why? "I checked it out once, but it was hard to follow," a good friend said last night. "Is that what all blogs are supposed to be?"

Nope. Just this one. Think of it as a window to our quirky, yet brilliantly comedic, brain. Right? Right.

Right, then.

1. We write in the first person plural. Yay for anonymity!

2. Sometimes, we write about running in the rain. Other times, we write about raining in our head. Sometimes, no rain. Sometimes, every once in a great while, sunshine. Sometimes we don't even use verbs.

3. We write weekly Saturday morning Beverly Hills, 90210 recaps. This might be our favorite part of the job. Example? Oh Kelly with the we can't tell Bren, Dylan and what are we doing and Dylan with the yeah, the baby is awesome and Bren with the Dylan how do you know the baby and Dylan with the oh, well I babysat with Kelly once and you know how it is Bren and Bren is all I don't know how it is, Dylan, why don't you tell me and PS I have nothing to share with you about the whole faking the ridiculous French accent thing while going down on Superman in Paris.

4. We often write about our horoscope. This is what's known in the vernacular as "filler."

5. Oh with the fat kid stories.

6. And oh with the ohs. We love the ohs and the sos and the run-on sentences, mainly because we know what run-on sentences are and it's part of the overall subtle commentary of the blog itself.

7. Sometimes we write in riddles even we don't understand.

8. Often, we write with the iTunes on shuffle. Sometimes we kick sweet dance moves while typing. Example? Gorillaz are on right now. We're so doing the the sprinkler.

9. Yes, ACG, we were in a frat once. But hey! Do you call your country a -- well, nevermind. Most days, we deny being in one, let alone running it as an underclassman. Yay for future political aspirations!

10. Every few days or so, we'll post a picture of Scarlett or Lindsay or even Julianne Hough, that hussy from the Dancing with the Stars. Julianne, call us. Or at least please return our MySpace messages. We have sweet dance moves to show you. See 8.

11. Want to hear a funny joke? Always with the deli counter stories. Some of the best bits we have are based on cheese. Um. Huh. Both literally and figuratively.

12. Ew. We hate Pearl Jam's version of Last Kiss. Next.

13. Ah. Mayer with the I Don't Trust Myself with Loving You. Much better.

14. Oh with the issue-laden tidbits.

15. So we sometimes blog about politics, pop culture and breakfast. Oh with the putting the milk in the cupboard and the Honey Nut Cheerios in the fridge and all of these things.

16. Someday, we'll be famous for being the brilliant coffee-filled blogger we are. Until then, we're content with the 90210 recaps and every once in awhile a riff about the Vince McMahon dreams/nightmares.

17. One day, we'll reveal our identity. In the meantime, feel free to friend Rooney Sees Red on the MySpace. Those freaking guys rule.

See? Guide. Keep reading, y'all. It'll only get better. Or something.

They really are a pain in the ass...

So we have these friends, Croc and Bear, who run the Rooney Sees Red Fan Club. They're puppets and really, really excited about this band. Like, way too excited. Like how we get excited about Scarlett? Yeah, multipy that by galaxies upon galaxies.

They're somewhat overbearing (hah!), but, well, you know. You can check them out on the MySpace if you are so inclined.

And now back to things overheard on "vacation"

In the car, Sunday: "(Common). (Fugees). (Loudon Wainwright III). (Peace). (Tranquility)."

In a bar, Monday night: "They have too many blacks there."

In a bar, Sunday night: "What's Old Bay seasonin'?"

In the woods, Monday: "(Rain). (Fog). (More rain. Fog. Etc.)."

In the car, Tuesday: "Jesus f*cking Christ asshole! WHO PULLS OUT IN FRONT OF (US) LIKE THAT?! Use your f*cking head douchebag!"

Ahh. Back to the grind, as they say.

And by "Wabbit," we mean "Buck"

Be back Tuesday with much hilarity about the squirrels and the hard-boiled eggs and the Schlitz and the bright orange fashion statements and all of these things.

Part deux!

So Brenda is all OUI PAREEEEEE OUI and Donna is all I miss home and how is my junk not falling out of this short ass skirt and Brandon is all could my belt be any tighter in this Beach Club uniform and Andrea is all hey deaf kid you're a person, too and hey deaf kid's mom, please understand that I'm not trying to butt in but you're deaf kid with special needs really is special and a person and I'll save him from you and Andrea is also hey! Wait! That's Nate Fisher and he's a *Republican* and I'm a card-carrying liberal but I'll fall for him and his mousse hair anyways and oh Andrea with the always falling for older men and Brandon is all don't go to Houston, Andrea, and Andrea is all no you didn I've been waiting for you for eh eh ehhhhhhver and you haven't been there and -- she actually says this -- what makes you think you're so damn irresistable, Brandon? and Dylan is all, oh, hey Kelly, what's up, and Kelly is all you in about two episodes big boy and Brenda is all Donna stop being a twat and man up and let's do as the French deux.

HAH! Get it? See what we just did there?

So Brandon is all sorry, Andrea, my bad, I'm just jealous because Nate Fisher will have a better career than me and get to bang hotter broads and deaf kid is all what? Andrea's leaving? and Andrea is all nah, I'll stay here and wait for Jesse and Kelly is all clock is ticking, bitches, I'm about to get my Dylan on any second.

Au Revoir, Bren

So Kelly is all BABY BABY BABY mom has a new BABY and I want to spend my whole summer with the BABY and then I'll f*ck Dylan when Brenda leaves for Paris but right now BABY, etc. and Brenda is all DYLAN YOUR HOUSE IS A MESS I HATE MY DAD YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO PICK UP DINNER JUST HOLD ME and hey! Arsenio Hall's on so I'll laugh whenever he's talking ROOF ROOF ROOF YESSSSSSS! and Steve is all Brandon we can switch the twins we're dating and they'll never know and Brandon is all dick, I am a twin and Nat is all -- wait, everyone is ignoring Nat because it's summertime and f*ck the Peach Pit the Beach Club is the dope and Donna is all I don't want to go to Paris alone and Brenda is all why is everyone dumping on me and this is blackmail and wait, I get to go to Paris with Donna for free sh*t eff it,man, I'm in and Kelly is all BABY BABY BABY huh Brenda's in Paris and I kinda always wanted Dylan and I've got a good 15 years before I become the hottest piece of ass on the Dancing with the Stars so eff it Dylan come to MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY and Dylan is all that's right b*tches who wants some of *this*.

"It don't take a whole day to recognize sunshine"

Sometimes we forget how awesomely phenomenal certain songs are. And then we hear them. And then we remember. Yes, this is one of those songs. We were sort of sleeping this morning when it came on the ol' iTunes.

This? A good way to start the day.

Old Man Frat

So darned if we didn't find the ol' Brotherhood Manuel from *way* back in the day.

And oh with the overzelous highlighting, Pledge Boy Bitch.

MEN MUST WANT. Check.

A good vigorous handshake can be the difference between a successful first impression or a week one. Check.

The ideal brother: Accountability. Attitude. Experience. Personality. Punctuality. Sportsmanship. Check.

Our favorite? And yes, we actually highlighted it...

It is never OK to force yourself on a woman, even if:

1. She teases you.
2. Dresses provacatively or leads you on.
3. You've had sex with her before.
4. You've paid for her dinner or given her expensive gifts.
5. You think women enjoy being forced to have sex or want to be persuaded.
6. The woman is under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Memo to our boy JZ: Don't be so freaking hard on yourself all the freaking time

And he was the *King*!

We have another confession to make

Who cries watching MADE on the MTVs? We don't know. It's just that the tomboy worked so hard to take care of her pink egg and become a lady. And then she toasted her big sister and oh our goodness it was just so nice to see someone make something better of themselves.

Why we love the ol' man, reason 902

We'd just finished a ramble about Dr. Weber on the Grey's and how he's come so far because back in the day, he was Brandon Walsh's boss at the Beach Club.

"Who's Brandon Walsh?" the ol' man's ol' man said.

HAH!

File this under things we're thankful for?*

*We think. We can't decide if we so totally dig this or we're just so totally numb to smut these days.

"I don't have a side. Their side is my side."

So if you're Larry King, don't you throw down? We can't decide which is worse, ol' codger Seinfeld pisser-offer or Dr. Save His Ass over there. Again, the word for all this crap is 2007, we believe.

Wednesday morning haiku!

Oh with the yawning
Goodbye days of weeknight beers
Only five last night?

When eavesdropping goes horribly wrong

Guy near bar: Why do you hang your underwear up?
Female companion: (Sh*t. We can't hear her).
GNB: I can understand that.
FC:
GNB: That's fine.
FC:
GNB: I would put it on the countertop.
FC:
GNB: So your sewing skills better be good, huh?
FC:
GNB: I SAID YOUR SEWIN' SKILLS MUST BE GOOD, HUH?

Can we cut the shit now? Seriously?

From the AP: Amadou Cisse had successfully defended his doctoral dissertation in chemistry and was just weeks away from receiving his degree from the University of Chicago.

Those accomplishments were cut short Monday when the 29-year-old graduate student from Senegal was shot to death — less than an hour after a university staff member was shot at while walking nearby and two female students were robbed at gunpoint, police said.

Blah blah blah guns don't kill blah blah blah people kill blah blah blah but enough already, no? Why are we killing our own constantly? Perpetually. Daily. UnGodly. There are good people in the world doing a world of good for good, yet motherfuckers be killing off the human race. We're sick and sad and apathetic and drunk and angry and hopeful and pissed off all at the same time.

We think there's a word for it. We think it's called "2007."

^*^$*&%$@&$*

You know how sometimes humans wake up on a *Tuesday* and think it's Saturday morning, and they can keep sleeping, and they don't have to get up, make coffee, shower, oh with the suit and tie, and go to work?

You know how sometimes that happens?

Sheeeeeeeeeeeit. Tuesday done snuck up on us today.

Something about a triple-double last week

And that don't do it for ya, well, nothin' will. 'Cept this:



We just giggled for like 17 seconds straight. See, because Nate Dogg gets more, well, you get the joke, right?

Hey! That's our boy JZ! Inverted!

Don't ask! The videographer was drunk on the pineapple juice!



And let's ignore the momentary lapse of reason!



Be gentle! He's just getting started!*

*We know. Lots of exclamation points equate to awkward sheepishness and he's still shy but not really and everyone starts somewhere and oh with the sweating but we'll all laugh at this at the CMT Music Awards in 2012!

Fun with Groupies

So our boy JZ reports that he was explicitly hit on by a 47-year-old divorcee through her equally-47-year-old-divorcee friend after a recent gig.

"You should join us at the bar," she arm-touchingly told him.

He immediately panicked and oh with the waving of the arms and the stammering and the lying on the fly.

"Um. Sure. But I need to entertain my friends for a bit and then I'll see," he reportedly said, before absolutely avoiding the bar for the next eight minutes, until they left.

And then he told us he felt bad. Poor fella.

More fun at the supermarket!

Cougars-in-heat Extra: Give me a pound of bologna.
OMS: (Mutters) Please.
CIHE: And give me a pound of provolone.
OMS: (Again with the muttering) Please.
Counter Guy: Pound of what?
CIHE: Provolone.
CG: Is that a cheese?
CIHE: (Looks at OMS, rolls eyes) Yes.
OMS: (Looks away, afraid of turning to stone).

Thank God for the Men's Health

Page 180 in this month's issue, right after a BJ piece on Jim from The Office: The wooly lemur's penis is barbed, like a harpoon.

Ten bucks says we dream we're a wooly lemur.

Oh with the checkout counter goodness

First, she engaged us in a li'l (hah!) dialogue about the Diet Red Bull.

Checkout Counter Girl: Do they taste different than the other ones?
OMS: The regular ones make (us) violent.
CCG: Really? Why they do that?
OMS: Don't know. Issues. But the sugar free ones are pretty good.
CCG: Aiiight. I'll have to try 'em.

Then, the little person who we almost trampled over in the paper towel aisle walked by.

CCG: (Laughs, loudly). Sh*t. I ain't never seen one of them in person. That's funny.

WE WON STATE! Um. Now, what?

So we're not happy with the Friday Night Lights. And we're so over the Grey's.

Now you think about what we just said. Appreciate what we just said.

Seriously? Seriously.

We'll ignore the Grey's for now, mainly because we haven't seen an episode all year and Meredith died but came back and Shondaland sucks and Burke is gaaaaayyyyy and Addie has her own show now on Wednesdays that no one watches but daggum she sure is hawt.

Plus, in the real world, we're too busy hooping on Thursday nights, pretending our knees don't hurt and we can still drain threes after eight minutes -- eight tiring, flat-shot minutes -- on the floor.

But we digress.

Since Season 3 of The Wire took more than two days to get to us from the Netflix, we've been watching Season 1, again, of Friday Night Lights. It's a season of true emotion and power, all wrapped around a small town and its unhealthy obsession with winning State.

But the characters are what do it in Season 1. Tyra is a hell-on-wheels bitch who feels empathy for the people who really need it. Street is the All-American quarterback who loses his legs and deals with the aftermath. Matt Saracen is one of the best underdog characters of all time. Anytime he touches the ball, we're -- yes, we'll admit this -- on the verge of tears. And Lance Landry is, in a word, us. But skinnier and more with the Christian Rock.

And oh with the pretty Layla.

But this year?

Oy. First, Lance Landry, geekbox hero, murders Tyra's rapist from Season 1. In the first episode. And the plot remains. Every. Friday. Night. Tyra looks like a freaking 24-year-old porn star (which we're so OK with) in every episode, yet she's a senior (?) in high school. Saracen is now banging a cheerleader and hooking up with his gram's caregiver, who happens to be Latina and sort of a maid, and Julie is, well, awful-lede aside, hot for teacher.

Ugh with this show, now. Last night, there wasn't even a game.

We realize many of you don't watch the show, and that's OK. But we're telling you: one season of it, the first, was from start to finish some of the more gripping TV you'll see from the networks.

But this year? The phrase JUMP THE SHARK has already jumped the shark, but this show, well, it's freaking Fonzie putting on his *sexy* short shorts.

Sad, are we, about this show.


Happy, are we, about the short shorts. *Who* wears this ridiculousness? *Fonzie* does.

We're not a fan of the jewelry.

A cat necklace? Seriously? Why is the poor li'l ocelot dangling like a trapeeze artist? And the way it dangles down toward her... wait. Hold up. Check that. Turns out we are a fan of the jewelry.

Yes. Yes we are. Very much so, thank you very much.

Nice work, Rachel Bilson. OMS loves him a li'l dirty dirty.

A word about the Date Unknown

Ridiculous? Hells yeah. Are we thinking about submitting? Huh. Maybe but not really*.

*HELLS YEAH (but not really)

Hah! Evidence! See? We told you we hunt!*

*OK. The actor who portrays us in real life "hunts." And by "hunts," we mean "sits in the woods, eating his cheese and crackers, wearing flourescent orange with a Hoss's hat and sometimes taking naps or talking to the squirrels."

Nothing says pathetic like leaving one's phone in the car for like three hours and then going out to get it only to realize that nobody has

called or even freaking texted.

Not that, um, this like happened to like us or, like, anything.

Pffft. As if. Whatevs.

So we're renewing our huntin' license today

And last night, we slowed to a crawl, hazards a-blazin', just to make sure the li'l mommy doe deer made it safely across the pitch black highway. What if the mommy deer has li'l baby deer who haven't even begun to live? Those hypothetical baby deer deserve a chance, damnit. Let them live! Careful mommy deer! Careful! Why aren't you looking both ways? Wait! Cars are coming! Look out! Mommy de-- whew. You made it.

Sheesh. Of all the freaking nerve.

Oh how we love discovering we're the one who doesn't have the *problem*.

Wow. That was fast.

Three posts past 1,000 and *back* to FUN WITH HOROSCOPES!

PISCES:Just because someone is out of sight doesn't mean they're out of your mind. A former coworker may reappear on the scene now, and they offer a missing link between you and several opportunities -- including greater wealth and hotter romance. Keep an eagle eye out for unfamiliar phone numbers or email address, because everything isn't as you assume it to be. Sometimes, relationships or other types of connections are circular -- and come back around to make things complete.

Wait. Who's going to do what now? And we gets cheese and hot b*tches? And we *knew* if we kept playing Eagle Eye Cherry, it would pay off. But why will he be emailing us?

There's only one d, really.

Main Entry: ad·age
Pronunciation: \ˈa-dij\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle French, from Latin adagium, from ad- + -agium (akin to aio I say); akin to Greek ē he said
Date: 1513
: a saying often in metaphorical form that embodies a common observation

So what if we looked that sh*t up. We did write it out first in our li'l notebook: "Adage," we wrote. "Addage." "F*ck." In that order. For the record, our evaporating gut said go with the one d. But y'all know how we feel about the double, well, nevermind.

We're so not retiring.

So we've thought long and hard about this.

OK. We thought about it for a week. We mulled walking away and stopping the goodness. We read two years worth of hilarity, and we wondered, frequently, if we've lost a step. Kids these days have better blogs. They're using the twitters.

They're listening to their muzak on their mobile cellular telephones. They don't have time for random riffs about rain runs and directions and moving to Canadia and "HEY! We were fat!" and all of these things.

But then we thought of you.

You, our loyal three readers, have supported us throughout it all. Yes, through 1,000 posts of pure unadulterated comical goodness. Sure, not so much with the comments, but you've made it worth it. And we thank you for this. (Plus, if we don't blog, we slowly start losing our minds. Daily).

So the Porch and the Parking Lot is not going away anytime soon. We're now back to our regularly scheduled programming. More fun links. New hip layout. A subscriber feed! Use the feedburner, y'all. God will like you more if you do.

So we're here for you!*

* Newbies, see to the right about the exclamation points. You'll get us, eventually.

High, Eagles, High

So this morning's troublesome local story is brought to you by the family Reid.

Oof.

(Yesterday's troublesome non-local story that we didn't post was all about the Hooters waitress who left her 1-year-old in the car while she worked it at work. Awesome, this world we livin' in).

Hey! OMS! What were you for the Halloweens?

Excellent question!

We were a former fat kid hellbent on rediscovering his 28-year-old figure without a beer gut but we still got lapped going up the big hill by a li'l skinny f*ck in a climacontrol shirt even with the Ludacris bumpin'!

Here's the thing

According to the Star-Ledger: Democratic legislative candidates are outspending Republicans by nearly a 3-to-1 margin with the election just a week off, the latest campaign finance reports showed yesterday. With Democrats trying to preserve majorities in both houses, they already have raised $28 million and spent $20 million on the general election. Republicans, who remain hopeful they will win back control of the Senate, have collected $11.4 million and sunk $6.8 million into their campaigns.

Would someone please explain to us, clearly and briefly, why one must raise money to run for office? We just don't get it. Asking for money means favors. Favors mean beholden. Beholden means corruption. Corruption means New Jersey.

Seriously.

Why not drop the whole thing? Wait. What do you say? They need the money so they can mail the fun glossy fliers with lots of smiles and promises and hope to the OLD MAN SNAP FAMILY? Um. Our family consists of a plant, two guitars and much hilarity. We see the fun glossy mailers and we discard the fun glossy mailers.

Politicians are so not the new pink. There's a *whole* generation out there that has no use for any of this and we cannot wait until they figure out how to bring the chaos and havoc. We may even try to lead them.

"... Musical guests, The Bathroom Tappers!"

From the AP and reported in the Daily Record of Morris County, N.J.: Twenty men have been arrested in a sex sting at a Westchester County highway rest stop, including a Catholic priest, a registered sex offender and a local Rotary Club president.

The state police says the monthlong sting was prompted by a complaint from a man who stopped at a rest area off Interstate 684 with his 10-year-old son. Police say men cruise the area looking for sex.

Most of the men have been charged with either loitering or trespass violations or both. One was charged with forcible touching, a misdemeanor. Four were charged with exposing themselves and two with public lewdness.

Um. Blah blah blah room blah blah blah stay at home blah blah embrace it blah blah blah be honest with yourselves blah blah blah isn't that better than ruining your wife or your congregation or your, um, rotary?

And now back to telling our favorite joke.

KNOCK-KNOCK.

Who's there?

NOBODY.

Nobody who?

Speaking of the Fleetwood Mac

We had this whole introspective "If she don't love me now" thing we were about to write, but then we searched for the song and found this Lindsayless travesty and Holy Sh*t what's wrong with both Stevie and Mick's eyes? Wow, kids. Try some water.

Yay for diary entries!

So Old Man Snap is all we're tired and doing laundry on a Friday night and oh with the Friday Night Lights and wow, it really isn't written as tightly as it was last year and the man we should go to bed at 11 on a Friday night and we should read the book of Matthew instead of catching up on the Brazzers so we can sleep well and then oh with the sleeping fantastically and waking up at 7:30 with gentle rainfall and then with the writing songs and the eating soggy Honey Nut Cheerios and the grading papers listening to Dido and the Fleetwood Mac and oh with the wow we drank too much coffee and yay for the city later!

Oh the Hilarity, Part We Don't Even Know

So we know crazy Gas Mask Man.

Yay for newspapers clinging to young audiences!

Statements

So we decided recently maybe not so much with the "FUTURE EX-HUSBAND" tee and more with the "BIG BOSS" coffee cup. Subtle reminders help, y'all. They're so the new pink.

You know, we don't get the whole Halley Be--hold up. Christ f*ck wow. OK. We so totally get the whole Halle Berry thing now.

We're not ashamed. Not in the least. Nope.

So what if we started dancing when it came on the ol' iTunes?

Oh dear. Oh dear.

From radio-online.com: Syndicated Opie & Anthony are out at CBS Radio's WYSP-FM/Philadelphia. The duo had handled mornings on the Rock outlet since replacing David Lee Roth in April, 2006. WYSP dropped "Free FM" and flipped to fulltime Rock in September, and it now plans to play music in AM drive until further notice.

OK. We know when to acknowledge certain things. The boys, for quite some time now, have been neutered by stupid FM radio and its need to censor *everything*. So their content-controlled show just doesn't work anymore on public airwaves.

Problem is, we ended our relationship with XM last April because they suspended our heroes for no good reason. At all.

We've been listening to the ol' (new) iPod all week anyway, because really? Who's anyone to tell us what we can or can't listen to in our car for close to two-and-a-half hours a day?

(Except the shuffle play fairy, who sometimes nails it, other times, not so much with the lost Van Halen gems).

So we're sad for the boys, but more sad for the public. Do folks really realize just how much we are controlled by forces outside our power? This is a problem.

Control. We've been thinking about that word a lot lately.

It wasn't us.

From nj.com this morning:

Police arrested more than two dozen people Saturday -- most for public urination -- when 50,000 attended the annual Far Hills Race Meeting, according to a report in the Courier News.

This was a record year for public-urination arrests at the race, Sgt. Thomas Kozak told the newspaper. He noted that dozens of portable toilets were available at the event.

Ryan Cunningham, 26, of New York, was arrested for urinating on a portable toilet, and charged with public urination, Kozak said.

More than 200 police officers -- including some on horseback -- patrolled the equestrian event at Moorland Farms, which is on Route 202, the report said.

There were a *lot* of portapotties there. A lot. Like, many, many places to relieve one's self. Oy.

(We have to admit, though, urinating *on* one of them is kind of a hoot, no?).

Which makes the Eagles picture below all the more funnylike because it's true, no?

HAH!

Stupid ugs city near home! Wait. What? We know people who live there? And they're pretty, these people? Oh. Our bad.

Marie Osmond makes us uncomfortable

Seriously.

Who faints after bouncing up and down like a cougar on the Red Bull?

Douche chills. We have the douche chills.

But we still couldn't dunk

So in our dream, we're wandering around formerly bucolic Newtown, Pa. and somehow end up at our Gram's house for a party we weren't invited to. And then there we were, doing miraculous things at this party.

We threw a bull's eye from 40 feet away when Uncle Kevin said we couldn't.

We took on the entire family full of grandkids, new and old, on the basketball court in a game of 21. But aha! The rub? We had to play lefthanded and for free throws, we had to stand back by the road -- which makes them not exactly free nor not exactly a throw.

Troublesome launches? We don't know.

Point is we won that game, too, mainly because we really really wanted to.

Our pops always says that. So let the lessons keep coming y'all.

We win because we want to.

Why we don't get our hopes up, reason 875

So the Eagles lost, again, yesterday to the Bears. We refuse to let this news destroy us internally on the inside. Nope. We know that happiness is not a football team. Especially, um, that one.

(Photo of dashed hopes and dreams from the Philadelphia Inquirer).

We got jacked up by a fiesty li'l lass

All we said was, "Nice job commandeering the bathroom" and she was on us like Chuck Liddell.

"WHAT DID YOU F*CKING SAY TO ME?!" she screamed, grabbing us by the collar and pushing us back into the seats on the last train bound for soberupsville.

"Whoa," we replied. "Hold up, girl. We said good job butting in line in the bathroom before. Christ. Calm down."

Good thing we didn't instinctively go all Spike on her Buffy ass. Thankfully, we finished the Season 7 marathon today, while in deep thought about much of the missing parts of yesterday, and wondering why a chick the size of our 4'10" cousin Devon would try to step to us. No need to slay on the train home and what not.

Seriously?

We know, we posted about this already. But are her songs deep and meaningful? This is what we've been thinking this morning. Think she tokes up on some of that real sticky icky and writes about the clouds and sh*t?

And now back to people always ask us, but not really, what band influenced us the most when we were a li'l lad with still-attainable dreams

Ever actually listen to the words? Yeah. We were 7.

Where'd this come from?

OK. We so don't have Duff in the dead pool. Oh our goodness, this Duff.

Quote of the Day

"Why do you always say people hate you?" she said. "It's definitely not true. You should stop saying that."

Let's play "Write the Caption"

"HEY! We have you in the dead pool!"

What. Nothin'?

Career & Finance!

PISCES: Your boss may have been aggravating you for days, but when this person is otherwise occupied or out on a glamorous business trip, you'll feel the vacuum. Look for another leader to keep the machine oiled.

We so can't wait to find a new park spot. Really. Can't. Wait.

WOW. Hold up. Christ. Jesus. WOW.

So now we're happy we work.

Mainly, because at this moment, we're so live blogging a screaming match by the downstairs neighbors. Awesome.

"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" he yelled, teeth-gritted, we assume at his wife. "You took all my fucking money and look at ya, you're DOING IT AGAIN! I FUCKING HATE YOU."

So when is it proper to call the cops?

Oh Snap 2, the Thoughtful Sequel

Oh with the five hours of sleep.

So at the viewing last night, we heard a lot about the word, "grateful."

The person who died was a 43-year-old mother of an 13-month-old boy. She was a pretty amazing woman who meant the world to some pretty amazing people. We maybe had a crush on her back in the day, but this isn't about that.

As we drove our windowless car home last night, we kept thinking about her husband's eulogy, read at the end of the viewing. He'd found some of her journals. The last one was all about being grateful for everything, right on down to bunnies hopping around the yard.

Now. We spend most of our waking days thinking about shooting those bunnies, or making cynically jaded jokes about punting them.

We're not saying we're going to get all born again up in this bitch, but we are saying maybe we shouldn't, for instance, get so mad for no reason when we hear, say, cars beeping at one another 500 feet from our bedroom window at 7:30 in the morning.

And we shouldn't get so mad when a construction truck eases down the road in front of us when we're trying so desperately to get to the job we *love* so much.

And we shouldn't spend so much time focused on how "bad" our lot in life is right now, even when it really isn't.

Last week, we wrote a bunch of random questions about our own place right now. The theme was asking whether our life really is as bad as a laugh track to a God-awful 90s Fox sitcom. Obviously, it's not.

So we have to get a car window repaired today because some asshole stole our iPod. Hey. If that asshole wants to put it on "Shuffle Songs" and listen to Cash into 2Pac into Kathleen Edwards into Yonder into Counting Crows into Otis, then let him.

If someone wants to cut us off on the road, yeah well. What are we gonna do?

If it rains while we run, run faster.

If we're sitting at dinner, post-viewing, and the waiter says they forgot to put in our order, why get violently mad? Why not patiently wait and then make a passive-aggressive joke about making sure they cooked the now-harshly thrown together chicken wrap?

When there are deer on the side of the dark country road on the way home, why not slow down and think about how lucky you are one of them didn't try to play Frogger?

As we wrap up this here blog of 1,000 post goodness over the next few weeks, we'll look back at the last two years of keeping it, and hopefully we'll look more at the anger-diminishing entries rather than focus on a "0" next to comments. Hopefully we'll see growth, or maybe even tighter jokes.

We don't know. Maybe we're just grateful we see something.

Oh, snap

We're so not happy.

So we left work tonight, well, yesterday at this point (look at us all awake and blogging at 1:30 *a.m.*). We left work and, well, SURPRISE!

We got to our car and put our bag in the backseat on the driver's side. We saw shards of glass. We were confused. Then we looked in the front seats.

Glass. Everywhere.

Then we looked on the passenger's side seat.

Look! A rock!

And more glass.

So we walked around to the door and realized some poor soul ducking aunt licking aunt rag piece of shiv* took a cinder block, smashed our passenger side window and took our iPod with 4,141 songs of musical goodness.

Bastard.

So we walked back into work, thought the security guard might actually bat an eye, move or help in someway. "You have to call the local police," he said, not moving, not helping and barely blinking an eye.

So back out to the garage we went. The police dispatcher took our information and promised someone probably wouldn't be able to make it out to file a police report. We decided to clean up (something about going to a viewing and not wanting to be late). Half-hour later, once the car was clean, um, yeah, po-po came-came.

"Why'd you touch everything?" he asked.

"Because your dispatcher said you probably weren't coming," we replied.

He suggested moving the car back into position, complete with putting the cinder block back on the seat. He suggested *recreating* a crime scene.

"So I can take pictures," he said.

"Can't you just do a report?" we asked.

I was on my freezing, merry way in 25 minutes.

We drove for the rest of the night in a windowless paid-off piece of shiv, and some ducking aunt rag aunt licking motherducker is listening to the Buffy soundtrack. Ducking awesome.

*Ever try texting cuss words?

Momma's Boy

Moms, on life: "All you have to do is make yourself be happy. Make yourself delirious and be happy."

Oy.

So ask us. Go 'head and ask us what time we went to bed last night. What's that? Oh. What time did we go to bed last night?

Yeah. 9.

So what time did we wake up? 6:30. So darned if we didn't almost hit 10 hours. AND we didn't even have nightmares about vampires and zombies and what not (something about watching Buffy on the DVDs right before, um, bed).

We so totally have a new fave show

Thank you, the Netflix.

Because of you, we've found mature love. Nevermind the Scarletts and the Clarksons and the Hathaways and even the Izzies.

We love the Weeds, and boy do we love us some Mary Louise Parker.

And then it started really raining.

The fun part is we drove home in the rain, and it seriously looked like it was letting up. We stretched inside just in case, but we really needed to run.

Something about a Burger King Stacker on the road, but we digress.

So we layered up and hit the road, um, running. We made it about 100 feet in when the drops, heavy and moist, started jabbing us. But we pressed on. About a mile in, we were running a monsoon.

This is now the second time since Operation Keep It Off began that we've found ourselves outside, alone, and sprinting through the rain.

It kind of beats staying inside, alone, thinking on the rain, no?

One of the better random punchlines we've heard in quite some time, really.

So we left work in a very pissy mood.

We pulled up to the first light, which is almost always red. We expect this. But this time it was green. We came around the corner and thought about flooring it because it quickly turned yellow, not even remotely orange, and then red.

On the corner was a rather large fella with a bucket. Our windows were down, and we were listening to Kathleen Edwards, but that's beside the point.

"'Cuse me, sir, but does you have any money you can spare for us?" the man asked. "It's for our Christ church."

We looked at each of the four corners where others has gathered with buckets. So we gave him $2 while asking questions.

"Where is the church?" we asked.

"Newark," he said.

"Newark? Kind of far from here, right? What are y'all doin' down here?"

"Are you a teacher?" he asked.

"Sort of," we replied, puzzled as to why he didn't answer our questions.

"Can I haves yo tie?" he asked.

"Sorry, man. This is (our) favorite tie. And whoa, (we) just gave you money for the church."

"You right," he said. "You has a blessed day."

And then we looked in the mirror.

Really? You let the bastards get you down?

Who are you?

Do you know not know the lyrics to the Biggie songs?

Do you know not kick sweet dance moves in the middle of the parking lot, even when the guy in the Jetta is looking?

Do you not run more? Exercise more? Eat better?

Do you not realize just because the people in the office get away with it and cause hell for you, you'll win in the end?

Does it take getting really, really angry for no reason and screaming "WHAT THE FUCK?" out your window and poor innocent saps in front of you to realize you need to chill the eff out?

Do you not sing?

Do you not laugh inside your head all freaking day long?

Do you not love?

Will you not get the girl in the end?

Oh. Wait. You're not lovable? Really?

(OK. Don't let it go to your head).

Do you not deserve happiness?

To smile and mean it?

To tolerate and learn?

Are you not alive?

Who were you when you were 4 years old?

Who are you now?

Have you not danced the Macarena?

Don't you know the real names of all four Spice Girls?

Are you not better than that?

Do you not wish to make a difference?

What are you afraid of?

You've f*cked up, right?

So?

Does the job define you? What about the one you didn't get?

Do you not believe everything happens for a reason?

Look. What are you using to type?

Is life not trials and tribulations and war-torn cliches?

Life is all a bunch of nothing, is it? Really? Is it?

Will you not survive?

Don't you always?

Don't we all?

We are *not* a piece of meat

From a senseless MySpace bulletin. Oh with the freaking MySpace.

P • I • S • C • E • S: The Piece of ass
Caring and kind. Smart. Center of attention. Too Sexy, DAMN IT. Very high SEX appeal. Has the last word. Not someone you want to mess with or double cross. The best to find, hardest to keep. Fun to be around. Freak in the sheets. Extremely weird but in a good way. Super good in bed. Good Sense of Humor!!! Thoughtful. A partner for life. Always gets what he or she wants. Loves to joke. Very popular. Silly, fun and sweet.

We do like to get a li'l freaky-deeky, if you know what we're sayin'. OK. We don't, but whatever.

We have the best freaking friends ever.

Text received, Sunday night: "Eve Lawrence over acts like mad, but I actually see the lure. Uh. No I don't."

Brilliant, this text.

Blah blah blah Winnie Cooper blah blah blah

People often ask us, but not really, what programs we enjoy on the television. First off, anything with Winnie Cooper playing a sex-crazed sorority girl with Joey Potter's roommate is a good answer.

Besides the How I Met Your Mother, though?

We're so trying to cut back. Seriously. Buffy and Six Feet are long gone, but aside from them, we're quite happy with The Wire, Everyday Italian, Friday Night Lights and, well, The Office. We used to be all snobby with the whole "British version kick's American's ass," but, well, Jim and Pam are just too cute.

And yeah, Winnie effing Cooper, y'all.

We're sad for Joe Torre

So as a manager of the New York baseball Yankees, Mr. Torre never didn't make the playoffs.

Yet even though he skippered one of the best season-long fights a baseball club can have, his asshole boss -- who probably shows up late every morning and delegates all day and often says, "I don't know" or "That's not my problem, is it?" -- said he won't be back if the Yankees lost to the Indians.

Well, the Yankees lost to the Indians.

We'd be lying if we said we wished our boss wouldn't give us an ultimatum like this. "Win this series or you can't come to work tomorrow."

"Um, OK boss," we'd say. "We kind of don't manage the Yankees. When you come in three to six hours late tomorrow, we'll be sitting at home, watching the Tru Calling marathon and maybe napping. See ya later."

HAH! Foiled, this boss.

Not so much with the bright

OMS, not flirting, to Express Guy: Man. (We) thought it'd be more crowded today.

Express Guy: Yeah. I thought so, too, because of Columbus Day. Maybe everyone thought the mall would be closed.

Where the f*ck is Pacey?

This is f*cking bullsh*t. No Dawson's Creek on the TBS at 9 a.m.? Seriously? F*CK. It's bad enough we watched the TBS all freaking weekend because of the baseball playoffs (Frank TV? Ew), but now this? No Joey? No Jen? No shenanigans?

DAMNIT.

Real TV vs. Reality TV vs. "Scripted" TV

It should probably be called "Trainwreck TV," but you knew this already.

So this morning, intrigued, we caught the last five minutes of The Hills and of with the drama. We'd talked about this The Hills just last night. A friend mentioned the Glamore Girls, and we were all, "Is it real fake or reality fake?" and he was all, "It's totally fake. You'd love it."

We think we'll ease into this Glamore Girls and start with the wackiness that is The Hills, we said, not knowing, lo and behold, it'd be on this morning.

And oh with the Spencer being mad at Heidi for going to work instead of eating an anniversary feast and oh this LC character and her smooching up on Brody.

And oh with the MTV promo'ing a new show during commercials and making sure viewers understood it was "Scripted TV." Oh how our head is spinning. But that Brody is dreamy.

Oh with the fortune cookies

"A couple of extra bucks will be floating in your direction," it read.

Huh. We can't believe we're about to write this, but not so much with the "extra bucks" and more with the life guidance, oh fortune cookie. We sure would love to read, "Your new job and direction is mere hours away and will bring you great fortune, oh pretty one, and you will meet you some Scarlett some day, promise."

We know. No more Phillies and we're already filling the void with our girl S-Jo and crazy talk of new jobs and direction.

At least we didn't mention the time we wanted cereal for dinner, thus triggering the great fat kid debate of 1991.

So about that happiness...

The bumper stickers, subtle yet not really.

"Jesus Loves."

"Jesus died for you. Will you live for him?"

"Jesus blah blah blah love blah blah heaven."

The light turned green. Apparently Jesus doesn't hit the gas pedal.

"LET'S F*CKING GO JESUS FREAK!" we yelled.

Yeah. We're not proud.

Well, that lasted long, part 2

So we went to bed last night before the bottom of the eighth inning, before the Rockies came back and scored a run (one of two total) to beat the Phillies. We sighed, knowing we'd wake up this morning and read that the Rockies and Diamondbacks are advancing in the playoffs, the Eagles have a bye week, the Phillies are done, and we still have our, um, job.

But then we looked at our arms and legs again, and thought, "Well, look, they move and stuff."

When one finds happiness in only his favorite team, it's time to find more happiness, no?

So less with the Phillies coverage and more with the way the f*ck are we awake at 6:30 on a dark and dreary Sunday morning after we promised ourselves we'd stay in bed and at least *try* to sleep in. Less than 50 posts left, y'all!

Here's to finding true happiness by then!

Well, that lasted long.

We still think the Phillies will go five games.

But they play tomorrow and Sunday in Denver, and, well, the Rockies haven't lost since like 2005.

Yes. These are the first thoughts we have when we wake up too early on a Friday morning and procrastinate with the showering and the shaving and all of these things.

Whoa, hoss. Whoa.

So we rarely have nightmares. Very rarely, as in pretty much never. Not so much with the nightmares, us.

But we woke up at 5 a.m. this morning somewhat panicked and stabbed in the chest. Our precious lungs did the whole fill up with blood thing and we were dying and we were writing notes to loved ones before we would surely black out. Then we were in the basement we don't have, naked, looking for a way to live, this, after spilling vegetables next to the motorcycle we don't have.

Huh. Nightmare.

So we figure this: Marshall and Lilly had an argument Monday night on the How I Met Your Mother about leaving notes to one another in their wills. And then last night, we watched the Smokin' Aces. We also ate more ice cream than we had in *months* and oh with the lactose intolerance.

The combination of that, plus perpetual thoughts of whether we are wasting our life, pretty much daily, had left us hellabefuddled in our dreams.

So now we're all about the living and not spilling veggies next to our sweet hog. We've decided not so much with the How I Met Your Mother and as much as we love Piven, let's not watch movies with bloodshed all over the damn place.

But we're OK, which is what really matters. Lesson learned, nightmare. Lesson learned.

Jinx? What jinx?

Couldn't the fine folks at Sports Illustrated, we don't know, put the *Rockies* on the cover?

Game starts at 3ish, once all the random pomp and circumstance ends. We know. Less with the Phillies and more with the stories about *not* picking up lasses at the bar.

"NONE OF THIS MATTERS!"

PISCES: Take a chance and express what you truly feel today -- especially if you think the people in the room will be surprised by what you have to say. You are in for one heck of a surprise when everyone pretty much agrees with you. The trouble with large groups of people is that it is too easy to fade into the background and not take ownership of your involvement. Once you step out and state what you are working for, everyone will be inspired to do the same.

"This coffee is weak!"

"We can't decide if we have a bigger crush on Katie Heigl or Scarlett!"

"If we hear that daggum Shania Twain ring one more time, we're taking the phone and telling the window to run a curl pattern!"

Huh. Maybe it'll come to us later, this expressing that we truly feel. We'll let you know when we figure it out.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a nanny," she replied.

And suddenly, Katie was that much hotter.

So we went to a local watering hole tonight after senseless job two for a beer and a burger. Yes. Diet. So half-a-burger. Chicken burger, really, so it's healthier. And we had maybe six fries altogether. And the good Ale. Just two. And we only ate half the burger so back off. Christ.

But we digress.

Katie sat immediately to our right. We're so fed up with the sleeping alone thing that we don't even look at Katie, nor do we look at drunk friend, who is swigging wine and vociferously texting.

Eight minutes later, Katie's friend's friend walks in. Dirty blonde hair, HGH biceps, tight t-shirt, tighter jeans, wedding ring. He screams North Jersey married divorcee. She, ringless with Molly Ringwald hair, leaves with him.

Katie is alone.

To her right is a cute guy in glasses. He'd be us, but for the whole OMG he has the smallest hands ever thing. Like, Matt Roloff hands, only not as, well, there's no nice way to put it, so we'll just say he has the smallest skinny hands we've ever seen.

But he's working his game with Katie, who is cuter than we thought. (Note to self: look at the ladies next to you in the bar. See what they look like. At least try to play the game a little).

Katie is a nanny. You knew this. She's also somewhat cute with pretty blue eyes and the ability to swig a half-glass of Pinot quickly when no one is looking -- except us.

So Katie talks to Handy Smurf and his friend, who also has the HGH biceps and the tats everywhere and the weird facial hair but hey! Everyone is from East or West or North Orange so it's all good.

Then everyone started talking about Sirius Satellite Radio and we rolled our eyes and left, iPod snobs that we are.

The End.

Not in a bad enough mood?

BEEP. Yeah, but we're dreaming and sleep- BEEP. Wait. Why is ther- BEEP a BEEPing sound wha- BEEP. Oh. The smoke al- BEEP. But there's no fire nor- BEEP. Oh mother- BEEP. Christ. Do we ha- BEEP the carbon mon- BEEP poisoning? Sh*t. BEEP.

So oh with the climbing a chair half-asleep to "inspect" the situation and to get ourselves killed should the carbon monoxide come creepin' up on us in the next half-hour before we leave for work. And oh with the taking the battery out because it's old, but not so much with the having the new battery.

So if we don't make it, know we love y'all, all three of you who still read. So close to 1,000 posts, too. Damnit. If we do make it, rest assured we've got 50 good posts left before we take our ball and go home to a broken smoke and carbon monoxide detector.

Awesome.

We could watch this all day.

Meanwhile, back in the inner innerness of our inner core, inside our inner head of innernity.

Making up words is cool.

Someone tell us why, oh, why, we woke up with the freaking Dancing Queens in our head?

The only -- ONLY -- correlation we see is yesterday, after watching the Phillies win the NL East (Again with the Phillies? Yes. Check yourself, son, we've been not believing since the Carter home run and we listened to some idiot in pigtails with *huge* glasses and face paint say, "We're goh-in' back next year!" while we sat, slumped in the hallway of our dorm, Meister Brau hidden in our pocket, 14 years ago, knowing that Gregg freaking Jeffries wouldn't be the answer).

RUN ON STREAM OF CONSCIENCE SENTENCE ALERT.

So the only correlation is when we left the supermarket, as we like to call it, we somehow ended up with 101.5 on our FM dial and we kind of cranked Frankie Valli's Theme from Grease" (which we just typed as Greece, but thankfully, we caught it).

But the Dancing Queens?

THEY DID IT!

We're crying. We've been pacing and watching (thanks, Jim) and pacing and crying and shaking and screaming and clapping and pinching and Holy Shit, the Phillies won the National League East today.

Holy Shit.

(AP Photo)

Yeah, but then we put on his T-shirt anyway.

We know. "We're not on board," we keep saying. "We won't watch. They'll lose if we cheer for them. Well YAY! for conflicted Philadelphia diehard pessimistic sports fans and games coming down to the final day of the season!

It's just that...

We don't remember the game, per se, nor do will really remember the last pitch, live. But we do remember picking up a hitchhicker in our ol' man's ol' van as we all drove up and down the main "highway" in Newtown, Pa., honking the horn and screaming, "WE WON! WE'RE THE CHAMPS!"

We also remember believing, when we were 5, that teams we root for can, and will, win. We remember thinking it was OK the Eagles lost to the Raiders in the Super Bowl just months later because, well, the Phillies were still champs.

We remember the Sixers winning in 1983 and lots of cigars and champagne and large black men with moustaches. Moses Malone was our hero.

We remember watching the last game of the 1983 World Series against the Orioles in our living room, alone for some reason. We liked the Orioles uniforms and thought, oh well, at least the Sixers are still champs.

Then something happened.

We remember betting Russell Davis in fourth grade that there was no way in hell the Hoyas would lose to Villanova in the NCAA hoops championship. We lost a dollar. (Which is why, to this day, we have betting issues -- as in, we don't like to bet, not OH MY GOD *TWITCH* WHAT'S THE GODDAMN SPREAD *LINE OF COKE*).

No one's won since. It's our fault, really. See, we bet against the Villanova Wildcats in 1985 and they won. We guarantee if we rooted *for* them, they would have tanked.

In 1993, we remember going to the club, bottle full o' bub and laughing that all the dudes were glued to the TVs while their chicks were on the dance floor. No one wanted to do anything but watch Lenny Dykstra and his merry band o' juicers take it to the Blue Jays.

Then, well, Mitch Williams. We rooted for them. And they lost.

The Eagles made a living destroying the hopes and dreams of the fans in the early 2000s, and even now to this day. Get hyped up. Believe. And then watch your QB vomit in the Super Bowl, in the huddle. We rooted for them, and they lost.

So today, we'll do this the only way we know how. We won't watch or discuss anything Phillies. We'll be happy that we live in a New York market. We might watch the Mets, in hopes our bad karma effs with them and their 18 alternate uniforms. Then we'll check the scores about 12 hours from now, sigh, and get ready to watch the Eagles lose to the Giants.

Then we'll go to bed, crying on the inside. We will not believe. We will not get our hopes up. We will stay logical and emotionally removed.

And we will still, way deep down inside, love everything about our favorite team except Adam Eaton and the old crusty white people who own and operate it.

Just don't tell anybody.

This'll cheer us up.

Our good best friend Emjay has a point. Is Heidi Montag hot? We can't quite put our finger on it, either. We'll just stop there.

And hey! From the random thoughts department: "HAHA! Rutgers lost!" we blurted out about an hour ago. "Haha! Stupid Rutgers."

*Click*

We will never, ever, fully believe that a Philadelphia team will win when it matters. This makes us beyond sad.

The Mets have been absolutely choking the season away the last two weeks. But today, John Maine almost throw a f*cking no-no, and the Mets won huge, 13-0.

We've told anyone who would listen not to talk about the goddamn playoffs, not to start talking sh*t, not to brag or not to jump on board a bandwagon that always, always loses a f*cking wheel when it really, really matters.

Still, even we believed. We changed the effing header to blood red at 4:30 in the morning when we couldn't sleep thinking about this.

The Phillies had a one-game lead this morning when they all woke up. We just turned off the game after Ryan Howard booted a ball in the seventh, and then Carlos Ruiz inexplicably threw a ball into center field with a runner on third. It's 4-0 Nationals right now.

If they come back, we'll eat our words. If they don't, well, the division is tied with one game left. You tell us who has a better chance: Tom Glavine, pitching for the Mets, or Jaime Moyer, pitching for the Phillies.

Someone best grow a set.

As Omar says on The Wire, "Come at the King, you best not miss."

At this oint, we'll talk about anything else.

And yes. 5:15? Yu. Wide the eff awake since 4:13ish. Don't ask.

im 27 and i live in west orange new jersey
i love to text.
dancing is my life!
im a big partyy girl! i love to drinkk and bar hop
im a part-time striper. and when im not doing that i teach

Yeah. This came from:

A) The MySace.
B) Our imagination.
C) A pam company.
D) erhaps all of the above.

More on the last train to Shondaland

From Grey's Writers, which has been a retty nice blog about all the rinciple layers and lots on what was once the best show ever: Shonda's fingers are tired from writing so many eisodes of television, but a blog will be coming henceforth and quite soon...

We loved the Grey's last night. Yes Lexie with the OOR ME and Izzie not so much with the I HAD A HIT MOVIE OVER THE SUMMER CALLED KNOCKED U and more with the random Bambi speeches and George with the ensive and Meredith with the IT'S OVER now ut your enis in me and George and Izzie officially becoming GIZZIE (eople actually call them that) and Christina with the not really aying attention to the news that Burke is dunzo because he hates on the gays.

But it was good clean fun, this Grey's. Not that we watch too many rograms on the TV.