Budweiser, Miller, or Coors
Guys: They don't have kegs at this bar? What kind of low-brow place is this?
Guys buying it for girls: I don't celebrate anniversaries, I don't care about your friends, and as soon as you expect commitment, I will drop you. May as well get used to it.
Girls: Does drinking cheap beer make me look sexy and tomboyish?
Sam Adams, Honey Brown, or Pete's Wicked
Guys: I bet this beer tastes good because it costs more.
Guys buying it for girls: Work study? Hah! That's for suckers. I've got a swanky internship paying me $10 an hour!
Girls: Drinking cheap beer makes me look too tomboyish. Does drinking expensive beer make me look sexy?
Guinness
Guys: I don't intend to get drunk tonight. Thankfully, this beer takes a half hour to finish.
Guys buying it for girls: I don't want you to leave this bar for the next half hour.
Girls: I hope I'm not hung over during rugby tomorrow.
Natural Ice, Old Milwaukee, or Pabst Blue Ribbon
Guys: Hey, can I borrow a dollar?
Guys buying it for girls: If you think that's impressive, you should see the generic brand cereal we'll be eating tomorrow morning.
Girls: Man, that sex change was expensive.
Long Island Iced Tea
Guys: I'm not drunk enough yet to be charming. One of these should do it.
Guys buying it for girls: I don't think this girl is drunk enough yet to think I'm charming. One of these should do it.
Girls: I'm really easy, but I don't want to admit it. None of these guys are charming, but now I can blame it on the alcohol when I sleep with them.
Shot of Tequila
Guys: Hey, is someone stealing my tiny, very expensive red sports car?
Guys buying it for girls: I figure either we'll hook up or you'll pass out on my floor. Maybe a little of both.
Girls: Does anyone know where I put my birth control pills?
Sex on the Beach
Guys: That midori sour was a little weak.
Guys buying it for girls: See, it's got sex in the name. Get it? Like, it's just the name of a drink, but it says "sex". Understand?
Girls: Hey, the color of this drink matches my tube top!
Water
Guys: I better sober up so I don't pass out before I hook up with this girl.
Guys buying it for girls: I better get this girl sobered up so she doesn't pass out before we hook up.
Girls: I better sober up so I don't hook up with the guy who bought me all those drinks.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Eulogy for MySpace
We are gathered here together to mourn the loss of our dear friend and family member, MySpace. MySpace is survived by her beloved husband Tom, and their 143, 286 million children.
It is good to see so many of MySpace's children here today. Goth Girl, Hip Hop Artist, Guy in Sun Glasses and a Popped Collar, Two Girls Making Out, and Guy With No Shirt. Thank you for coming.
I first met MySpace five years ago through a friend. She was great. We listened to music, we read to each other, and we passed the time when I was supposed to be doing actual work.
She helped me catch up with old friends, and meet new, sluttier friends.
Myspace was kind and forgiving, and didn't judge me when I told her I liked Maroon 5.
I thought those days would last forever, like the ads for some dating site where it looks like a webcam of a hot chick checking me out. But she started falling in with the wrong crowd. Before I knew it, all her friends had become pornographers and con-artists, and worse, Rupert Murdoch.
I could barely talk to her without her telling me about Fox's newest buddy cop film or what Lindsay Lohann may or may not have said. Most times I visited, she was blasting terrible music or trying to sell me a giftcard to Victoria's Secret.
After a while I didn't even recognize her - and not just because she was covered in tacky HTML and glittery cursors like some two-dollar whore. Even Tom wasn't really around much anymore.
Let's remember the good times. And I mean really remember, not the way that MySpace would tell you to click "remember me" and then not remember you next time you signed on.
Remember how hilarious it was to see everyone over 30 years old list themselves as 99. Remember getting to interact with not only your favorite celebrity, but with 14 other people pretending to be your favorite celebrity. Remember how entertaining it was to listen to your friend's favorite song EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU LOADED THEIR PAGE.
And remember the lessons she taught us. Remember that just because you have three kids at home doesn't mean you can't show strangers what you look like bent over a couch. Remember that teenage outcasts can pretend to have names like "Illusion of Chaos," while their real name is Sheldon. And remember that every fat girl has at least one picture of herself taken at precisely the right angle.
I'm going to miss you, MySpace. How else will I get girls I don't know to come to shows, and then maybe sleep with me after? I mean, I could just search by zip code. And they were all so mad at their dads.
We're going to miss you, MySpace. But we will be comforted to know that you're in a better place now. With Friendster.
(With help from Mike Trainor)
It is good to see so many of MySpace's children here today. Goth Girl, Hip Hop Artist, Guy in Sun Glasses and a Popped Collar, Two Girls Making Out, and Guy With No Shirt. Thank you for coming.
I first met MySpace five years ago through a friend. She was great. We listened to music, we read to each other, and we passed the time when I was supposed to be doing actual work.
She helped me catch up with old friends, and meet new, sluttier friends.
Myspace was kind and forgiving, and didn't judge me when I told her I liked Maroon 5.
I thought those days would last forever, like the ads for some dating site where it looks like a webcam of a hot chick checking me out. But she started falling in with the wrong crowd. Before I knew it, all her friends had become pornographers and con-artists, and worse, Rupert Murdoch.
I could barely talk to her without her telling me about Fox's newest buddy cop film or what Lindsay Lohann may or may not have said. Most times I visited, she was blasting terrible music or trying to sell me a giftcard to Victoria's Secret.
After a while I didn't even recognize her - and not just because she was covered in tacky HTML and glittery cursors like some two-dollar whore. Even Tom wasn't really around much anymore.
Let's remember the good times. And I mean really remember, not the way that MySpace would tell you to click "remember me" and then not remember you next time you signed on.
Remember how hilarious it was to see everyone over 30 years old list themselves as 99. Remember getting to interact with not only your favorite celebrity, but with 14 other people pretending to be your favorite celebrity. Remember how entertaining it was to listen to your friend's favorite song EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU LOADED THEIR PAGE.
And remember the lessons she taught us. Remember that just because you have three kids at home doesn't mean you can't show strangers what you look like bent over a couch. Remember that teenage outcasts can pretend to have names like "Illusion of Chaos," while their real name is Sheldon. And remember that every fat girl has at least one picture of herself taken at precisely the right angle.
I'm going to miss you, MySpace. How else will I get girls I don't know to come to shows, and then maybe sleep with me after? I mean, I could just search by zip code. And they were all so mad at their dads.
We're going to miss you, MySpace. But we will be comforted to know that you're in a better place now. With Friendster.
(With help from Mike Trainor)
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