Step Brothers Might Be Getting A Sequel So Here Are 4 More Movies That Should Follow

We’re going to the Catalina Fucking Wine Mixer!

Everyone get out your eyeballs, your most expandable pants and all of the alcohol you can fit into the crevices of your body because Step Brothers may be getting a sequel.

ecooqhc

[Insert comment about The Princess Diaries 3 getting a trilogy and me not mentioning it.]

[Insert rebuttal comment about how Anne Hathaway is my nemesis and I don’t like her face.]

Honestly, I was a bit hesitant to hear that one of my top five movies was getting the reboot treatment. If it’s anything like Ghosts of Sequels Past, it’s not going to be good. I mean, the odds are pretty much stacked against them.

Over here in the graveyard of “What The Fuck, Why Did You Ruin This Classic?” we have Anchorman 2, The Hangover 2/3, 22 Jump Street and an atrocity so horrible, I saved my eyeballs the equivalent to the plight of a thousand sandstorms,  Zoolander 2.

This is like becoming a thing now, though, right? Script writers today are basically just those dudes that leave to try and find a better hookup but come back to the bar at 2:30am and will hit on someone until they agree to go home with you (for the right price of about 30 million dollars, six red wines, and a trailer full of ONLY the green M&Ms).

I know, I know, but this one will be different. It’s 2016 and my new year’s resolution was to be positive. Or at least have better posture. I can’t remember, I’m slouching.

In hopes that Hollywood doesn’t totally screw this one up, here’s a list of four other Will Ferrell movies that could use a (good) reboot.

 

ELF

Need to see Buddy take on the country with the sole plot line being saving Mr. Narwhal from captivity. I like whales and I like them to be free. You go, Mr. Narwhal, you go.

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OLD SCHOOL

The only reason my dedication to ribbon dancing was validated was because of the majestic display of athleticism that Frank the Tank displayed in this movie. Plus, I honestly believe Blue was my boy and I need someone to avenge him.

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WEDDING CRASHERS

I feel like they forgot to mention Rule No. 88 – Make thy sequels whenst they are demanded. And someone give him some goddamn meatloaf for Pete’s sake.

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THE OTHER GUYS

I need this more because of Mark Walhberg and his abdominals, but also because Gator needs his Gat. But not immediately because Eva Mendez is a genetically impossible human that sometimes I just feel bad about myself.

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What movies would you like to see get a sequel?

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The Top 5 Reasons I Wash My Hands After Going To The Bathroom

This is going to be a good one, kids!  First of all, I’d like to acknowledge that poop and pee are gross, and I’m not going to talk about them in this post other than when I just mentioned it just now.

Now that that’s over, it may seem as though I’ve gone off my rocker with this one.  And while you are absolutely right, it doesn’t detract from the fact that at the very least, I’m encouraging cleanliness.

So clean! NOT.

So clean! NOT.

And yes, I do wash my hands after the bathroom because it’s necessary and I don’t want my mother to think she raised a vagabond. But that’s not a fun reason. So these are the fun (real) reasons I do it.

5. It’s fun to test out the power of the dryers.

If you see a powerful dryer and you aren’t psyched to wash your hands, you suck at life and don’t have fun.  There is no greater joy than watching your skin spread apart and make fleshy mountains because the dryer air is coming out at such a rapid pace.  Don’t tell me you’ve never put your face under it. You have or you will. End of story.

4. Someone else is doing it. 

You cannot, I repeat, cannot be the person who walks out of the bathroom while someone else is washing their hands without washing yours. You may think you won’t ever see that person again, but low and behold, you’ll be making eye contact all the way down the elevator because he or she followed you out after your hasty, non-clean exit. And there will be judgment. So much judgment.

3.  It takes up more time.

Half the reason I go to the bathroom is to avoid doing work or being where I am supposed to be.  Waiting for a date? Bathroom break.  Bored at work? Bathroom break.  Awkward sex scene while watching a movie with my parents? ABSOLUTELY going to the bathroom.  Washing your hands adds a few more minutes on to that time frame where you can just escape the awk and enjoy the situation.

2.  To reaffirm my hatred for motion-sensored and push-button faucets.

Like, really, what the hell, world? You really think that humans over the age of five can’t be trusted to turn on and off a sink? Why are you deciding how much water I need?  My hands are dry and they lather soap rather aggressivley and I don’t think that your stupid push-button faucet allows enough moisture to really get all the suds off and complete the task. LET ME DO IT MYSELF.

1.  Because I’m scared if I don’t someone will ask to smell my hands after I leave and will know that I didn’t wash them and then I will be forever branded as a nomad or social pariah who doesn’t adhere to any sort of societal norm or personal hygienic regimen. 

This is a very real fear that eats away at me every day.  Whenever I think I can escape the bathroom without washing my hands I think of a scenario where someone immediately comes and smells my palms after leaving and I am found out for how disgusting and gross I am.  That fear outweighs the one of germs and other disgusting things that will happen to me when I didn’t wash them because I was just supposed to do so.


Why do YOU wash your hands after the bathroom?

I Just Realized, I’m Twenty-Five And My Life Is Over.

I think the best and worst moment of my life was when I realized I had turned into my parents.

Not the sixteen year old realization, though, that would be sad. Not that the twenty-five year old realization is that much more profound.

But there’s something about growing up; I mean, actually growing up that really just grows arms and slaps you in the face and lets you know that everything that happened before this moment was just a prelude to you being an internally old human being, destined to live in yoga pants, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends thinking about all those “good days” without responsibility.

At sixteen, if I had realized I turned out to be my parents I would have done everything in my power to regain my youth and just mess shit up for the fun of it.  As a junior in high school, you never, under any circumstances, want to be your parents.

It’s like going to that party and realizing that the girl who was always “the mom” was there, and she was going to make sure you didn’t drink too much beer, fall asleep somewhere inappropriate, or raid too much of that host’s refrigerator, so when the actual parents came home, it just looked like the kid in charge got super hungry one night and binge ate all the deli meats.

The worst part about realizing that I’ve turned into my parents is the fact that I’ve followed the status quo – depending on what you believe in, of course – and have finally graduated from crazy, party, uncontrollable college girl into full blown quasi-housewife, happy and willing to anticipate the needs of my significant other far beyond my own.

And the stark contrast is that I’m borderline, if not over the fence okay about it.

It’s like I turned twenty-five and all the sudden my brain cells and neurons started triggering all this nonsense about me not being the most important person in the world, and that someone else’s needs matter far more than my own.  And holy shit, I haven’t even had a child yet so this post will change in about five years.

I digress.

The best part about turning into my parents is the fact that I am saving a boat load of money.  I mean, like, saving is totally the thing to do right now.  I am hoarding without intervention because no one seems to think I have a problem with the fact that money isn’t confetti and I don’t need to throw it around to prove that I have it.

And hormonally, at my age, some people know putting it in a bank is far more worthwhile than drinking four glasses of wine at some bar called “Taco” that doesn’t even serve mexican food.

Sidenote: Not that I don’t still drink wines at Taco and complain about the fact that they don’t serve Mexican food. I still do that. It’s god damn outrageous and the owners need to be quarantined and condemned to a lifetime of solely eating burritos.

The other great part is that I don’t think I’m hormonally imbalanced, although that is still up for debate, but there is something extremely and unfortunately true about the phases of life.

We all go through these stages, obviously at different paces considering the circumstances, but we all do.  Birth to teen being the nourishment, get what we need to survive stage.  Teen to young adult being the fake it ’til we make it stage. And then here, where I am, the holy shit I’ve made it, I’m an adult, paying my own way through life, figuring out who I am and what I’m going to do for the rest of it stage.

Whatever stage you’re in, you’re going to make it out alive. It might not be on your timeline, it might not be the way you want it, but you’ll make it.

Just look at your parents.  The entire time they were telling you what to do, where to be, what grades to get, and what goals to set, they knew that someday, down the line, whatever you were going through was a phase. Because they went through it too.

And when you take a step back and realize that, on a Friday night, you’d rather be home, pants off, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends and remembering the “good old days,” then you’ll know that you’ve turned into your parents.

Life is funny that way.  Things always seem to come full circle.  The people you distrusted the most and hated being around now become the sole reason for your coming home.  At the end of the day, your parents are fucking awesome.

Because when they had you, they had to wait twenty-five years or more for that moment to come, and think of how goddamn grateful they are that you are just now realizing how much shit they had to put up with in order to get to this place.

And be thankful that you finally turned into your parents.


Have you turned into your parents? If not, are you scared?

Survival of the Fittest.. Or In My Case, Surviving.

They say no man is an island, but what if you were stranded on one?

I went camping this past summer for four days with one of my best friends.  It was my first time being out in the elements, so I didn’t really know what to expect when weather that wasn’t sunny and 72 degrees happened.

Needless to say, I was an emotional wreck and did not handle sleeping in a tent in the rain very well.

We’ve all played the “What Would You Take To A Deserted Island” game.  But after my experience with weather, tents, and bugs, I’ve decided there are more than a few essentials to surviving if I was ever to really be totally stranded.

castaway

so rude.

 

Here are the five things I would ABSOLUTELY bring on my island with me:

1.  A house

You best believe after sleeping in a tent for four days, I will do everything in my power to avoid being exposed.  I’m bringing a goddamn house to my island.  Four walls, a roof, and a bed with a real mattress will make my stay extra cushy.  It’s my island, and I’ll do what I want!

2.  A boyfriend

Either my real boyfriend, or if he won’t agree to it, Charlie Hunnam will do.  Because I need someone to hang out with me and also want to protect me from all the wild animals that will be roaming the lands.  Plus, he won’t ever have an excuse to flake on plans, cause I’ll be the only one he can spend time with (MUAHAHAHAHA).  Just kidding, really, misery just loves company, and two people on an island is better than me alone with my thoughts… that would be scary.

3.  Wine and snacks.

Becuase… nourishment.

4.  Electricity

What is the point of having a house without electricity to power it up?  I’m talking total comfort here.  I want lights, television, and running water.  I’ll bring Thomas Edison back from the dead if I have to, as long as I can see where I’m going when the sun goes down.

5.  Mary Poppins’ Tote Bag

If you were asking yourself after items #1-4 how I was planning on getting all these things to my island, this is the answer.  Shit get’s real small up in Mary P’s bag, and I am going to need to borrow/steal/keep it forever in order to caravan an entire home, a full-grown man, an electricity system, and a lifetime supply of wine onto my desolate vacation.

Honorable Mention: Wilson from Castaway

Just seems like an all around great dude.  And when I’m inevitably fighting with my boyfriend for paying more attention to the wild animals than me, I’ll need someone who won’t sass me back to converse with in confidence.


What would you take with you on a deserted island?

EMERGENCY ALERT: HELP ME WIN A FREE BURRITO

It’s been one year since I went to war with Chipotle, and now I have a chance at redemption.

This is the first Chipotle, ever, in the history of the world. I found it. And I ate there. And it was magic.

This is the first Chipotle, ever, in the history of the world. I found it. And I ate there. And it was magic.

If you don’t remember, or if you don’t care, it was basically the biggest victory of all mankind and I revel in the idea of winning fair and square this year.

Chipotle has given the public another chance to WIN two free burritos this Valentine’s Day by writing haikus and posting it on social media.

I need help winning this for the second time. This will not only be the greatest accomplishment in my twenty-five years of living, I’m pretty sure it will top the day I get married and/or have children.

And god only knows when that’s going to happen because on my first date with my boyfriend, all I talked about was my feud with Chipotle, onion rings, and sweet potato fries.  I think he partially thinks I’m certifiably insane. And no one wants to commit a lifetime to someone who is certifiably insane.

He’s not wrong though.

Whatever.  I don’t just want this to happen.  I need it to happen.

So, here’s what you can do for me.  And really, if you do this for me, let me know what I can do for you.  I’m really good at giving high fives, making cookies from mixes that only require adding water, and eating competitively against people who aren’t competitive eaters. 

Please head over to Twitter and retweet THIS tweet and the person with the most at the end of the day today will win!  I HOPE IT’S ME.

Or if Facebook is your social drug of choice, head over to Chipotle’s wall and ‘like’ THIS post by yours truly.

Thanks for supporting and fueling my inevitable descent into gluttony. 

Ps – I know. My life is sad.  But what else is there to do but ignore the world when there are two free burritos, chips and guac, and the fountain soda of your choice on the line?  NOTHING. NOTHING I SAY.

The Unwritten Rules Of Being In A Relationship

The conditions under which my boyfriend and I moved in together were simple.  Cheaper rent, reduced travel, and ultimately, he would be the human barrier that would save me if anything remotely dangerous happened in the dead of the night.

Around 3:30 am last night, a fire drill went off in the midst of my deepest slumbers.  Unbeknownst to me, the jackasses who live on the floor above us engaged in a little snow storm marijuana toking session, and basically masked the entire top floor with a cloud of smoke.

The roommate looks at me after hearing how obnoxiously loud the fire alarm is and says, “Close the bedroom door.”

To which I replied, “Uhh, no, I think we need to evacuate.”

After frantically throwing on as many blizzard fighting layers of clothing and waiting outside for around twenty minutes, we were allowed back in the building.  But only now have I realized that my roommate was not delivering on one of the main promises made when we decided to cohabitate.  Something remotely dangerous happened in the middle of the night, and he was not being a good human barrier.

(I realize this is all based upon waking up mid-slumber, and under different circumstances, he probably would have had a clearer head.)

Which brings me to my next point.  Along with safety and security, there are certain unwritten rules that boyfriends have to follow.

All gender roles, feminism, sexism, and all that other politically correct mumbo jumbo aside, of course. I see you, strong, independent women who don’t need no man to feel worthy. #Respect

Here are the unwritten rules you need to follow in order to be a successful boyfriend/good human:

Hold my things: When you decide you are going to date a girl, you unofficially sign up to hold all her belongings when she doesn’t want to carry a purse.  Credit card, money, and ID will now go in your wallet and her keys in your pockets, because her outfit is way more important without a bulky bag, and you have like forty-six places to hold things anyways.

Let me wear your stuff: Clothes are always more comfortable when they’re not yours.  Sweatshirts that are four sizes too big definitely seem to fit better, and men’s sweatpants are what dreams are made of.  And hats.  Always hats.

Don’t get mad when I eat your food: I know this is like, totally, illegal in like fifteen countries, and frowned upon everywhere else, but if I want a bite of your food, you need to give it to me.  I know I ordered what I wanted, and you ordered what you wanted, but that’s why we didn’t order the same thing and I’d rather not have FOMO.

Listen to my stories: Everyone in the history of earth knows that women are horrendous story tellers.  But you’re going to have to listen to every single one of them.  The office drama, that kid on the subway, the one about how long the line was at Forever 21 on New Year’s Eve. They’re going to suck, they’re not going to be funny, and they probably won’t make sense.  And I’m sorry I’m not sorry for that.

Give me directions: I think I speak solely for myself with this one, but I’m going to generalize to everyone anyways.  You need to be prepared to tell me where I’m going and give me proper notice of when I’m supposed to turn left, right, etc.  Google maps can steer me wrong, you can’t.

Make good choices under pressure: Like, you know, if there’s a fire drill in the middle of the night.  You should tell me to get my shit together and haul ass down the stairs instead of just ignoring it and trying to fall back asleep.  It’s these life or death situations that make or break a relationship. Mostly because if we burned alive no one would be in the relationship anymore, because we’d both be dead.

Crack my back: What’s the point of having someone double your weight that can lift you up, crack your back, and realign your spine with one strong, upward grab? That’s not a trick question. There’s actually no other point than to have them lift you up, crack your back, and realign your spine with one, strong upward grab.


What are some unwritten rules you can think of?

SkyMall Filed For Bankruptcy And I Have Nothing To Live For Anymore

That was not hyperbole. SkyMall is donezo, which means I may as well renounce my citizenship and become a castaway living off the land and having a volleyball as a best friend.

But, that’s also how I pretty much live my life right now, so I need to up my ante on the dramatic life exits.

Maybe I’ll start a cult or join a Peruvian scooter gang. I just need something to fill the void that’s in the back seat pocket on the plane of life.

A lot of people, myself included, are absolutely devastated about the news of SkyMall closing its mile-high doors.

I like to think of myself as less of a dweller on bad times and more of a solver of problems.  (Please don’t ask anyone close to me if this is true, I’m sure they’ll tell you endless stories about me crying on the bathroom floor when I couldn’t find my hidden stash of oreos at 3am.)  But, in my honest, inflated opinion of myself, I think that I really do my best to solve issues at hand rather than complain about what went wrong.

Which is why I’m going to try and save SkyMall from bankruptcy. If you don’t know why I’m so dead set on saving the mall up high from an eternal grave, please read this, this, and this.

I’m basically their unofficial-spokesperson/stalker/avid seeker of their attention via the twittersphere.  It’s a title that I take extremely seriously, but very lightly, because I do not want to get arrested.

HELP. PLEASE, SEND HELP.

HELP. PLEASE, SEND HELP.

Here are my ideas for how to save SkyMall:

Bake Sale: There has never been anything in the history of the earth that a bake sale couldn’t solve.  School fundraiser? Bake Sale. Diabetes? Bake sale. World Peace? Bake sale.  There’s nothing better to get unsuspecting humans into paying for overpriced baked treats than to slap on a big “HELP ME, I’M POOR” sign in front of your logo.  Cookies win wars. It’s science.

Car Wash: Bonus points for hot women in bikinis. At least they always look like they’re profitable in the movies.  In my experience, it was always the one attractive girl out on the street flagging people down while all the rest of us mediocre-looking wet dogs slaved away in nurse scrubs and fishing boots in the name of charity.  It really sucks not being a Victoria’s Secret model.

Ebooks: Everyone else is doing it.  Why not just digitize your pages and have SkyMall available for tablets all over the world? Seems silly, but I’m also a super genius with a slightly above average IQ that’s not really a genius at all and am probably just stating the obvious answer they already thought of but were too poor to execute.  Sorry for my insensitivity, SkyMall.

Peaceful, Yet Extremely Disruptive Protests: Nothing gets the people up in arms like a good old fashioned disruptive protest. Chain yourself to a barrel, block a highway, ruin the morning commute; do anything, but also do it in the name of SkyMall and everything will be covered in the news, forcing people to care about your cause and contribute their hard earned, taxed dollars that they can’t make because they can’t even arrive to work on time.

Replace Current Airplane Seat Back Pockets With Issues of Unsolvable Crossword Puzzles About Current Events: With only -275% of the population able to complete this exercise, people will be begging for SkyMall to be put back onto planes across the world because frankly, I’d rather stare at a life sized Big Foot I can’t afford than a problem I can’t solve (see above statement where I talk about being a problem solver).

Stockpile/Hoard All Current/Previous Issues: Hold on to them for, like, one hundred years then start bringing them to Antiques Roadshow to appraise and sell them off.  This has a 40% chance of being an effective strategy that can pretty much reinvigorate the industry’s need for an in-flight magazine.  Just a thought. Take it or leave it.

There you have it. If you take all of these seriously and throw them out the window at the same time, it just might be dumb enough to work.  Let’s pool together our resources, crack open infinity bottles of wine and save SkyMall so we can be legends in the skies and get a cement statue for sale for the low price of $4,000. Which is totally acceptable, because we’re all flawless mother truckers.

And all was right in the world.

***

How would YOU save SkyMall?

I’m Using My Skills As An Amatuer Mind Reader To Tell You What Joe Biden Was Thinking During The State of the Union Address Last Night

Remember when you went to the auditorium during elementary school to watch the school band showcase assembly that showed how good a job they did learning how to play Hot Crossed Buns?

But you really didn’t pay attention because you couldn’t take your eyes off that one kid in the back row who clearly didn’t know how to read music and just wanted to play the trumpet to annoy his mother every night?

That’s exactly how I felt about watching Joe Biden during the State of the Union Address.

One word: Electric. 

Like, whether or not Obama has made mistakes during his two terms in office is unclear on my end. But there is one thing that is for sure, it is a win for everyone who doesn’t care or knows nothing about politics for Barry Ohhhh to have Joey Bides as his right hand man, because his facial expressions are so on point, he could lead a group of mimes into heaven.

Does that make sense? Can mimes take a joke? No? Let’s go with it anyways, it’s not like they can voice their opinion. #SeeWhatIDidThere

While some people may be skilled in the art of lip reading, I’m skilled in the art of pretending I can read minds. And that’s exactly what I did with Joe Biden while I wasn’t paying attention to anything the president was saying about the state of our unions or whatever it is he was talking about.

Here’s what Joe Biden was probably thinking about instead of the well-being of our country:

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“I hope no one asks me to answer any questions.”

 “Does this face make me look like I have an underbite?”

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“Crap. My shoes are too tight.”

“No one will see me texting ‘C U L8R BAE’ if I keep my phone under this table. Wait… Did someone just see me?”

4FL5WPP

 “Yeah, I told him to say that.”

“Oh, you heard that fart?”

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“I hope there’s mac and cheese for dinner.”

“I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts, deedeeleedee…”anigif_original-grid-image-5900-1391003689-9

“Wait, are we not voting at this thing? I should put away my ballot.”

“Not a good time to take out my VP brochure. Noted.”
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“Oh shit, should I be taking notes?”

“Clipboards make me look important.”

BIDEN_STANDS_BOEHNER_SITS“Good job, good effort. Good job, good effort.”

“I’m going to stand up so he knows that I was listening the whole time. But, I wasn’t.”

 ***

What did you think of the State of the Union address?  Did you watch? How ridiculous is Joe Biden?

http://weheartit.com/entry/158258235/via/Baka_Onii_chan_ga_suki

Things You Say To Your Significant Other That Make You Realize You’re Way Too Comfortable

http://weheartit.com/entry/158258235/via/Baka_Onii_chan_ga_suki

Amen.

I think the best part about dating someone is the moment you realize you’re totally comfortable in front of them.

Or when your only job on your day off is to make a pizza before he comes home from a long day at work, but you burn it within minutes of him walking through the door because you’re trying to defend yourself from an online bullying episode, but it’s okay because he loves you, yet is still really mad at you, and will huff and puff his way over to CVS to buy a new one to make himself.

Seriously, don’t underestimate the importance of a pizza after a long day of work, especially for the male species.  Cheese, sauce, bread, and the occasional topping is a diabolical combination that can pretty much cure anything from a bad day at work to civil unrest.

Anyways, the point of this is, you reach a time in your relationship where you become really comfortable with the other person; like, really, really, comfortable. This is so good. But this is also where the lines between appropriate and completely outrageous when taken out of context are also very, very blurry.

I have realized that I am  now in that very blurry, shadowy, gray area in my relationship where I don’t know if I should be concerned about the nature of my conversations, or if I just embrace it and fully accept that I’m so weird and another person has chosen to keep me around regardless.

I have also realized that I’m not that weird, because some of my friends have also confirmed that they’re too comfortable in their relationships, which is evident because of some of the things that they’ve revealed to me, in confidence, that they say within the privacy of their own homes.

But privacy is stupid and completely overrated; plus, it’s 2015 and everyone knows everyone’s business, so I’m going to post them on the internet.

Here are some things you might say that make you realize you’re way too comfortable with your significant other. If it sounds normal, it’s probably not.

“We can’t do that tonight, I have plans with my other girlfriend.”

(Note: If he really does have another girlfriend, you should probably be concerned he’s so open about it.)

“BOOBS.”

“Can I pluck that hair? Please.”

“Your mustache is coming in nicely.”

“Why is your face like that?”

“That shirt makes you look like you work at a barber shop. Can you cut my hair?”

“My favorite time to hang out with you is in the morning when you’re asleep and don’t speak.”

“It’s funny to see how your boobs handle gravity.”

“Do you own anything other than a red bathrobe?”

“You look like a waitress from Outback.”

“BUTTCHEEKS.”

“When was the last time you shaved?”

“Are you wearing your fat pants?”

“Okay, I’m going to fart in the closet.”

“I can grow more facial hair than you.”

“What inspired you to buy that shirt?”

“Your boobs are uneven.”

“You have beefy arms.”

“Why are your pants up so high?”

“Did you poop today?”

“We can’t have sex, you smell so bad.”

“Your breath smells like someone died inside of your mouth.”

“Don’t have coffee, you’re going to poopoo all over the house.”

“NIPPLES.”


Do you and your significant other get a little too weird? Let me know what you say in the comments!

An Open Letter to Rose Dawson

I have a bone to pick with you, Rose Dawson.

You swore you would never let go.  But you did.  You did let go.  And you let him die.

Listen, I’m sensitive to the cold.  I get it.  It was winter when the Titanic sunk.  The water at the time probably wasn’t conducive to an eternal death grip.

But, you should have saved his life.  He saved yours.  Multiple times, actually.

Yeah, remember that time you were impulsively hanging off the back of the ship, wallowing in self-pity, whining, “Oh my gahhh, my life is so hard, first class living is such a bore.  I hate nice things and being able to afford food and saphire necklaces.  I’m just going to end it now rather than spend the rest of my life living comfortably.”

When, at that moment you were contemplating your own death, the most handsome, third-class face on the planet waltzed up to you and convinced you to second guess your decision.

Remember this?!?!

 

Then after you decided you were actually being a little overdramatic about spontaneously offing yourself before really going through the pros and cons of it all, you slipped, and that gorgeous face saved your life AGAIN. With his hands.  His artistic, beautiful hands pulled your limp body up and over a three tier railing to safety.

REALLY. I MEAN, COME ON.

This was the same boy who showed you how to spit like a man and dance with the commoners.  He taught you that there was more to life than just being told what to do.  He gave you the confidence you needed to stand up to your family.  He made you realize that actually talking through your issues with people is a much better alternative to a poorly thought out, dramatic death.

I mean, for Pete’s sake, he even simulated flight without any sort of CGI effects. Just a ship and some wind was all he needed.  He was a goddamn magician.  And you let him die.

I think I speak for the masses here when I say that I wish you were more careful.  I wish you were more responsible.  I wish you weren’t so selfish.

You don’t let this face freeze. You just don’t.

See, if you had all those qualities I so generously listed above, you would have realized that that face is a one-in-a-million face.  You do not let faces like that pass you by.  Especially faces like that who have genuine hearts and are willing to save crazy teenage women from poor life-ending choices.

But you, Rose Dawson, you did let that face pass you by.  You let it pass you and sink right down into the bottom of the Atlantic.

This is where those qualities would have been beneficial to you and the boy whom you loved so much.  All you had to do was share.

At the very least, give the kid your life jacket.  It’s bad enough you’re starfishing on a double door, but you also have a PFD?  Like, share the wealth you hoarder.  No wonder Cal didn’t like you, you probably took up the entire bed, leaving him only with a smidgen of mattress and a corner of the covers.

If you love someone, you will save them from hypothermia.  That’s how it works.  It’s in the wedding vows. You know, “I, Rose, take you, Jack, to be waffley wedded husband, till death and/or sinking ship induced hypothermia do us part,” if you don’t know about that part, you probably weren’t a good listener in school either.  Which honestly, wouldn’t be surprising.

Bitch.

Not only were you a bystander in Jack Dawson’s death, but only after he sunk to the bottom of the ocean like the icicle brick he was did you go voluntarily get into the water to blow another man’s whistle to indicate you’d like to be rescued.

Riddle me this, Rose.  Why didn’t you get into the water, have Jack lay on the door for a while, and blow the whistle to save you both?  Really?  Do I have to think of everything around here?

A person as self-absorbed as yourself does not deserve someone as dignified and selfless as Jack Dawson.  I hope when you think of art, you remember his perfectly crafted features. I hope when you see a door, you’re reminded of the fact that it was big enough for two.  And when you put your children in swimming lessons, know that a life jacket could have saved him.

I hope you’re happy.

Sincerely,

Everyone Who Watched Titanic And Was In Love With Leonardo DiCaprio

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