Remember that bar exam I took back in February? Well, guess what? The freaking results are out!
But first, some back-story:
After I completed the last portion of the exam, I had to fill out an information card. One of the questions asked where I wanted to have all future exam-related correspondence mailed, and I assumed this included my test results. Scores were going to be sent out approximately 12 weeks after the exam, and since I knew I'd be back in California by then I, of course, put down my California address.
The results weren't scheduled to be released on any specific date, but I figured I'd find out sometime in May because that's when previous February exam scores were released. And I already had an idea of how that fateful day was going to play out:
Okay, I don't know for sure if I'd be throwing the envelope aside in favor of watching an episode of "Cops," but I know I would not tear it open the moment I received it. I've been dreading this day ever since I took the exam. I didn't study as hard as I should have; I didn't do any practice exams; I half-assedly went through a multiple choice workbook--there was no way that envelope contained anything more than a "FAIL!" notice and a b*tch slap.
I was sure this was inevitable outcome, and it was probably going to ruin my day. So I planned to put off the whole finding-out-my-fate thing until I had, like, giant elephantiasis balls--or at least balls that were so big they could cushion the beat-down of failure.
But waiting it out was most likely going to be difficult...
Damn you, talking envelope! Damn you!
I'd eventually have to open up the envelope though, because I don't think my parents or friends would accept hearing excuses like, "I didn't receive it yet, even though it's December 2011," or "I think one of the cats ate it," or even, "There's no such thing as a bar exam--stop smoking crack!"
But before I did anything, I'd try to purge the aura of failure from the envelope!
First, I would give it a human sacrifice! Or, rather, a Hunan chicken sacrifice because human sacrifice = prison.
Then I'd bless it with holy water!
I had been playing this scenario over and over again in my head, and was expecting all these things to happen--right down to the creepy talking envelope. The only thing left now was to wait for my results to show up in the mail.
And then my dad called:
He sounded distressed, like something really bad had happened...
Did I just hang up on my dad? OMG! I hung up on my dad!
Why did the bar people mail it to my parents' house?! I wrote down my California address on the card! The results were supposed to be mailed to me so I could grow giant balls, do a Hunan sacrifice, and bless it with holy water! Now everything was messed up and completely out of my control!
And on top of all that, my dad was calling me back...
I hung up on my dad again! I am the worst daughter ever!
And again, my dad called me back.
I know it's the second doodoo-related post I've written in less than a week, but there is an important issue that I think needs to be addressed: Bowel Movement Back Splash.
Bowel Movement Back Splash, or "BoMBS," occurs when your poop kernel falls into the toilet in a way that causes the water to splash up to your butt. It's heinous and disgusting, and no one should ever have to go through life knowing what it feels like.
Sadly, I am not so lucky and have experienced BoMBS before. And those instances were so traumatizing that I've actually spent time trying to figure out ways to protect myself from receiving a doodoo water enema. I've tried varying my fiber intake, sitting and slouching on the toilet seat, pooping at an angle--I've basically gone through every possible solution except crapping into my own hands.
I don't know what my poop's problem is! Why can't it just fall out gracefully? Why must it turn a simple dump into an Olympic event?
So unfair...
I was on my way home after taking Walnut to see the veterinarian for her regular checkup. Unlike Pepper and Turnip--who both hate car rides and will try scratching my eyeballs out in order to avoid a commute--Walnut actually enjoys being in cars. She likes looking out the windows. and she will spend the entire ride staring at other moving cars and people. Because she doesn't run around while I'm driving, I usually take her out of her carrier and let her sit in the backseat.
As I was driving from the vet's office, I felt a fart coming on. Let's be clear: if this had happened while I was in someone else's car, I would keep the gas to myself and wait until I got far, far away before releasing it into the atmosphere. But since I was in my own car, I didn't have to wait for a more appropriate time to fart...because when you're in your own car, any time is an appropriate time.
So I let my butt exhale.
I didn't think much of it afterwards; I simply assumed the fart would just escape out of the car, as all the other farts before it had done in the past. Those must have been magical farts because even when my windows were up and the AC was set to air recirculation, they still managed to get out before any odor reached my nose.
But the fart that came out on that particular day was different. It lingered in the air longer than usual, and smelled fouler than I'd expected. I realized then that I was not dealing with a typical fart.
Farts can be divided into 3 categories: Typical, Warning, and Ass Abomination.
As you can see from my super scientific-looking diagram, the fart categories coincide with certain types of dump. A Typical Fart is one that does not precede a dump, i.e., the gas isn't being expelled to make room for a forming turd. As such, these farts don't smell too bad, and you can actually get away with letting one of these out without anyone ever noticing.
A Warning Fart lets you know that you have a doodoo trip coming up in the near future. Its level of potency depends on what type of dump you're going to have. A normal dump's Warning Fart is the least smelly, while an Ass Abomination Fart smells like you just crapped your pants--and chances are you probably did, hence the hazardous waste icon.
So the closer your turd type is to being an explosive dump, the stankier your Warning Fart becomes. In my case, my fart seemed to be indicating that peanut butter poop was on the way.
"I thought girls don't take dumps." Sorry, but the only girls that don't are the inflatable ones.
And now the obvious question: Why would I expel a fart that was warning me of peanut butter poop when I was sitting in a car with my windows up and the air recirculation on?
Unfortunately, I didn't realize how potent my gas was going to be because I had no idea there was anything in my bowels until I smelled the evidence. I didn't have any grumblings or gurglings, pangs of stomach pain, or any of the other symptoms normally associated with a doot. I'm not sure why my bowels decided to forgo giving me the heads-up, but I think it may be attributed to the fact that I was sitting down at the time--like how you sometimes don't realize you've overeaten until you stand up. Maybe poop works the same way.
Whatever it was that kept the turd alerts at bay, I ended up thinking I was releasing a Typical Fart when what actually escaped was a fetid Warning Fart that slowly permeated throughout the car.
Before long, my car was filled with an odor that I can only describe as being the stuff nightmares are made of.
I'm pretty sure this was how Freddy Krueger really lost his face...
Having turned my car into a traveling gas chamber, and there being no signs of the fart dissipating any time soon, it would have been a good time for me to open up a window or turn off the air recirculation setting...or anything else that would've gotten fresh air into the car.
But I just sat there--in fact, I actually made the conscious decision not resort to such measures under any circumstances. As much as I hated being enveloped in a toxic heat mist of my own making, if I cracked open a window I'd be admitting defeat. I'd become "Sylvia, the girl who got her ass kicked by her own ass gas--i.e., the most uncool person on Earth."
No! No! No! I could not let that happen. Bad enough my awesomeness only exists in my own mind, but if I kowtowed to my fart even I wouldn't be able to look at myself as anything other than a pathetic loser!
I refused to give in, and tried to play the car fart down.
Walnut, however, was not following my lead. She instead became agitated and started jumping all around the car. Her behavior probably would have been distracting, except I too busy being distracted by my internal monologue: Was Walnut's sudden behavior change the result of my fart? Because that would be really emba--! Wait, we're talking about Walnut, right? She's the one who follows me into the bathroom and sits on my lap even when I've got A-bomb diarrhea. If she can withstand those odors, then she can't possibly be getting mad about a trapped car fart now. Oh, I know! She's upset about going to the vet!
It all made sense: Walnut was traumatized by her checkup experience, yet kept her feelings to herself because she was afraid I'd think less of her. But when I farted, she realized she could be as comfortable around me as I was around her. Her crazy act wasn't to get back at me for damaging her lungs! It was her way of expressing her true feelings!
Look how sincere I was! How concerned I was for her well-being! Walnut was in dire need of emotional support, and I wanted to reassure her that my car was her safe haven!
And how did she repay me for my charitable efforts? She started wailing like an ungrateful banshee!
I wasn't going to put up with that! I just spent $ 90 on ensuring Walnut's health, and a couple of hours chauffeuring her to and from the vet. She was in no position to be complaining about a fart that just happened to be really stinky, and was now making my eyes burn.
I don't know if she was going through a rebellious phase or what, but she started biting my arms!
Her little knife teeth hurt like a b*tch, but I wasn't going to give in. It wasn't until she jumped off my lap and got near the brake pedal that I decided to raise my white flag.
I know! I know! I lost the last shred of dignity that still remained! I wanted to be strong, but then I started picturing how things could end up playing out if I continued to refuse Walnut's demands for fresh air. Imagine how embarrassing it would have been if I crashed. The impact would ignite my fart and burn me into a disgusting crisp. And what if I died? You know what happens to your bowels when you die! They release their contents! That means mine would be oozing peanut butter poop! I wouldn't just be "Sylvia, the girl who got her ass kicked by her own ass gas;" I'd now be known as "Sylvia, the girl who got her ass charred by her own ass gas, and then bled peanut butter poop all over the freeway."
I guess tomorrow night is the finale of the nature series "Life." According to the "Discovery Channel" website, Sunday's episodes will be about plants and primates. I've been TiVo'ing all the episodes from previous weeks, but I haven't been able to watch an entire one yet. I'm like this will all wildlife shows: I tune in with extreme interest, but will end up only watching bits and pieces of the show because I'm fraught with paranoia--paranoia that I'll suddenly find myself witnesses the "Circle of Life" at work, but without any cool costumes or music.
If that sounds too crazy to comprehend, here's what I mean in picture form:
So you're watching a show about wild animals in Africa, and the segment opens up with something pleasant...
You see the elephant, you hear the narrator, and you naturally expect the following clips to be of this baby elephant hanging out with his family.
Instead, the show's producers suddenly turn around and crap on your face!
And then they make fun of your mother!
And then they tell you that you've just contracted Hepatitis A because it was in the crap they dumped on your face!
It get it: the purpose of a wildlife show is to focus on how animals interact with each other in their natural habitats, and some interactions will inevitably end badly. After all, it's a Circle of Life that moves us all through despair and hope--I've seen "The Lion King;" I know how it works. But even though I'm aware of this, I still can't stand watching lost baby elephants, or seeing wildebeests get washed away while trying to cross a river. It's so depressing that I usually end up screaming at my television. It's like I turn into that person who makes comments during scary movies or television game shows, except I'm all "Oh no he di'in't just buy a vowel!" when I see a baboon trying to clobber a cheetah cub.
The "Life" series got raving reviews though, so I thought I'd give it a chance. But I wasn't going to walk in blindly. I decided to avoid the episodes I believed were most likely to contain heart-wrenching scenes. The only one that fit the criteria was the show about mammals because you know that episode was going to include a polar bear somewhere. And polar bears make people cry. You've seen that commercial asking for donations to save polar bears; you know what I mean.
I thought, "Great! I am just denying myself one episode. I can watch the other ones!" So I started out with the episode about birds because I couldn't imagine myself feeling sympathetic for them. Come on now, I eat chicken.
I watched the episode with the confidence only balls of titanium could bring, and then saw this horrific segment about a tropicbird and a frigatebird. I tried to illustrate it for you, but I can't draw birds to save my life so I instead drew chicken nuggets with wings...
Note: I may have made up some of the narration stuff.
The birds episode turned out to be a bad decision, but I was okay with that. One of last Sunday's episodes was about bugs, and I'd been looking forward to it for weeks because I hate bugs, and don't care if they get harassed or separated from their families. If there was an episode I could definitely watch all the way through, it was that one.
I'm still wondering why that bear was in the bugs episode! It's a mammal! It should have been in the episode about mammals!
I seem to strike out with any show that involves living wildlife, so I think I'll just stick to watching the "Life" episode about plants. I'm hoping it's going to be boring as hell, but knowing my luck I bet there's going to be a scene where a shrew impales itself on a cactus or something.
Turnip had a herpes outbreak recently...but before you jump to conclusions and start writing him off as some sort of skanky pussy, a herpes infection in cats is quite different than an infection in humans. An outbreak in a cat results in sneezing, a running nose, watery eyes--i.e., he basically has a cold.
Lucky for them, huh? Their version of herpes doesn't involve fire piss and starring in cheesy "Valtrex" commercials.
The vet prescribed some antibiotics and gave me a plastic syringe to use when giving Turnip his doses.
It's pretty obvious how this was supposed to work. I just had to suck up a dose of medicine into the syringe and squirt it into Turnip's mouth. And since cats are physically incapable of spitting things out, giving Turnip his meds was going to be easy. As long as I could get it into his mouth, he'd automatically end up swallowing it down.
Unfortunately, Turnip was not having any of that. While he doesn't struggle when you cut his nails, or become grumpy if you wake him up from his naps just because you didn't have anything better to do, that doesn't mean he won't get mad. Too bad I didn't figure this out until after I tried to give him his first dose.
He had made it very clear that there was no way I was going to get any medicine near him without getting maimed.
Fine, Turnip; I thought giving you your medicine face-to-face was the respectful thing to do, but I see you don't really appreciate my attempts at civility. And now you've left me with no choice: you're getting some tough love, stealthy style!
In formulating my tough-love-stealthy-style strategies, I took a cue from "Assassin's Creed," which I began playing ever since I finished the bar exam. I burned through "Assassin's Creed I" and "Bloodlines," and started "Assassin's Creed II" last week. I'm really enjoying the second game--although, I have to admit I like the first one better (and I am apparently the only person in the world who feels this way).
Anyway, in the "Assassin's Creed" games, you get to stealth kill unsuspecting people using a retractable blade hidden under your sleeve. And since I, too, needed to be stealthy, I came up with my own version of the hidden blade: the Hidden Syringe!
Seriously, my awesomeness knows no bounds!
Once I had my cool assassination medication attire and hidden syringe ready to go, all that was left was to wait for Turnip to make himself vulnerable--i.e., open his mouth. Hmm...let's see...he opens his mouth when he's eating, drinking water, meowing for a snack, and--ah, yes--when he is yawning.
Perfect. I was going to make my move when Turnip yawned! And with the hidden syringe, I could give him his medicine before he even had time to realize what was going on!
I put my plan into action. Like any good assassin, I staked out my target and waited patiently for the moment of opportunity...
And then I struck!
And then I realized video game concepts do not translate well into real life!
The "Assassin's Creed" plan didn't work out as well as I had hoped, so I went back to getting maimed.
And then I noticed something. A cat's mouth looks somewhat like this:
Most of us don't have teeth running all the way to the back of our gums (if you do, then you and your freak wisdom teeth must live in Japan or the U.K.) and, thankfully, neither do cats. Knowing this, I came up with a third and final plan: I was going to squirt the medicine into the small gap at the back of Turnip's teeth.
I put my new plan into action:
He struggled and tried to escape, but I stood firm and got that damn medicine into his mouth!
I was ecstatic. Finally, I'd found a way to administer Turnip's antibiotics! One that actually worked! And now he was on the road to recovery! He was walking out of cat herpes Hell!
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
Instead of swallowing the medicine I'd just given him, Turnip opened his mouth and let the stuff spill off his tongue! I couldn't believe it! I still don't believe it!
Turnip has since gotten better. And I no longer rely on video games to help me deal with real-life situations.
I try to post new material once a week--at the latest, once every 10 days--and when something comes up that prevents me from maintaining my blogging schedule, I always put up a notice to let you guys know why I'm on hiatus, and how long I'll be away. It's the least I can do for you guys because I know you all have things to do with your time, but you choose to spend some of it on my site. Having your footprints is something I am very, very grateful for.
This post, however, comes nearly two weeks after my last one, and was not preceded by any notice or explanation of my disappearance. That's because this blogging break wasn't voluntary. You see, I've been dealing with a mess that some douche bag gave me around the time of my last entry.
It started when I was driving back to my apartment after spending the afternoon with my sister. We had originally planned to hang out at my place, but there had been an unusually high number of car accidents clogging the freeways that day, and it would have taken two hours to go from Los Angeles to my area. Since my sister had to work the next day, we decided instead to just do some grocery shopping and then hang out together some other time.
As I was on the I-5 freeway...
...I noticed this white car driving very, very close behind me.
I don't like it when people tail me, but I hate it when they do it on the freeways...and I really, really hate it when those idiots are tailing me on the I-5. I don't know how the 5 freeway is in Northern California, Oregon, or Washington, but as far as So-Cal is concerned, there is always a slow-down somewhere along the 5. Always. Sometimes the traffic is caused by the roadwork that's been going on since dinosaurs walked the Earth, sometimes it's because of one or two car accidents. Regardless of the cause, the result is always the same: you will sit motionless on the I-5 at some point.
Considering the nature of the 5 freeway, there were only two reasons why the driver had the nerve to tail me like that: she was either (1) retarded, or (2) a crappy driver.
10 minutes later, I noticed the cars in front of me had all slowed to a stop--and, of course, I ended up stopping as well. But as I was preparing myself for the inevitable 25 minutes of congestion...
My car suddenly lurched forward and struck the truck in front of me!
It took a few seconds, but I eventually realized, "Holy sh*t! I've just been involved in a f*cking car accident!"
I'd never been in a car accident before, and thus had no idea what it was I supposed to do at that moment. Do I grab my license and vehicle registration? Do I exchange insurance information with the piece-of-sh*t ass carrot who just plowed her car into mine? Should I forget trying to figure out the formalities and just beat her ass with a rubber hose?
Since I'd left my beating hose at home, I decided to just get out and survey the damage to my car.
Hmm...what's the car mechanic-ish term for "hot sh*tty mess"? Because that's what I was looking at when I saw the damage inflicted on my car: a hot sh*tty mess. The hood was lifted off its hinges, but fared better than I expected--then again, I was expecting to find it reduced to bits and pieces of metal, so finding a jacked-up hood isn't much of a consolation, is it? As for the back of my car, the trunk compartment was still there but the parts underneath it were gone, and one of my back tires was deflated and missing its hubcap. There was more damage than what I'm describing, but thinking about it causes diarrhea pains so I'll move on.
I was beyond pissed--and I had a whiplash-induced headache--but I managed to keep my rationality intact long enough to call the police. I've known people who were in hit-and-run accidents, and there was no way I was going to let this driver get away--not like she could since almost the entire front of her car was strewn across the freeway. Speaking of the driver, she eventually came out of her car and started talking to me...
Honestly, I wasn't registering what she was saying at first. All I could think about was, "Ugh...she's Asian." Great, just great. Not only did this hag wreck my car, but she also set all my efforts to overcome the Asian/women-bad-driving stereotype back a few years! What's the point of maintaining a pristine driving record now, right? And imagine how many people looked at us and thought, "Wow, Asians really can't drive!" As for the people in the truck my car was pushed into--they were both Mexicans. It was like living a bad joke, "So a Chinese, Korean, and two Mexicans walk into a bar..." or being at an under-publicized minority rights rally.
Anyway, the driver was trying to explain her side of the story--maybe because she thought I had the power to cut her some slack--but unfortunately, that was a judgment call I had no right to make.
Okay, okay, that's not how things really went down. The girl actually didn't say she was sorry.
I've always wondered what my guy friends meant when they said a girl's vagina was loose. I always thought the term was used when discussing skanky va-jay-jays, but apparently it is also used to describe vaginas that are literally loose.
But how do you make the determination that a particular pussy is loose or not? I've never had the opportunity to find this out for myself, so I can only assume that a vagina is loose when it has a lot of empty space--like, the lips are so saggy that they clap in the wind.
I tried to find out the truth behind this mystery by posting a question about it years ago. And I ended up with a lot of answers, but most of them were analogies. Don't get me wrong: they were extremely fun to read and did give me a basic idea of the law of looseness. The ultimate message, however, was lost on me. The analogies could only be decoded by a person who had actually been all up in someone's snatch. And that person was so not me.
A few examples of the cryptic responses:
"When there are pictures up of all the famous dicks that have eaten there."
Can you name all the Dicks featured in the drawing?
Update: No one seems to know who the first guy is...not that I blame you or anything. His name is Dick Swett. I'm not kidding! Dick Swett!
"It feels like throwing hot dogs down a hallway."
"Loose ones are like pool parties: Everyone gets to take a dip--all at the same time!"
It's really sad that such brilliant answers were wasted on my feeble mind. Really sad. But based on the analogies, I'm guessing a vagina is loose when it doesn't feel like anything when you get all up in there? You can't produce any friction? Am I kind of close? Not really?
The concept is so weird...I wonder how you guys deal with being stuck in a vaginal vortex.
I finally have the chance to write the words I’ve dreamed of typing for months:
“And we’re back!”
Ah, my Xanga cuties—I have missed you so!
I said “we’re,” but it’s just me (sorry, conspiracy theorists). Saying “And we’re back!” somehow sounds a lot better than “I’m back!” Maybe because when you see latter you immediately think of the annoying, drawn out “I’m baaaaaack!” Ugh…nails on a chalkboard, I tell you.
A brief rundown of what I’ve been doing for the past two months—I mean, besides studying all day. I grew a bar exam beaver—it’s like Conan O’Brien’s unemployment beard, except it’s in my crotch area, and black instead of orange.
And…that’s about it.
Wait, I did go to the gym every now and then to break the monotony of my daily schedule...oh, that reminds me: I need your advice on something. I had an awkward gym situation a few weeks ago and wasn’t sure how to deal with it without making things even more awkward. By the way, how many of you pictured the annoying “Jersey Shore” asshat “The Situation” when you read the word “situation”? He’s completely tainted the word now. And he’s brandishing his nickname like it’s synonymous with sex appeal, when really “The Situation” he’s bringing around is that of a fug-faced douche bag.
As I was saying: I was at the gym a few weeks ago and had a run-in with awkwardness. My equipment of choice is the stationary bike because I can play my PSP or DS while pedaling away for half an hour. On that day, however, the bikes were all taken—which didn’t settle too well with me because I was in the middle of “Assassin’s Creed: Bloodlines,” and only allowed myself to play when I was at the gym. But with all the bikes taken, I wasn't going to be able to continue Altair’s journey!
Just when I was leaving climbing onto one of the elliptical machines, an old man got up out of the bike he was using. And he noticed me right away—probably because I was giving the bike the crazy eyes and shoving people out of my way—and made a here-you-go gesture.
I went over to the station, looking all forward to killing Templars and finding their coins, and then saw this:
There were giant puddles of something on both sides of the bike. I first assumed that maybe someone had spilled water on the floor, but there wasn’t a trail of water connected to either puddle—something you’d expect to see if someone’s water bottle was knocked over. And the roof wasn’t leaking either. The puddles were just sitting there next to the bike.
Mystery puddles with no obvious source? There was only one explanation left: It was sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.
But the oceans of sweat weren’t what bothered me. I mean, they were pretty bad, but what really, really got to me was this small river of I-don't-know-what dripping from the seat:
I know we’re all individuals, but I’m pretty sure we share at least one common belief: fluid dripping from a place where butts are usually found is not okay. When a person sees that, he isn’t thinking about the possibility that the liquid is just water. No, he’s thinking, “Dude, that’s crotch water!”
And that’s exactly what I thought. Given that I was in a gym, and that the bike had just been used by someone who was standing in front of me and sweating profusely, there really wasn’t any viable alternative other than to conclude that the little river was nut sweat.
Why would I think otherwise anyway? If this man’s armpits were capable of sweating puddles, then his nuts could be just as, um, juicy? Talented?
So there I was, standing in front of the bike that was surrounded by the Sweatcific and Sweatlantic Oceans, and had sack juice/talent dripping down the seat (perhaps to form the Ball-tic Sea? Mwahaha...ugh...). I was better off using the elliptical.
But crap! The old man was still standing there, telling me I could use the bike now that he was done. Now what? I couldn’t say I didn’t want to use the bike because we did the silent “You want the bike next?”/“Sure!” thing. And I didn’t want to tell him I changed my mind because he would know why, and it might hurt his feelings—something I did not want to do. This guy wasn’t a “To Catch a Predator” old man you’d kick down a flight of stairs. He had this adorable grandpa look…the kind of look you think of whenever you imagine the perfect grandfather.
I didn’t know what to do, so I thought, “Maybe I’ll just deal with it and use the bike.” It was just sweat right? Doesn't matter that it might have come from his balls. It wasn't going to kill me or anything.
But then I was like, “What if grandpa was a ho when he was younger and got some sort of STD? Or what if grandpa’s a ho now?” In that case, even though the runoff couldn't kill me, it could be all diseasey—like a miniature Ganges River, full of particles of the dead (we are talking about an old man here) and other fetid goodies.
I stood there thinking of all the horrible possibilities while Old Man Sack River waited for me to sit down on the bike. I don't know why he was still there, but he made me feel all sorts of pressure...
Pressure? That gave me an idea. What is the middle ground between sitting on a stranger's genital sweat and hurting that person's feelings?
Making an ass of yourself, that's what. And you know what's the quickest way to pull off a self-assification? Faking a massive bowel movement.
It works every single time.
There has to be a better way out of this situation! And I know you have the answer because you're smarter and way more rational than I am. Tell me: What would have been the better course of action?!
Valentine’s Day is coming up in less than a week, and it’s got me thinking: remember that post I’d written a few years back about how I’d use tired-ass reality television show formulas to pick a potential Valentine’s Day date? I’d have a bunch of guys go through horrible Survivor-type challenges and have their performances judged by three-person panels, and then end each day with a Rose Ceremony elimination segment—except instead of roses, the guys will get kittens.
Recent events have made it apparent that some of the challenges I’d come up with in that post were ones that bordered on being cruel and unusual punishment—namely, the “Take the Bar Exam in One Day” challenge. F*ck that. Nothing in this world is worth going through that misery—especially not a date with me. And plus, it has occurred to me that the guys could end up killing themselves before the end of the day, which would be totally counterproductive considering it’s a dating show and not, I don’t know, a murder melee.
I’d definitely drop the bar exam challenge, and would probably replace it with a “Name that Kitty” quiz instead. But the guy would have to do more than just be able to name my 3 cats—although, that would probably be enough of a challenge since surprisingly, very, very few people have been able to accomplish this. That’s just sad. There are only 3 of them, and they all look different! Come on!
Anyway, my idea of a “Name that Kitty” challenge would be to throw 3 similar looking cats together, and have the guy pick which one of the 3 is the real one:
By the way, trick questions are fair game.
The “Contraction Matching” challenge stays. Everyone should consider sh*t grammar a deal-breaker.
I threw in the trap door because a lot of people suggested throwing the guys into a pit. I don’t know what would be going on down there, though, but it’d have to be something horrifying—like watching a “Hannah Montana” marathon or a few of the recent SNL episodes…Oh! You know what would be just the worst punishment ever? Watching movies based on Nicholas Sparks novels. Seriously. I bet that’s why the CIA went with waterboarding--because it was less tortuous than forcing people to watch “The Notebook.”
Honestly, though, the one thing that makes my jacked-up dating show idea even remotely appealing is having the Kitten Ceremony. And I’d make mine unbelievably kick ass—and chock-full of all the overused reality television show gimmicks no one can stand! Which is really the antithesis of kicking ass!
Tyra Banks Let-Me-State-The-Obvious Speech? Check!
Yes, his name is Mr. Porcuphine--because no reality TV dating show would be complete without sh*tty nicknames.
Cliff-hangery commercial break? Check!
Creative catch phrase? Check!
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