Holiday Movie Drinking Game: A Christmas Story

Whoever the genius at TBS was that came up with "24 Hours of A Christmas Story" better get a massive bonus every December. It is one of my favorite Christmas movies, if not one of my top ten movies of all time, and the fact that I can watch Ralphie whale on Scut Farkus as many times as I want is a true Christmas miracle.

If your holiday is anything like mine, the A Christmas Story drinking game will be a life saver, as sometimes you really do need to be wasted for an entire day. For Jesus.

• Ralphie asks for an "official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle" - Drink!
• Someone curses, or yells out jibberish that's meant to be an extreme profanity rant - Drink 2!
• An adult in costume is legitimately frightening - Drink!
• "Bumpuses!" - Drink 2!
• Scut Farkus "haw haw haw!"'s - Drink!

• You think Ralphie's mom might be on a cocktail of painkillers - Drink 3!
• Randy whines and/or cries - Drink!
• Someone's nose bleeds - Drink 2!
• Ralphie has one of his fantasties - Drink!
• Someone says, "You'll shoot your eye out!" - Drink 2!
• The furnace acts up - Drink 2!
• Randy refuses to eat - Drink 2!

• Ralphie breaks his glasses - Drink 2!
• "Hey, that's mine!" - Drink!
• The Old Man makes a thinly-veiled sarcastic comment - Drink!
• "Oh my God I shot my eye out!" - CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!

 

 

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Holiday Movie Drinking Game: It's A Wonderful Life

My dog Clarence is named after the guardian angel in It's A Wonderful Life, so clearly this movie is a pretty important part of my holiday season.

Bapie!

My family would always watch it on Christmas night when we probably should've been at church or something, until one year we realized that at least half the room was asleep at any given time. So, the tradition was dropped. Maybe if we had added alcohol into the mix it would've stuck around a little longer, or (if nothing else) the pass-outs would've been understandable.  

• Someone adds "See?" at the end of their sentence, in true 1940s fashion - Drink!
• A bell rings - Drink! Side Note: This happens roughly 40 times throughout the movie. You're fucking welcome.
• One character physically assaults another - Drink 2!
• "Buffalo Gals" plays/is sung - Drink 2!
• People fall in water - Drink!
• George cries - Drink!
• Harry Bailey is hot. Like, really really hot - Drink!
• Someone says a wonderfully retro phrase like "holy mackerel" or "doggone it" or "what the sam hill" and you wish people still said those things - Drink 3!
• George says something awkward and borderline creepy in an effort to flirt with Mary - Drink!
• A prayer is said - Drink!
• Sam "hee haw"s - Drink 2!
• Someone mentions George's sore ear - Drink 2!
• Violet is a slut - Drink 3!
• George has more friends than you - CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!

 

 

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Holiday Movie Drinking Game: The Santa Clause

I'm not ashamed to admit that The Santa Clause kept me believing in Santa for about a year and a half longer than I rightfully should have. There was too much believability to it, minus the painfully obvious fact that Bernard the Elf was Jewish (wrong holiday, bro). In my letters to Santa, I begged him to wake me up so we could chill out in his sleigh, talk about life, and see what he could do about making the My Size Barbie a few inches shorter (it was speculated that I might be half midget throughout the better part of elementary school and she was too tall for me). Memories!

What better way to relive the happier parts of the holiday season of yore than to pour yourself a rum and eggnog (light on the eggnog) and realize that there was some severe sexual tension going on between Scott Calvin and Judy the Elf.

• Charlie pouts and whines and is just fucking annoying in general - Drink!
• Side note: We could stop the game here and you would be sufficiently wasted after about 10 minutes.
• Someone refers to the idea that "seeing is believing" - Drink!
• "Claus" and "Clause" are used as homophones, leading some of us to still use them interchangeably/incorrectly to this day - Drink 3!
• Bernard kvetches - Drink 2!
• Scott asks, "What if I fall off the roof?" - Drink 2!
• A sexual innuendo is made - Drink! I see you, Disney.
• A drug/alcohol reference is made - Drink! I see you, Disney.
• Scott makes fun of Neil for being a douchebag - Drink!
• A reference to "Home Improvement" and/or Tim the Toolman Taylor is made - Drink 2!
• A kid in the real world has elf ears - Drink!
• Comet the Reindeer is sassy - Drink!
• Charlie's mom exasperatedly says, "Scott!" but you can tell she's still into it - Drink 2!
• E.L.F.S. Leader drops a badass one-liner - Drink 2!
• You want to remove the memory that they made two sequels after this, neither of which will ever live up to the original masterpiece - CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG!

But Daaaddd, I need to complain about everything to distract from my unfortunate bowl cut!

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What My Grandma Thinks of Your Thanksgiving Outfit

Last Thanksgiving I had a very enlightening conversation with my cousin about who my grandma's "favorite" grandchild was. I thought I had it in the bag since my brothers and other cousins have all committed some kind of heinous act (tattoos, blue hair, living in sin, general sassiness, etc.) to get them written out of the will, while yours truly is an angel whom she adores through and through.

Apparently, I was wrong.

My cousin matter-of-factly informed me that my grandma was NOT my biggest fan because I wear "booty shorts." It should be noted that she lives at the beach and we primarily visit during the summer, so shorts are the obvious choice, and to be quite frank the woman should be thankful I'm wearing pants at all. But it disturbed me nonetheless.

You see, I could read between the lines: In Grandma language, "Skylar wears booty shorts" roughly translates to "My granddaughter is a massive whore." Completely false! Size medium shorts may be the acceptable length but they're too big in the waist! It's the issue that has and will plague me for life! Grandma, understand!

Needless to say, I am not a massive whore, and I also now stick to a strict below-the-knee, above-the-collar-bone wardrobe mentality when around my grandma. I recommend you do the same, unless you'd like to be bombarded by passive aggression and comments like, "Well would you look at that" and, "Oh."

Here's what you can expect to hear should you wear one of these outfits to Thanksgiving dinner with my grandmother:

"Are those pants your mother's?"
"No, they're mine."

"Your mom had some like that in the seventies."

"Oh rea-"

"I didn't like them at all."

"...Great..."

"You look so nice! You look just like your grandpa!"

*Ten minutes of uncomfortable crying*
(Repeat every hour on the hour)

"Are you going to change before dinner?"

"Nah, it's just our family so I thought I'd be comfy."

"Mmhmm..................................Have you found a job yet?"

 

"You know, Betty Crawford's granddaughter is about your age and she works as a marketing analyst in Chicago! You live in a city too! So much in common."

 

 

"Are you cold?"

"No."

"Are you wearing a scarf because you're cold?"

"No..."

"It's ALWAYS SO COLD in this house!"

 

 

"So...is your special friend coming to dinner?"

"I'm single."

"But, you know, your special friend...?"

"Grandma I'm not seeing anyone right now."

"All of your fancy, special friends..."

"Are you asking if I'm gay?"
"WHAT NO WHAT I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT WHAT." 

 

 

"Hm."

 

 

 

--Happy Thanksgiving!

 

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Justin Bobby

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

I was walking to the bus stop one day when a guy approached me and struck up a conversation. He seemed very indie and mysterious, so of course I immediately dubbed him Justin Bobby a la The Hills.

Justin Bobby got my number and asked me to meet him after class for dinner two days later. I told him I was a vegetarian (lie) but he took me to a Mexican restaurant that had little-to-no vegetarian options. Thanksss...

He proceeded to tell me that he strongly believes in reincarnation and that people had "past lives." He believed that he was a lonesome cowboy in the past life, possibly like Jesse James. He thought I was a quilt maker. When I commented that my past life sucked, he went into detail explaining how cowboys needed quilts for under their saddles, and he was certain he and I had met before. Apparently, I had made him a quilt for his saddle and I was essentially meant to help him in this life.

Needless to say that date was cut short and his number was deleted ASAP.

--Crafty Audrina Patridge

Love and Order CVU: Creeper Victim's Unit - Pug Luvr

After the story of my embarrassing life hit the internet, I was inundated with texts and Facebook messages from other girls who had experienced similarly catastrophic dates. In the interest of group commiseration, I decided to create a series that would tell other girls that they're not alone, and tell weird guys that maybe they should pump the brakes a smidge. If you have a story that you would like shared, feel free to send it my way!

In the Serial Dating System, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups: the bros who do creepy shit and the ladies who have to text their friends, "SAVE MEEE." These are their stories.

 

After my boyfriend and I broke up from our approximately four-and-a-half-year relationship, I went on a blind date with a guy who was 26. I figured older, more mature, distraction, all good. Let me just say THANK GOD we went out for drinks because if I wasn't drunk I don't know what I would have done.

 

So he's starts out seemingly normal, everything is going well. Then he proceeds to tell me that he's never had a girlfriend--not even middle school, hand holding, not-a-real-relationship relationship--so I figured I'd switch the subject and randomly talk about how I really want a husky. He tells me he hates big dogs (he's 6'4...) but he is obsessed with pugs--not because he thinks that they're so ugly they're cute, but because he thinks they are the most beautiful creatures in the world. He even has an "I love pugs" t-shirt that he frequently wears out to bars (amazing that he's never found the right girl, right?).

 

For whatever reason, I agreed to a second date, figuring I could just take shots beforehand. He took me to P.F. Changs, and all of a sudden he started asking me personal sex questions like, "What's your favorite position?" and, "Oh you were a gymnast? I bet you're real flexible!" "Do you like it dirty?!"

 

Needless to say the ride home was extremely awkward. And I proceeded to immediately defriend him on Facebook.

 

--Balto Babe





Female Body Inspector? FBI! You're Hysterical: Male Halloween Costumes, Explained

I love me a clever Halloween costume. As evidenced by last year’s “sexy” costume post, I’m all for creativity, but you really do walk a fine line between looking hot and being the butt of everyone’s joke the whole night (Sexy Bacon? You’re making breakfast time taste like lap dances and a father’s tears).

 

For the guys, it’s really not about looking hot as it is being “funny,” a term we will use very loosely throughout this entire post. “Look ladies, I’m wearing my personality! Could it be any easier to find someone else to talk to tonight?” How many costumes can they really make that either suggest that the wearer has a ginormous Krull the Warrior King or force hoes to shove their boobs in his face, and what exactly does the costume say about the guy as a whole? Let’s find out:

 

Wholesome Disney Character Costume – You either have kids, or are in the complete opposite direction and have never been laid. Ever. More than likely you are wearing this to a neighborhood costume party where your wife is a big puffy version of Buzz Lightyear (because who does she have to impress anymore?), but should you find yourself at a bar at 1 a.m., you will definitely only be taking one and a half Gummi Bear shots and drunkenly telling a Sexy Ninja Turtle, “But I like, respect you, you know what I mean?” right before you go home alone.

 

Rub Me Genie – Get it? It’s like asking for a hand job. Because at 26 years old that’s exactly what you should be going for. Your friends really don’t like you or else they would have talked you out of this horrendous get-up. Rub your own lamp, weirdo.

 

Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man – You’re a heavy drinker (read: alcoholic) and a man with a plan; I admire you. You’re aware of the fact that you will be getting unbelievably trashed tonight, so when you’re swaying around and falling into people, you know they can’t get mad because you’re just staying in character. This is genius. Carry on. Also, Family Guy references are always crowd pleasers, it’s just a fact of life.

 

Weed – Nothing says, “I’m unemployed!” like a marijuana leaf costume. You’ve also just placed a big target on your back because if a group of guys come stumbling out of a bar, who do you think the cops are going to zero in on first? You guessed it: the bro who looks like he dropped $75 on a ticket to The String Cheese Incident concert.

 

The Joker – It’s been done. You’re either lazy, completely oblivious to any advances in pop culture, or a Bar Dad. To be fair, it’s most likely all three. Seriously though, there’s even been another Batman movie to come out since this one, you really need to get with the times.

 

Charlie Sheen – Can’t wait to hear you yell out, “Winning!” all night with your buddy The Joker. Go home.

 

Robin Thicke – You, sir, are doing it right. Culturally relevant in every possible way, this costume could either be a happy accident or the ploy of an extremely strategic young man. Women will flock to you for one of several reasons: 1) Every Woo Girl in the place will assemble when the DJ plays “Blurred Lines” for the umpteenth time. “OMIGAHH I LOVE THIS SONGGGG YOU SING IT SO GOOD!” 2) You have un/intentionally invited multiple ladies to twerk all up on ya throughout the course of the night. If you play this correctly, you can start a twerking contest in which five skinny white girls will drunkenly grind on your junk trying to outdo each other, and one black girl will step in to show them how it’s really done. Major, major kudos.  

 

Zombie Hotdog – Goddammit, is nothing sacred anymore?!

 

Banana – Have you been anything new for the past seven years? Be honest. Whatever, you don’t even really like Halloween and will still pull based on this blatantly obvious nonchalance. You can also revel in the fact that Sexy Big Bird will definitely text her friend Sexy Cinderella in the morning, “omg i think i got gang banged by a fruit basket last night, can u come get me?”

 

Zero Fucks Given T-shirt – Can you just go in a corner and watch Portlandia on your phone the rest of the night? Like, please? Your rose gold oxfords and grandpa cardigan are really putting a damper on everything. No, I don’t think the DJ knows any Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

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The Worst Date I Have Ever Been On

Let’s call him Not John.

We had met a few weeks before at the winery I occasionally work at on the weekends. He was very smart, super cute and actually appreciated my vulgar sense of humor; such a trifecta is not easy to find, believe me. I had agreed to go out with him one time before on an excursion that led to Annapolis, MD and a photo on his Instagram with a caption reading “My baby ;)”. This is why I can’t have nice things.

Despite that photo and several warning signs that I was too lazy to pay attention to, I consented to a second date. I’d set Not John straight this time: we’d take it easy, see what happened, nothing serious. This would work! Only girls are the psycho ones, right?

I was meeting him at a park by the Potomac River right after work at 7 p.m. It was May, aka spring dresses were in full swing, and although my typical date outfit includes heels of some kind (so I stand a small chance of making eye contact with a person), I opted for flats since we would be in nature.  I pulled in right at 7 and sat for a minute to let Rihanna finish belting out Rude Boy. At 7:10 I gave him a call, and he said he was “so sorry, on my way, just picking up food, be right there.”

Food had been mentioned so I was totally fine with it. This gave Rihanna and I more time together to collaborate on Umbrella, S&M, and Love the Way You Lie (of which I also rapped Eminem’s part. Renaissance woman over here). I had been so taken with this personal concert that I was shocked when I checked the clock. 7:40. What the actual fuck. Where was he?

I’m not typically a serial caller, but Not John was forty minutes late, I was hungry, and since the long days of summer hadn’t quite kicked in yet, it was starting to get a little dark. “Haha (what’s so funny?), I just had to shower real quick (well I appreciate that), I’ll be right there (déjà vu).”

If I was a bigger bitch, I would’ve said, “Don’t even bother” and driven home to a trusty plate of Bagel Bites, but unfortunately I don’t have that particular bone in my body so I overenthusiastically said, “Okay!” and awkwardly sat until he pulled in a few minutes later.

He immediately won back a few points by telling me how pretty I looked and showing me the bags of food.

“We just need to walk a little to these picnic tables right by the water,” he said.

For once, flats were the right decision. We walked with our bags of yummy and chatted and he laughed at my jokes and everything was just peachy. However, as I said before, it was technically still Spring, where the sun goes down at an understandable 8 p.m., and we were on a path in the woods with no lights. We had already been walking for a little over ten minutes, so I casually asked, “So where are these picnic tables?”

“Just a little bit longer,” Not John said.

Chatting continued, fighting off gnats began, and weird nature sounds became louder. Fifteen more minutes went by, and I had a mental flash of my story being used on an episode of CSI.
“He lured her into the woods saying they were going on a ‘date’. He shot her in the head.”
“I guess it’s true. Love… *takes sunglasses off*…hurts.”

“We’ve gotta be getting close, huh?”

“Uhh yeah I think it’s right around the corner.”

Stop. Just fucking stop. “Think”? You “think”? I followed you into the jungle on a guess? Thank god we weren’t paddling on the river or else we would definitely be recreating OpenWater.

In an uncharacteristic twist of fate, I managed not to flip out and calmly suggested that if the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner we should probably turn around. Not only was I totally over it, but it was now officially dark and the rabid toads were on the prowl.

Shock of the century: the picnic tables weren’t around the next corner. We turned around, using the glow of his phone as a flashlight and my heightened survival instincts to lead us back as quickly as possible. Again, my lack of dramatic bitchiness did not allow me to bring up the fact that this was a poorly executed excuse for romance and instead, I just talked about anything else that came to mind. We covered my love for The Wedding Singer, when I got my tooth knocked out in a soccer game in sixth grade, and my disdain for Taylor Swift when he suddenly chuckles and says, “I’m so glad we’re at the point in our relationship where we can just laugh about things like this.”

Let me reiterate for anyone that’s been scanning this post for the part where we hook up in the woods (P.S. sorry to disappoint): this was our second date. Relationships take several more dates and conversations and actual feelings before they can come to fruition, and we could not have been farther from that point.   

I was shocked into silence. For the first time in my entire life I literally didn’t know what to say. I might’ve blacked out for a while because I really don’t recall the rest of the walk back to civilization, but finally we made it back to the parking lot.

“We can eat in my car,” he said.

“Exactly what I wanted to do!” I accidentally yelled, a side effect of regaining consciousness and a potential indicator of PTSD.

We ate in silence. He might have told a story or two, I’m really not sure as my sole focus was on escaping the confines of his godforsaken Acura and the night as a whole. I was forced out of my “Mmhmm”’s and nods when he says, “So I have a surprise for you.”

I swear to you I was fully prepared for an engagement ring to be pulled out at that exact moment, and my stomach fell directly to my toes in terror.

“What’s that?” I asked, wondering if the plastic knife I was using would properly sever my left hand off and if that would be an appropriate “no” to his proposal.

“I got us tickets for The Great Gatsby in Frederick at 10:20!”

Crisis somewhat averted, but a new issue emerged. From where we sat at that moment, Frederick was at least another 25-30 minutes away. Gatsby was almost two and a half hours long. My patience had already worn thinner than Nicole Richie circa 2006. I just couldn’t do it.

“Ya knowww…” I began, my go-to conversation starter phrase when I don’t feel like doing something, “…I have to work really early tomorrow, and I was going to try to get some stuff done beforehand so I’d be waking up even earlier, and I wouldn’t want to fall asleep during the movie, and…”

At this point I just trailed off and gave a fake sorry smile. This was exhausting. He sighed “Okay” and was visibly disappointed, and said we should try again the following week, which I agreed to but which I immediately knew would never happen. I couldn’t take the risk of any other costs factoring in to our divorce.

After speeding home, I showered the unfortunate nature of the evening off of my body and prepared myself for just how uncomfortable our future interactions would be. Perhaps giving the turn-your-head move went he went in for the good night kiss was a twist of the dagger in his already wounded heart, but seriously? He tried to take me on an uninformed picnic to a mystery location in the middle of the woods and then assumed he had wifed me up before I even had a chance to send a “Bail me out of this nightmare” text to my best friend, leading me to eat salad in the front seat of a car while Ginuwine crooned softly in the background.

I thought things like that only happened with people you met off of Craigslist.  

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My Brand!....Is Nothing....

I know this might be hard to believe, but I’m not this beautiful every day.

My long withstanding track record of being practically perfect in every way has led many to believe that I roll out of bed with fabulous hair and flawless skin and abs that could deflect a bullet like a sheet of titanium. While flattered, I must admit this is just not true.

My eyesight is impeccable, though.

I killed it in elementary school eye screenings. Read the bottom line? F E Z D L C P T D, bitch!

In 7^th grade, I wanted purple contacts because apparently that would make me cool, and I needed all the help I could get. Guys check it out! I’m like Elizabeth Taylor! Wait is it not cool to know who that is? Shit.

I’m an asset on road trips as I can read exit signs at least eight hundred yards away. “Exit 69 is the next one.” *GPS: In half a mile, take Exit 69 on the right* “Boom.”

I should be walking around batting my eyelashes and winking and staring judgmentally and doing whatever else a person with perfect vision can do, shouldn’t I? Yes I should, and about 95% of the time that’s exactly what I do. But like I said, I’m not this beautiful every day, and sometimes I just want to throw my fabulous hair up in a messy bun and hide the bod under a baggy t-shirt and generally just look like a big mess while hopefully still hinting at a bit of inherent sexiness so as not to disappoint my fans.

You know which demographic pulls this off at the expert level? Girls who wear glasses.

What I strive for, minus the cig

I have always been jealous of the girls who were “running late” aka didn’t feel like wearing mascara that day and slipped on their glasses along with their sweatpants, managing to look laid back and hot all at the same time. But what were my special eyes to do in order to achieve the same effect?

Buy fake glasses. Natch.

Now if I, with my spot-on memory, recall, I initially bought the fake glasses for a school girl-themed party my sophomore year of college. It would have been a waste of money to just love them and leave them after one simple soiree, so I started to break those babies out more and more. Research Strategies class at 9 a.m.? Glasses ON, attention span OFF. Literary Critical Theory class? I needed to look as intelligent as I could (that class was impossible). Hungover at Denny’s on Sunday morning? Suddenly I looked like less of a disaster. The fake glasses completed me.

Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate the consequences. Sure, my friends knew that my glasses weren’t real, but no one else did. Initially, this was the point. But then one day, I was at Subway with a guy I was dating and he suggested we switch glasses to see who had worse eyes, snatching mine off of my face before I had a second to protest.

“Wow, your prescription is really light,” he laughed. “My eyes are so much worse than yours!”
“You have no idea…” I said quietly, and then had to explain in front of God, this guy, and the Sandwich Artist that I was a fraud.

So now you know: I’m as flawless as you’ve always believed, I’m just an immaculate secret-keeper. I now make it a point to fully disclose my ocular situation to every old friend and new acquaintance so 1) there’s no confusion about my perfection and 2) they back off and let me pretend I’m one of the cool girls FOR ONCE.

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The Five Commandments of Legging Season

Let us remember in this transitioning season of cooler weather and not having to shave our legs (except on weekends) that although leggings are both comfortable and cheap ($8.80 at Forever 21, cha-ching), there are certain rules that we need to be mindful of.

And Skylar spake all these words, saying, "I am the Fashion Police, who has brought thee out of the land of unfortunate highlights and quesitonable trends, out of the house of ill-fitting clothes."

1. Thou shalt not wear leggings as pants - If they were supposed to be pants, we would call them "pants." It is that simple. They're spandex and/or cotton and are basically a step up from actual skin, the world would really rather not be forced to experience your inevitable camel toe. Buy longer shirts.

2. Thou shalt not reveal a VPL - Do you know why guys lose their minds over legging season? Because of unadulterated views of our bootays. If you're going to offer it up, have some respect for yourself and for your audience and make the event run smoothly, aka without visible panty lines. 0.00% of people find granny panties sexy, therefore the line dissecting your donk is an immediate boner killer. Channel your inner Sisqo and invest in some thong tha-thong thong thongs.

3. Thou shalt not get colorful - Story time! Once, at the beginning of my senior year of college, I was walking to class on a particularly warm September morning. Technically Legging Season had begun, I guess, but it was like 85 degrees before 10 a.m., so clearly Skirt Season was still alive and well. A particularly shapely girl was walking in front of me, and had embraced the season full-force. Unfortunately, she had done so in light grey leggings, and hustling across the street before the walk sign timed out was particularly stressful. This led to back sweat. And crescent moon sweat (a delicate semicircular patch right below the tush). And I could see it. Had she been wearing leggings in the standard and universally acceptable hues of black, navy, and daaaark grey, my eyesight wouldn't have been accosted, but as it was I was made involuntarily aware of the fact that her leggings had never been worn for athletic purposes. Don't be like Betty McButtsweat; stay on the dark side.

4. Thou shall stay in thy legging lane - Let's get this straight: ladies of all shapes and sizes are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. There, that's done. Now let us all agree that leggings in a size 3XL might not be the most responsible decision by society. We can refer to commandment #1 for the main reason why this is a bad call. If you question whether or not you should be wearing leggings, chances are the answer is, "Nuh-uh." Spandex is a privilege, not a right.

5. Thou shalt not expect a miracle - If you've gained fifteen pounds and put on your black leggings with the hope that they'll suck everything in, you look like you stuffed fifteen extra pounds into a very unwilling sausage casing. If you're trying to abide by commandment #2 but overstep your boundaries and go commando, thinking no one will know the difference, you're overestimating the opacity of stretch cotton. If you have zero butt whatsoever and put on your leggings with the hope that you'll all of a sudden reach Kim K status, you not only need to aim a little higher, but you're also going to be extremely disappointed. Leggings are like the guy who has a fun sense of humor, a great job, and clean fingernails: he seems perfect in theory, but there's definitely some underlying cocaine addiction or toe fetish happening there. Too good to be true.

So that's that. Break out your leggings and your boots and your infinity scarves, but do so properly. Skylar said to the people, “Do not be afraid. Legging Season has come to test you, so that the fear of VPL will be with you to keep you from looking truly heinous.”

Amen.

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Ugly Boybanders of Yesteryear

I went to the Backstreet Boys concert this past weekend. Needless to say, it was one of the best nights of my year, if not my entire life, and my best friend and I couldn’t say anything but, “Oh my God! That was amazing!” for the majority of the ride home.

At the beginning of the concert, the boys’ faces flashed up on the big screen one by one, causing pandemonium that, in hindsight, was probably a little embarrassing for a crowd of 23-30 year old women. Nick pops up? Vocal cords exploded. AJ? Everyone realized that the bad-boy phase they went through when they were 18 wasn’t totally over. Kevin? The girls who go for bar dads and/or appreciate thick eyebrows had a field day. My best friend and I personally lost our shit when Brian appeared, because we were wise beyond our years back in elementary school and inherently knew that he would forever and always be the hottest person in the band alive.

And then came Howie’s face, and we were all reminded of something that just seemed to be a fact of life when we were young: no one likes Howie. Like, there was barely a woo. It’s nothing against him personally, and it’s not like he’s a completely unfortunate-looking guy, but every boy band of the 90’s needed their token boring ugly dude, and for BSB, Howie was/is it. I think he accepts it now and uses the lack of attention to do whatever he wants on stage aka drinking a random fan’s Bud Light and throwing in inexplicable cha-cha moves. I chopped off my cholo ponytail and still no one loves me?! Fuck it, my only solo is a verse in “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely;” give me a beer.

Not helping your case, bro

I felt bad for the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for Howie, but I realized that he simply got the short end of the boy band stick, and was a part of an elite crowd of once-famous male performers from the late 90s/early 00s that everyone knew existed but that no one cared to remember the names of. Quite frankly, Howie should feel pretty great about himself, because I think he might be one of the most popular ones on the list of Ugly Boy Banders of Yesteryear. It’s the little things in life, everybody.

Chris Kirkpatrick (*NSYNC) was also ugly. Historically, regardless of if you’re a guy or a girl, you have to be pretty mind-blowingly hot to be white and rock dreads; instead, Chris looked like the creepy human version of a Muppet. Think about it: Lance was obviously not totally “into” all the girl attention from the get-go (but was a terrible dancer? One of life’s many mysteries…) yet I knew plenty of ladies that preferred his likeness to Ellen Degeneres over Chris’s goatee’d doublechin and obtrusive oversize ball chain necklaces. Not even his sweet falsetto could save him then. I drive myself crazy thinking of you, too, Chris, but only because your terrifying face is haunting my dreams and I haven’t slept in weeks.

Justin Jeffre of 98 Degrees really just didn’t even stand a chance. The Lachey brothers were buff and gorgeous, and Jeff Timmons was destined to become a Chippendale, so what role did that leave Justin to lead? You guessed it: the role of the chubby Danny McBride look-a-like with a white trash, bleach blonde Caesar haircut and a convincing air of pedophilia. Singing all of those songs about Jessica Simpson was probably the closest he got to a woman in the band’s entire five-year run. 98 Degrees was supposed to be the band that could beat up all the other bands, which I guess meant that Justin was the lazy friend/hype man in the back who just yelled, “YOU DON’T WANT THIS! YOU DON’T WANT THIS!” while nudging Nick forward and hoping everyone would just call a truce so he could go back home and finish playing PS2 all by himself.

In theory, I suppose Dan Miller from O-Town isn't a complete dud. However, when you compare him to the beauty that was Ashley Parker Angel or Erik-Michael Estrada, you realize that his misfortune lay in two key factors: his boring, white-bread, three-syllable name, and the fact that his chin strap made him look like a rapist. In fact his whole oral region really bothers me. He's got thick lips that appear to perpetually have lipstick on them, and it's almost like he's got lock-jaw and can only open his mouth wide enough to creep me out as he explains his liquid dreams.

Devin Lima from LFO looks like a fucking vampire, straight up. I have a moral opposition against any male who obviously gets his eyebrows waxed, and between his perfectly-sculpted arches and presumably collagen-filled lips, he's completely crossed the line from metrosexual to potential drag queen. You know in "Heavyweights" where Tony Perkis goes crazy at the end of the movie and somersaults off the chandelier? Devin looks like that on an everyday basis. Apparently he has a new band now called The Cadbury Diesel, which just sounds like a really unfortunate thing to find in your Easter basket.

There is a reason you probably haven't heard of the majority of the guys on this list, and that is because they were outshined by their sexy frontmen, therefore garnering themselves very little (if any) real estate on your locker door. These guys were the DUFFs of their bands--it's unfortunate that they had to suffer the trauma of being no one's favorite, but it had to be done, and for that, the guys who went on to have successful solo careers thank them.

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Miley Cyrus Offended My Butt, and I'm Not Taking it Sitting Down

Dear Miley,

 

Please put on some pants longer than your vagina and have a seat, I'd like to speak with you about something. Yes, you may finish your joint before we begin. What was that? Sorry, your horse teeth are distracting.

 

I'd like to discuss your newest hit "We Can't Stop." While several of the lyrics are embarrassing to white people everywhere (“We run things, things don’t run we”? What the fuck does that even mean?), I take up the biggest issue with your thoughts on probably the least white thing about me: my butt.

 

For the sake of time, we will just leave the explanation at this: my butt is bigger than most. Whether it’s the Italian genes or the Polish genes fighting it out inside of my jeans, I don’t know, but thank God I can cook well and carry on a decent conversation or else my donk would probably be the only thing I’ve got going for me. I used to hate it, just because it was a whole lotta junk in a 5”1’ trunk, but we’ve since grown fond of each other and I’ve learned to accept that bikini bottoms in a size small are officially a thing of the past.

 

In “We Can’t Stop,” you spit a few fresh lines which do not sit well with what I sit on. Tell me if you remember the following lyrics, or if you were too jacked on Molly to know what the hell was happening:

 

To my home girls here with the big butt

Shaking it like we at a strip club

Remember only God can judge ya

Forget the haters 'cause somebody loves ya

First of all, you don’t have home girls. Being as you are engaged to an Australian, you might have “mates,” but you most definitely do not have home girls. Take out your aluminum foil grill and be ashamed. Secondly, just because you’re on YouTube twerking in a Japanese animal onesie, you are by no means entitled to consider yourself in the same pool of girls who are shaking it on the daily. Your boney little butt stops moving the second the rest of your body does; mine carries twerk waves for at least an extra second and a half after I cut it out. It’s fucking magic.

The next two lines officially made me want to throw you down the mountain that you climbed up when you were still answering to Disney and keeping your protruding collarbones under wraps. Why would God judge me for having a big butt? He’s got homophobes and Republicans to worry about, I highly doubt baby having back is on the top of His list. You clearly have never had a substantial amount of booty to work with, because if you did, you would realize that girls with big butts don’t have haters. Not even one. So no, it isn’t just “somebody” that loves me, it’s the whole damn drug-addled party in your music video, especially the kid rolling around with slices of bread.

I’m glad that you’ve found a new identity and that we will all get to compare your rap career with Amanda Bynes’, but next time you’re trying to be ‘bout that life, realize that your white-legging-clad tush maylook good in theory but at the end of the day, God, haters and Sir Mix-a-Lot himself want buns, hon.

Love,

Skylar

 

 

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My Life in T-Shirts

If I were ever on an episode of "Hoarders," they wouldn't find me buried underneath years of old newspapers, dead cats and broken Precious Moments figurines; it'd be something more along the lines of leadless mechanical pencils, shoe boxes, and event t-shirts. I would have no problem getting rid of my grandmother's centuries-old china set, but I'd literally fight whoever tried to dispose of my pee-wee soccer jersey.
 
I finally bit the bullet the other morning and decided that owning multiple fraternity philanthropy event t-shirts--identical in everything but color--really wasn't that important. I also probably didn't need the high school spirit shirts from activities I didn't even do or the professional sports team shirts for teams I don't even like.

I did, however, find some gems, and realized just how interesting my life has been through giveaway t-shirts alone. Follow me on an adventure through my life in 100% cotton:

MCI Commercial Try-Out Shirt: If there was ever hope that I could be a child star, it was shot down when I tried out for an MCI commercial at age five. Here's the thing: I don't like liars. The girl who was conducting this audition handed me a telephone and told me that Goofy was on the other end and that I should talk to him. Excuse me, bitch, but I can see you standing right in front of me with another fake phone to your ear putting on your worst Goofy impression, and I'm not amused. I remember just standing there, looking at this girl completely confused and a bit offended that she would take my childhood innocence for stupidity. I did not get the part, surprisingly, but my mom did get me a popsicle right after so it was still a success.

Cool Frogs Field Day Shirt: Field day was the most wonderful time of the year in elementary school. You got to wear your bathing suit to school and run around outside all day throwing water balloons at the kid you liked to show him how much you cared. Also, since I'm a June baby, Field Day almost always fell around or on my birthday. In second grade, I had an awesome teacher who helped us make these t-shirts, and ignoring the fact that the frog eyes I chose are particularly creepy, it's a pretty sweet artifact of my younger days. Even cooler is the fact that good ol' Facebook has connected me with the majority of the people on the back.

"Cheerleading" Shirt: In sixth grade, to promote a healthy rivalry and make sure that we would all enter middle school knowing which elementary school dominated the community, the PTA put on a friendly basketball game between our school and another. Naturally, I opted for the spirit section, because A) sports involving my hands are a no-go and B) I had just seen "Bring it On" and now had dreams to fulfill. I took the role to heart, doing high kicks and screaming my tiny little lungs out while simultaneously wishing the rest of the girls had their shit together enough so we could properly execute a basket toss. Instead, we performed our halftime show which involved half of us forgetting what we were supposed to cheer and one girl holding a sign upside down, leading us to inspire our team to "GO! PANDAS! OG!"

People Got to be Free! Shirt: In seventh grade, I was in show choir. Our teacher decided that we should be the cautionary songbirds of our generation and take our talents on the road, performing a live-action Don't Do Drugs PSA for all of the elementary schools in the area. We took [ahem] "popular" songs of the 70s and 80s to communicate our message, such as Lonesome Loser by Little River Band (1979). Basically, I'm all for telling little kids that crack is whack, but these were my formative years, and between my snaggletooth and the fact that my body was developing from the feet up (it was a mess to watch me dance, seriously), this was not helping my street cred whatsoever.

Seventh Grade Musical Shirt: I was in the school musical in seventh grade as well, because God forbid I waste my talents on "Get high on life!" sing-a-longs alone. Krazy Kamp was about a summer camp, and it was crazy. That's pretty much all I remember. I was an ensemble member, aka I tried out for the lead and got shot down. If you're guessing a theme to my life so far, you're on the right track.

Chuck E. Cheese Shirt: One of my best friends has a penchant for doing ridiculous things for her birthday. In college, she had a party at Taco Bell. When she turned 18, she had a pizza party at Cici's and then we went to the mall where something that qualifies for a 10 year secret happened and I'd rather not discuss it. When she turned 16, we went to Chuck E. Cheese. That's probably the last time I've ever been to that place, but it's an entirely new world when suddenly you know how to effectively cheat at skee ball and you realize that the guy dressed has Chuck has a particularly pungent cologne of weed and dumpster smell emanating from his fur. I'd like to think I won this shirt from my booty of tokens, but I probably bought it; and I'd like to say I regret it, but I definitely don't.

Official Hooters Tank: I take my Halloween costumes extremely seriously. I'm all about authenticity and when I go for something, I give it my all. My freshman year of college I decided I wanted to be a Hooters girl for Halloween, and went so far as to go on the Hooters website to see what the qualifications for employment actually were, just in case I was so comfortable in the tank top that I chose to pursue it as a career. I had my orange shorts, my tube socks, ugly white Reeboks that I happened to own, and hit up three different restaurants in order to score myself this little number. I keep it, thinking that maybe I'll break it out again some day, when in reality I put too much stock in the holiday do to repeatsies.

No Kangaroos in Austria Shirt: The majority of the people that I went on my study abroad trip to Austria with came back with souvenirs that were special to the country and reflected the culture that we had immersed ourselves in for a month and a half. I....came back with this. Do you know how many "Dumb and Dumber," "Let's put another shrimp on the barbie!" moments I put people through? Do you? It was the joke that never got old. I bought my family authentic beer steins and Bavarian blown-glass ornaments, so it's not like I completely dropped the ball, but this shirt was just too perfect to leave behind. Full disclosure: I also bought it in magnet form.

Louisville National Champions Shirt: My school is better than your school in every sense of the word. Yes, I had been graduated for almost a year when this happened, but they could (and will) do it again and again for many years to come, and I will get every single one of those commemorative t-shirts as well. Kentucky pride runs deep, y'all.

I have a feeling the next chapter of my life will involve a lot fewer t-shirts and more promotional goodies like mouse pads and letter openers emblazoned with company logos, and I'm fine with that, but there's just something about wearable memorabilia that makes a life event that much more significant. If I'm not presented with a "You got engaged!" shirt right after my man pops the question, or a "You got your hip replaced!" one when I turn 85 then it's like those things didn't even happen.

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