OrangeCountyConcepts.com

Names have been changed to protect the identity of the people in this story and because I don’t remember their actual names.

So I get a call today from a good friend of mine who works as a teacher in South Florida. She starts to tell me a story about one of the P.E. teachers at her school, we’ll call him “Rick”. Apparently, Rick was hanging out with his buddy, “Bob” who works as a caretaker for a mentally handicapped man, “Pete”, who lives on his own but depends on Bob for certain things that he cannot handle on his own.

Bob receives a call from Pete and Pete is screaming into the phone, “Bob! You need to come over right NOW! I need you to get food. I need you to go to the grocery store and bring food to my house because the gnome ate all my food and he is very hungry and very angry!”

To which Bob replies, “Pete, I will come over later, I promise, and I will bring you food.”

“NO! You need to come here right NOW with FOOD. He is very angry, the gnome is very angry.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be there soon.”

Bob hangs up the phone and turns to Rick, “Do you mind coming over there with me to check this out?”

Rick shrugs his shoulders and they hit the road.

Rick and Bob get to Pete’s bearing groceries and Pete lets them in but immediately shouts in their face, “NO ONE IS ALLOWED IN THE KITCHEN. I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN GO IN THERE. THE GNOME IS VERY ANGRY.”

Rick and Bob exchange looks.

Bob then coerces Pete into another room while Rick sneaks into the kitchen to find the refrigerator blockading the pantry.

Rick moves the refrigerator and the pantry doors fly open.

OUT POPS A MIDGET!

And he’s screaming, “I’M GONNA SUE YOU! THIS IS KIDNAPPING AND HARASSMENT! I’LL HAVE YOU ARRESTED!”

Once the “gnome” has calmed his tiny self a bit Rick and Bob discover that he is in fact a Jehovah’s Witness and he had knocked on Pete’s door three days before when Pete mistook him for a gnome, overpowered him (possibly knocked the poor little guy out), and locked him in the pantry.

I’m still waiting for details on what happened to Pete and his “gnome.”

Moral of the story: Don’t knock on stranger’s doors.

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So I’ve been racking my brain for newsworthy and interesting blog ideas and riding the fail boat all the way there. When I told Dawe I was leaving Orlando to move back to SoFlo in July, thus being unable to be a part of what is to come in the OCC future, Dawe offered me blogging rights to write some more of my “funny blogs.”

Problem: I’m not always intentionally funny. What is funny, however, is my sex life. And more recently, this tale:

I’m four Bloody Mary’s deep when it dawns on me that my current go-to guy has just moved back to his hometown of Montana. (Insert Brokeback Mountain jokes here: _______). And I think to myself, “Fuck! Meagan, you stupid bitch! You have no replacement yet.” It then occurs to me that there actually are a few options. Behind Door #1 is a dude who STILL reeks of our last AWKWARD sexual encounter, Door #2 Holds Rico Suave. We’ve hooked up and it was fun but I then remembered he was already in bed as it was a weeknight and if it’s not the weekend, he’s not livin la vida loca. Now I’m finally at Door #3, which hides a man with an amazing body but a personality that I can’t stand. I pause all of about 10 seconds before sending out a text to Door #3. Bad idea? Keep reading.

So Door #3 comes over and the conversation starts off a little something like this:

(Skipping the intro.)

Me: Go out tonight?

#3: Yeah, me and my boys went to Library.

Me: Maybe next time take your wristband off before driving, it’s basically an insta-DUI.

#3: Nah, it’s cool, I Listerene’d.

Me: Listerine is actually more potent than a beer.

#3: Oh…can you smell it?

Me: Yup.

#3: Do you want to taste it?

(Insert look of disgust and disbelief. But I was already committed, there was no turning back now or I was going to have a very unhappy “Amy” on my hands. Yes, that’s what we’re calling them these days.)

Me: I’ll give you five minutes to try again. Don’t fuck this up.

Side note: I know what you’re thinking. A. Get higher standards. B. Areyoufuckingkiddingmeguy?! C. I’m already over reading this shit, you’re dumb.

My reply: A. He’s cut and good-looking, B. See A., C. Maybe, but I knew that already.

(Skip ahead to the point where I give up on a worthwhile panty-dropping line.)

#3: I’m gonna take off my shirt.

Me: Okay, “Simon Says”.

#3: This would probably be easier without my pants.

Me: I’ll officially be changing your name in my phone to “Captain Obvious”.

(He then retreats to my bathroom and exits wearing nothing but socks and, from what I can smell, a strawberry condom.)

What follows is the worst part. For some, the funniest bit of these 500 words of possible torture: He then takes himself, socks and red rocket, and stands, using my bed frame as a prop, and arranges himself proudly in the Captain Morgan Stance.

Game over? Almost, but not quite.

Me: Areyoufuckingkiddingmeguy?!

#3: I’m just being silly, it’s funny.

Me: It’s not funny time, it’s sexy time and THAT is NOT sexy.

#3: Don’t you think I’m sexy?

Me: You’re sexy when you’re silent.

(Fast forward. Sex over. T.V. on. I’m brushing my teeth.)

Me: (Yaaaaaaawn) I’m really tired.

#3: Me too, this guy on this show is so stupid like “Oooooh, look, I’m going to solve this murder with maaaaaath”

Side note:If you know me well enough, you know I love crime-drama more than you love your dog.

Me: I’m going to need you to stop talking, again.

(#3 then tries to arrange a spoon positioning between the two of us when I strong arm him in the chest)

Me: I DON’T cuddle.

#3: Oh, look at you, Ms. Alpha Bitch, “I don’t cuddle. Don’t make fun of my shows or I’ll kick you out.”

Me: Actually, I can’t sleep with anyone in my bed.

#3: Oh, I get it. I’ll leave if you want me to…but I’d really like to see the end of this show.

Me:  Ugh, whatever.

#3: We should do this again.

Me: Sure.

#3: Really? Like now?

Me: I’m tired, I want to go to sleep.

#3: Come onnnnnn.

Me: On one condition.

#3: (Puzzled look)

Me: You leave RIGHT after.

#3: Jeeze, okay…

Show’s over. Both of them.

#3: (On the way to the door) We should do this again.

Me: I’ll call you. (I close the door in his face)

P.s. The second condom was Orange. Enjoy.

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The “Classy” trio has finally made it onto “The Dirty” and it’s raining hate.

I commented on the actual blog (http://thedirty.com/2009/12/31/three-duck-faced-friends/) but I missed really ranting so much that I decided to post a little somethin-somethin here.

First of all, I love that “stripper” has become an insult. Last time I checked a stripper is a woman who gets paid to show off her body. Tell me you don’t wish you could get a pay stub for all the times you’ve been naked in public places or homes that are not yours. Also, GOOD LUCK finding a girl who has never EVER done the “duck-face” in a picture.

I’ve seen drunker, skankier, and more violent bitches not only on the streets and dirty college bars of Orlando but in many other cities as well. And I’m SURE you have, too.

They may be crazy, but I guarantee that they have a better time, more drinks bought for them and more friends than you do.

All of you who say they’re busted are probably just bitter because even if all three of them were being their normal “classy” selves (i.e. falling on the floor wasted, fighting other drunk bitches and getting kicked out), they wouldn’t fuck you, let alone rub you the wrong way.

I hope they continue to make the “duck-face” and I hope whoever sent in that post finally gets laid and stops watching everyone else live their own lives around him.

P.S. Nik, they wouldn’t fuck you, either. (Neither would I and I’m pretty easy.)

<3 M

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So it seems that some of you have yet to become acquainted with the “bastard step child of irony”. From reactions across Facebook, Twitter and dare I say it, even the blogs of OrangeCountyConcepts.com it has become very apparent that some of you JUST DON’T GET IT. After coming to this conclusion I said to myself, “Meagan, you have yet to do your good deed of the day. And this deed has the potential to help more than just one poor soul, it can help many!” So here it is, kiddies:

The technical definition from Miriam-Webster Dictionary:

1. a sharp and often satirical or ironic utterance designed to cut or give pain
2. a mode of satirical wit depending for its effect on bitter, caustic, and often ironic language that is usually directed against an individual
3. the use or language of sarcasm

Made easier to understand by Urban Dictionary: (Just in case you had to look up any of the words in the previous definition.)

1. Your body’s natural defense against stupid.
2. Noun. A very British form of humor which derives laughs from saying something while really meaning something else. Often (though not always, contrary to popular belief) used in scathing remarks. The word ‘Sarcasm’ is derived from a Greek word meaning ‘tearing flesh’.
3. Gift for intelligent, ability to compose messages which questions another’s intellect.
4. To say the opposite of what is obvious.
5. With the use of it any word can be turned into a fuck you statement with undertones of absolute contempt.
6. The only language I speak.

I can only hope that this will aide the unfortunate individuals who have been left behind when entering a conversation filled with sarcastic remarks, those who attempt to retort the users of sarcasm with nonsensical bullshit and also those who choose to comment on Facebook, Twitter and the blogs of OrangeCountyC0ncepts.com.

Keep it classy, kids.

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So I ventured out last night to hear some music, have a few drinks and a few laughs (all things that are good). All of a sudden I noticed something that almost made me drop my vodka-cran to the floor…


These shot girls are disgusting. Straight up f-nasty….


I want to start this off by clarifying that I am not hating on shot girls. Shit, if I looked that good I would be one, too. But I will say that there is a way to go about being a classy (the real definition of ‘classy’, not ‘OCC classy’) shot girl…unfortunately, there are some ladies who have yet to be informed.


Signs you didn’t get the memo:

• Your ass looks hungry. By that I mean you have a wedgie so severe it looks like it might need to be surgically removed.
• You’ve given body shots to multiple guys…with only seconds between customers. (Dear nameless dude, I know you saw the guy before you lick and slobber over the exact area that your tongue is currently perusing.  I’m grossed out for you.)
• You put the shot in YOUR mouth, swished it like you were fighting plaque and then proceeded to SPIT the shot into some random dude’s mouth.

I know you’re just doing your job… just keep in mind that the ladies of OBT could say the same.

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See you there ;]

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No, but seriously. This is not the beginning of anything. The beginning happened hours ago and most likely ended (hopefully) at least 45 minutes after that. So I prepared a little list of how-to’s and don’t-you-fucking-dare’s for those of you who just don’t get it. Kinda like a little “shoulda-had-a-V8″ bonk to the forehead…but less physical.

We’ve ALL been there. I don’t care if you’re too shy to admit it or if you’re “saving it for marriage” (which is a whooooole separate topic).

It’s not always with a swamp creature, but (unfortunately for you and your need for a sober fairy godmother or an AA meeting or maybe even an intervention) it has been a time or two (or more? Ugh.) before. I’ve been pretty fortunate, but I have heard some HORROR stories from some of my comrads over a few adult beverages. They always start off a little something like this…

So you’ve been drinking…and accross the bar/party/parking lot you see a little somethin’-somethin’, and you like what you see. You lay some groundwork… and then bada-bing, bada-boom it’s “your place, or mine?”

During sex…

• Do not ask if I “like that.” If you can’t tell, chances are there’s a reason. Don’t make me lie.

Fast forward to after the sex…if it’s not time for more sex, it’s sleepy time.

• No, you can’t sleep on my side of the bed. I’m still trying to figure out why you’re sleeping here at all…
• You’re snoring. AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDINGME, guy?! How the hell am I supposed to sleep when you’re conducting the nasal cavity symphony in B minor not even a foot from my face!?
• You’re touching me. I’m trying to sleep. Stop that.
• Again…I’m trying to sleep and you want to play get-to-know-ya games. Why? Do you like wasting your time?? Let’s be serious…tomorrow you will be nothing more than “what’s-his-face.” If anything you will be dubbed an unfortunate and unflattering nick-name (See: Inky-Binky-Winky) that my friends and I will reference for a good laugh.
• You’re a kicker or toss-and-turn-er. Seriously, leave. NOW. Before I let the thought of smothering you with a pillow cross my mind…AGAIN.

Fast forward to sunrise… Don’t overstay your welcome.

• The sun’s up and you’re not…why?
• I’m serious…it’s now 10 A.M. …DOUBLE DIGITS!!! Don’t you have somewhere else to be?
• Your exit should be as mysterious as possible. I want to wake up and think I had sex with Houdini.
• NO, I WILL NOT MAKE OUT WITH YOU. One word: MORNINGBREATH (Yes, that can be one word…if given the right emphasis.)
• DO NOT LINGER.
• Get your belongings and go. Do not start small talk. I don’t care that you are super excited to go fishing/camping/clubbing/visit your family next weekend.
• Speaking of belonings, don’t leave anything behind. I don’t need a memento.
• Don’t leave evidence. Hickeys are for middle-schoolers who make-out in a movie theatre that their parents dropped them off at on a Friday night. If I have a hickey and I don’t know about it yet…RUN.

Any questions?

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