Chris Brown & Justin Bieber: The Fat Obnoxious Girls at the Bar

Justin Bieber posted an edgy black and white pic to Instagram on Monday to announce that he and Chris Breezy were in the studio recording a new train wreck of cracked out vocal runs and excessive-yet-necessary autotune "for the fans."

Upon receiving this update via Twitter--because it's NEWS--I made this face:

which is the exact same expression that appears when I'm at a bar and I spot my least favorite patrons walk through the door: The Fat Obnoxious Girls. Coincidence? I think not.

Let's clear something up from the get-go: I don't hate them because they're fat, they're fat because I hate them. And bigger girls can look sexy as hell if they know how to properly dress what their mama gave them. FOGs don't, and as soon as they walk in with their lopsided tube tops and mini skirts that even my friend with Hyperthyroidism wouldn't touch, they're automatically added to the Can You Not? List.

FOGs enter any venue already making a scene. "Woo!"ing and shimmying and screeching along to "Don't You Worry Child." "LET'S TAKE A SHAHT!" they scream at each other. "I BET I CAN DRINK MORE THAN YOU!" they scream at the two guys at the bar. "ARE YOU GONNA BUY US FIREBALL SHAHTS?!" they again scream at the two guys at the bar. The two guys at the bar are too nice/frightened not to, so the four take their shots.

"I CAN ALREADY FEEL IT!" the FOGs scream. It is 11:30. "OHMIGAHD AVICII LET'S DANCE!" The two guys at the bar are dragged to the dance floor to be mercilessly grinded on.

The mini skirts are creeping up to unfortunate locations, and no effort is being made to pull them down. So much skin. The guys at the bar evacuate the dance floor but the FOGs don't care and continue to grind on each other, shooting heavily-black-eyeshadowed "YEAH YOU WANT THIS" glances to other innocent victims who respond with vehement head shakes.
"AHAHAHA EVERYONE'S WATCHING US!" they scream at each other. Half-true; it's really hard to look away when a hoo-ha is about to introduce itself to the world and armpit deodorant balls are glowing in the blacklight.

The event photographer is gathering a group for a photo, and the FOGs do not hesitate to jump right in.

The FOGs automatically think that this group is their new party crew and decide to join in on multiple additional pictures...

...in which it's painfully clear they do not belong. After three or four more photo bombs, one of the members of the group asks, "I'm sorry, do we know you?" to which FOG #1 replies, "YOU WANNA FIGHT BITCH?!" and immediately reaches for a chunk of hair.

A girl brawl breaks out: kicking, slapping, haphazard fists that only make contact maybe twice. The bouncer tries to break it up but FOG #1 is a pro and has latched on to Group Member's upper arm. FOG #2 supportively screeches, "YEAH THAT'S RIGHT BITCH! YEAH THAT'S RIGHT!" but won't get physically involved because she's the prettier one, knows it, and doesn't want to risk facial injury.
The fight is eventually controlled, boobs are reinserted into tops, and all participating parties are asked to leave the bar. "FUCK THIS PLACE! FUCK ALL Y'ALL! ALL Y'ALL ARE RACIST!" the FOGs scream, ignoring the fact that everyone in the general vicinity is white.

They continue to talk loudly about how they're never giving money to "this shitty hole in the wall" ever again (just like they did when they left last weekend) and FOG #1 lights an e-cig while they wait for a cab outside. 

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My Life According to Buzzfeed Quizzes

One of my favorite lunchtime pastimes of yore is MASH. Countless hours were spent figuring out if I'd be living in a mansion with Brian Littrell and our 37 kids, working as a trash collector and driving a hearse; or in a shack with the school janitor and our zero kids, working as a firewoman and driving a BMW, aka the more plausible option.

 

I put a lot of stock in these games. If it was down to my crush or the kid who saved his boogers on the underside of his desk [for later, natch], my world was shattered when Fate chose the latter and I was forced to imagine my future life of eternally cleaning snot off the coffee table.

There was no chance in MASH.
MASH was real.

Luckily, Buzzfeed's newest trend of posting personality quizzes satisfies my 20-something need to "find myself" in the most accurate, foolproof way possible. I truly believe that everything happens for a reason, so despite the fact that it's physically impossible, it's nice to know that were I capable of growing a beard, I should grow a goatee--because I'm a "trend setter."

My life is supposed to go a little something like this:

• First of all, my dad is not my real dad. Fortunately, Phil Dunphy is an excellent stand-in for the-man-the-myth-the-legend Bill; i.e. TV Dad and Actual Dad are essentially the same person, and this is neither a gain nor a loss. 

• As much as I adored my time in Louisville, I was apparently better suited for THE Ohio State University. Both have a killer football team, show off how good I look in the color red and let me throw gang signs, so this sounds like an easy swap.

• While I may be celebrating my 24th birthday this summer (June 11th, if you had tossed around the idea of getting me anything in the price range of $50-$450 from Kate Spade), I am actually 35. This is because I'm "training for a half-marathon," prefer Twitter to Tumblr, and consider clothing a necessary extravagance. Since I have the face of a preteen I might actually look 24 by the time I'm 35, so yet again this doesn't make much of a difference.

• All of this is happening in the 50's, because that is the decade I belong in. Anyone who is aware of my proclivity for poofy skirts, Charlotte York, and wearing an apron when I bake will completely agree with this. Anyone who is aware of my dirty sailor mouth and general disdain for rules will not.

• My soulmate is someone named Matt. Call it a hunch, but these quizzes might not be completely accurate.

• On the other hand, I will take the results as the gospel because the city I should actually live in is New York! If you weren't aware (which kudos to you for achieving, because I mention this at least twice a day), moving there and becoming a writing powerhouse is all a part of my three year plan. I'm glad I finally have proof that it can has to happen. Buzzfeed, you beautiful little genius, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.

• Living in NYC could allow me to live out my childhood dream of being Annie on Broadway; however, as destiny would have it, I'm actually supposed to star in Wicked. From two years of being around choir kids in high school who felt the need to belt out showtunes at a moment's notice, I happen to know all the words to "For Good," so I suppose I'll leave my ginger-headed aspirations behind in the name of predestination.

So there we go. I'm apparently meant to follow the wisdom of Phil's-osophy as a 35-year-old student in Ohio in the mid-50's, where I'll meet a Matt who will agree to move to New York and watch me night after night in the role of Elphaba.

We can only hope that this Matt guy isn't put off by a little female facial hair.

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The Instagreement

I got an Instagram this week. I’m still in the pre-obsession stages where I don’t quite insta-understand what’s going on and am somewhat bored with it, but social media experience has taught me that this soon will pass and I’ll be insta-possessed by the Amaro filter in due time.

I’d like to make an insta-promise to you all that I will be the least-obnoxious Instagram user this world has ever known. I have outlined this pledge below with the seven things I will refrain from insta-doing.

1.       I will not take more than one selfie a month – If that. I’m uncomfortable taking pictures of myself as it is slash don’t understand people (girls) who feel the need to on an hourly basis, so this will be pretty easy to stick to. I’ll only stray from this rule if I happen to make several life changes in a row, like dying my hair Rihanna Red and moving into a swanky new apartment (all on the list, b t dubs).

2.       I will never use to the hashtag #followme – Because I really don’t care. Granted, you would be doing yourself a major service by following me—on both Instagram (snkorb) and Twitter (SkylarKorby)—because I’m phenomenally entertaining and mildly offensive, but if that’s not your cup of tea there’s not much I can do. I’m just sorry you hate happiness.

3.       I will try to keep the food pics to a minimum – This rule will only be broken if A) I’ve baked a true masterpiece that I’ll never be able to replicate and thus must spread around as proof of my skills; B) Something looks disgusting and since I’m a 13-year-old boy I feel the need to share it; and C) Jesus appears in the nooks and crannies of my English muffin.

Rocky Road Cookies. Oh yes I did.

4.       I won’t post #TransformationTuesday’s about my exercise progress – Unnecessary. Some of us never gained the Freshman 15/Senior 60. Heyoooooo.

5.       I will not take pictures of my legs at the pool/lake/beach – I have really freckly knees and short shins, this isn’t so much an “it’s weird when girls do this” thing as it is an “I don’t want to field questions about my probable status as a little person” thing.

...it was ONE TIME

6.       I will never miss a #ThrowbackThursday – This past week’s was a gem, why would I deny everyone the pleasure? I have no shame, and minus ages 13-17 I was actually a pretty cute kid.

7.       I will never post screen shots of text convos – Not because I don’t want to, but because I legitimately can’t. Damnit Droid, get your shit together.
EDIT: I just learned how! Let's do this thang.

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Untweetable

I’ve noticed a recent increase in the amount of people that tweet something along the lines of, “UGH the things I wish I could tweet sometimes.” Naturally I've been a little confused, because I don’t have a filter so the concept of self-editing is completely lost on me. I was positive that I had never not tweeted something, and decided to check out my Twitter Drafts to see if this was true.

 

IT WAS NOT.

 

Apparently, from about last March until now, a ton of my 140-characters have gone by the wayside, either due to poor WiFi connection, poor alcohol management, or Poor Skylar Syndrome in which I would type something depressing out that I had no intention of actually tweeting and then forget to delete it. I considered omitting those that fall into the latter category, but what fun is that? Please laugh at my shortcomings, I beg you.

 

 

If you don’t follow me on Twitter, and you see the tweets below that didn’t make the cut, you can only imagine what you’re missing out on. @SkylarKorby, get at me.

 

The people who say “I don’t think I say this enough” followed by how blessed they are are usually the ones who say it way too much. #congrats #nowstop

 

Fishin for the lawd. #HappyEaster

 

I have never been so happy .ad o am right now. Anthony kiedis love meee. #Rchp #bestshowever #amaxzing

 

We go together like lamb and tuna fish. #weird #love

 

My boy likes red lipstick but I can’t wear red lipstick because I like him so much that I’ll get red lipstick all over his face. #wwjd

 

“Back that bitch out into the water” is, apparently, not what @LBTmusic is singing. #couldafooledme #Pontoon

 

“Her lack of eyebrows used to terrify me. It seems as though she’s gotten that under control though so she can come.” --anonymous #theymatter

 

My only request is that I get to walk down the aisle to the chopped and screwed version of The Wedding March. #ghettoromance

 

The amount of respect I have for someone decreases by at least 70% when I hear that their ringtone is Cruise by @FLAGALine. #sawng #awful

Just got told I have a smile like The Joker. #Rude, but I’ll be damned if I don’t see the resemblance

 

Garden Vegetable @WheatThins, how do you do that voodoo that you do so well. #crack

Nohting says "I don't give a fuck" lke an obliteratted girl sitting outsid of the Granville crying & screaming "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!" #wifethatup

#FYI after 3 a.m. all country music on the radio is heavily harmonized and very suicide-centric

 

Awkward hobby: Looking to see who everyone’s “best friends” are on #Snapchat. S/O to @TheMotoBenny, @ELSchum, and @jconks!

 

Vai a farti fottere una puttana

 

Today’s self-discovery: my scalp tingles when I’m upset. It’s like feeling your hair grow but minus the drugs. #trippy

You are cordially invited to go fuck yourself

 

#ParentalControl is still on the air? This knowledge would’ve saved me about 6 months of my life

Accepting @SkyDigg4 compliments by association because a lot of people told me I was pretty today and I’m trying to keep that momentum going

 

S/O to Fatty, Sideburns Lady, and the Mutants Over at Table 9. #lovestinks #yeahyeah

“Or maybe they break up cause she cheats on him with a 30 year old cook from the local red lobster.” –optimism by @ELSchum

 

I AIN’T NEVER SCARED. #exceptaroundwasps

 

In giving me directions, my dad just spent 3 mins emphasizing that the stop sign I’d encounter was NOT a yield sign. The mystery behind my awful driving skills is solved

 

Crying in my work parking lot because I hit a bird on the way here. He popped. #sorrybud

 

#YIKES

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The Anatomy of an All-Nighter

You’re sitting in class, half-paying attention because while you find your professor to be wildly intelligent, you realized three weeks ago that Human Perspectives on Sex Roles was never going to play an integral role in your life and you’d rather beat your high score in Tetris on your phone. You tune in when she reminds the class that the midterm will be in two weeks and that the three books you were supposed to have read thus far will comprise the majority of the exam. A wave of responsibility washes over and you decide that that information is important, so you break out the trusty agenda that you (and your GPA) could not survive without and go to jot down the reminder. You open up to today’s date and glance across the page as you flip it, only to violently flip back to look at the assignment written in tomorrow’s block:

“First Short Paper Due”

You wrote it in hot pink pen with stars around it like a third grader, how could you have missed this? Have you seriously not opened this agenda since last Thursday? Did you even go to class last Thursday? #Senioryearproblems. ‘Well eff,’ you think to yourself. Two years ago this would have sent you into a frantic tailspin, cancelling all plans and immediately going to the library to get started. Fortunately, you now know that a trip to the gym, scoring a turkey flatbread from Subway, and updating Twitter are much greater priorities, and you finally give the paper a second thought at about 8:30 pm.

After some online shopping and a trip to the vending machine, you give the paper a third thought and figure looking at the assignment sheet will grant you thirty minutes of Facebooking. You earned it, worker bee. The paper is for your philosophy class, which clearly doesn’t mean anything of value (What do philosophy majors grow up to be, Socrates?), so when the assignment reads: “Discuss how a focus on culture and identities speaks to the nature of philosophy as a discipline that is partly driven by historical awareness,” you read it over three more times and see what you can find on Pinterest.

10:30 pm. Well shit, time flies when you’re obsessively looking at how to crochet your own coasters even though you’ve never sewn in your life and the condition of your stolen-from-the-side-of-the-road coffee table might actually improve by a few drink rings. Let’s read that assignment again… Nope, still doesn’t make sense. As your fingers hover over your mouse like the possessed hand from the Addams Family and try to get you to check if anyone’s commented on your witty status update, you fight the urge and instead reach for everyone’s favorite party animal, Adderall. You’re about to be a MACHINE. You’re about to be INVINCIBLE. You’re about… to read every Wikipedia page for every band you’ve ever liked and take meticulous notes on their discography so you can proceed to update your iTunes with any missing songs. If you weren’t the biggest Neil Diamond fan of all time before, you definitely are now. Sweeeeeet Caroliiiine…

You announce to no one in particular that “it’s already tomorrow!” and figure 1:00 am is as good a time as any to get started. How long did this thing have to be again? FIVE PAGES?! Cool your jets, we both know you’re going to adjust the periods and commas to size 14. But still, FOUR AND A QUARTER PAGES?! On “culture and identities”?! This is why all philosophy majors are hippies, there’s no way anyone would obtain their degree if they weren’t constantly blazed and realized how stupid their classes were. Luckily, you and Addy have hit a symbiotic stride and you breeze through the first four paragraphs in like five minutes. At this rate, you’ll be home in time to see tonight’s re-run of E News. Part of you knows that the logical thing to do would be to proofread what you’ve already got down, but the more intelligent part of you knows that you’ll be very disappointed in what you see and that it’s better for everyone if you just let the nonsense lie. If ignorance is bliss, you’re about to be the happiest dumbass on the planet.

A social lap around the library conjured neither entertaining gossip nor an idea for the next four pages you had to write, so you return to your seat and start picking at your split ends. Over the course of the next hour and a half you plunk a few quotes that have nothing to do with anything in the middle of your paragraphs and BS a few sentences with every synonym of “identity” that Microsoft Word’s Thesaurus has to offer. After sending a mass text announcing that you are “literally” going to kill yourself if you have to look at these words for another five seconds, you decide that the paper is going to suck regardless and you might as well just cut your losses and go home.

You start to feel guilty about being such a procrastinator/bad student/lazy bum and try to squeeze one more paragraph of nonsense onto the page. It’s 4:45. After performing the anti-climactic task of double-spacing the entire paper only to find that it’s at three pages plus a sentence, you quickly throw together a bibliography and hit “Save.” Like a mother who has just given birth to a Rick Roll-level ginger, you can barely look at your paper without gagging in disgust. You print it, wash your hands clean of the entire experience, and proceed to sit on your couch watching the Magic Bullet infomercial on repeat for the next four hours because your Adderall is still kickin’. Oh what a night.

That's a Rap

I have beef with The Rapture.

I’m beyond the fact that it’s well after death time and we’re all still kickin, and I’m willing to overlook the leniency that it seems to have had as far as the whole “6 pm in each respective time zone” thing. I’m a little TO’d at the harassment I've endured for over 3 years about the fact that 2012 was the big shebang and all of a sudden, bible humpers (yes, I say “humpers” not “thumpers;” I get my kicks from sexual irony as it pertains to the über-religious) start warning me of the newest apocalypse A DAY AND A HALF before it’s supposed to ensue. I’m all for spontaneity, but if I’m going to achieve my life’s goal of eating my body weight in M&M’s, I need a bit of a heads-up.

If nothing else, they could have at least made the whole ordeal a little more exciting. My brother texted me this today: “You know what would be cooler than rapture? Raptor. And we all had to run around like Jurassic park.” This sparked an entire conversation about how our last day on this beautiful, slightly dysfunctional earth could turn out to be the most awesome evaaaa with just a few tweaks to the name. You’d feel pretty pleased with yourself and your life if this was going down as you were going out:

RAPture: We run around being chased by the ghosts of the best rappers of all time. How awesome would it be to essentially play tag with Eazy E, ODB, Biggie, and Tupac until kingdom come? Seriously, think of the badassery for a second. Would we be running or gangsta leaning? Pimp strut? I’d actually look forward to my impending demise if I got to swag surf my way toward it. Granted, the potential for terror is pretty much inevitable, considering the incidences of AIDS, overdoses, and gun control we’d be up against; however, possibility of a live (in an entertainment sense) performance of Shimmy Shimmy Ya would be well worth it.

RAPTure: Our attention spans miraculously improve. At the risk of sounding like my parents and their friends who are in awe of TiVo even though it’s been around since 1999, we live in a technological age, and things like the FB and Twitties consume most of our lives. On this final day of being, we would suddenly be able to pay attention to each other, and not just through photo albums or status updates. Now it’s true that online creeping could and would rear its realistic head and materialize as actual stalking. Weird kid that pokes you on a bi-daily basis would actually be nudging you in the ribcage, and a fat 40-year-old Albanian man would physically follow you around. Disturbing. But since you’d now be more on your game, you can Duckunder Nearside the prodder into a Half Nelson while unleashing the keychain mace on Old Man Shadow. Engross yourself in that, fool!

raptURe: We’ll go out texting. There’s nothing funny I can say about this, because for about 98% of the population, it’ll be true.

rAPTure: We feel more inclined to do things. Maybe a little counterproductive considering the world is coming to an end, but hey, better late than never. This is the perfect time to face your demons and come clean about all of your naughtiness and stop being such a procrastinator already. I, obviously, would take this period of time to do something astounding because my moments of extreme genius and powerful inspiration always come at the last possible minute. Imagine what would happen in the world when people got down to the biznazz! Right when it counted, cancer would be cured and gay marriage would be given the unanimous go-ahead. And then POOF, we’re done. Way to pull it together in the clutch peeps.

I’m just sayin. It’s already Sunday and I’m neither dead nor in fear of dying. What a jip! I guess I’m just that much more prepared for Doomsday. Or will it be doOMsday, the last day of vinyasa yoga classes? We shall see!