How not to kill a fly: A Life Lesson

I’m going to start out this post by fully admitting the following: I have NO idea whether cans of Raid include a warning that one ought not to spray the product on flying insects.

(But if they don’t, they should.)

Shortly after getting home a couple of nights ago, I was in my kitchen, doing my very favorite thing: Namely, catching out the cockroaches who were ambling around the apartment in my absence and spraying them with Raid. (Kills On Contact!!!) I shouldn’t take so much pleasure in this, I know. It’s a little bit sick. But I love—LOVE!—rounding the corner, can in hand, finger on the aerosol trigger, and seeing the stricken looks on their little cockroach faces as they realize that they’ve made a terrible mistake, that they were careless and cocky, and that now, They Are Going To Die.

The problem with my latest can of Raid is that, for whatever reason, it’s not entirely effective. Trust me, this matters later on. I used to have this way-potent one (it was called “Natural Formula” and smelled a little like cloves), and just one blast of the stuff was enough to knock even the big cockroaches onto their backs, where they’d shudder and die within a matter of seconds. But this new Raid—which smells like paint thinner—isn’t quite as powerful, and the bugs tend to stumble around the apartment like tiny, shiny winos on an Arbor Mist spree, wandering in circles and then falling onto their backs, where they wave their legs around for awhile and eventually die. It takes about five minutes. But that just adds to the entertainment value… like in movies, where the baddest of the bad guys has to go through a ridiculously elaborate death sequence in which he’s set on fire and then shot and hanged and then, just when you think he’s totally gone, he comes running back out of a dark corner but accidentally impales himself on a rake or something. That’s high drama.

Anyway, after about ten minutes the floor was littered with greasy little carcasses, and I was crouching next to the stove watching the final throes of one particularly huge roach, who I’d nicknamed “Chester”, when something flew past my ear. I looked up, and sitting on the counter was a giant, ugly fly.

That smug bastard. He sat on the counterop and glared at me, as if to say, “You might be able to catch the roaches, but I’m different. And I’m going to vomit on here, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” It made me angry. I had no swatter. I was never going to catch him. But I did have the Raid… so I sprayed him with it.

Dear readers, if you heed one word of advice from all I’ve written here, let it be this: Do not spray a flying insect with Raid. Here is why.

The fly launched himself into the air at approximately 5,000 miles per hour and careened wildly all over the kitchen, slamming into the cupboards and the walls. He cracked the window! Smoke was coming out of his eye! And he was screaming!!! I ducked as he whizzed past my head, he smacked into one of the kitchen cabinets and fell to the ground. One of his wings fell off! His other eye caught fire, but he wasn’t done yet! Even in the throes of death, he was determined to keep flying!

A Fact I Did Not Know Before: A fly with one wing cannot actually fly.

He started spinning, violently-- unable to get off the ground, he came zooming across the floor like a hockey puck at Mach 3, I couldn’t jump out of the way, he got stuck between my toes, and now I was screaming, the fly was screaming and on fire, the window was broken, I was leaping around the kitchen and trying to dislodge him from my toe, until, FINALLY, he slipped free and fell to the floor.

Vivian came running into the room and ate him in 2 seconds flat.

I caused this fly a prolonged, agonized, and undignified death, and I’m ashamed. But I’m also grateful, because if any of you have ever considered spraying a fly with Raid just to see what happens, I can tell you in no uncertain terms that it will end badly, and with wanton destruction to your apartment.

R.I.P.

Publicystic fibrosis

One of the more irritiating things about working in PR— aside from having to maintain a kind of manic perkiness during the workday that most people can’t achieve without cocaine— is making “pitch calls”.

For those who don’t know, this is where I telephone a journalist and attempt to persuade him to cover a story of which he is probably already aware, and about which he has no interest in writing. Some parts of my job are fun. This isn’t one of them. This is one of the things that make publicists so despicable; we’re like a Manolo-clad subset of the species Used-Car Salesman. (That’s if we’re lucky, by the way—if you work for non-profits, like me, then you probably don’t own Manolos. Of if you do, you either got them at a sample sale, or they were a gift from some rich, lonely accountant-type in a sweater-and-tie combo who saw you looking longingly in the window of Bergdorf-Goodman and took a special kind of New York City Pity on you. Which is another story that I ought to tell sometime.)

Anyway, back to the point of my story: pitching is the pits. If I’m lucky, the person on the other end of the call realizes that I already know how annoying I am, and allows me to finish without getting angry or hanging up on me. If I’m unlucky, I get harangued for so obnoxiously wasting their time. And if I’m really, reeeeeally unlucky, I just embarrass the shit out of myself.

A conversation with a Northeastern newspaper, in One Act

Operator (a woman who, although I can’t see her, has a lunch-lady voice that convinces me she must be wearing a hairnet and holding the phone in a latex-gloved hand): New England Patriot-Ledger.

Kat: Hi, may I speak with Arts Editor John Smithson, please?

Operator: He retired.

Kat: Oh, I’m sorry, I--

Operator: Five years ago.

Kat: Um.... Geez, I’m sorry, our records must be out of date. Well, ok, may I speak to Viola Johnson, your travel editor, instead?

Operator: SHE’S DEAD.

(stricken silence)

Kat: I… Oh my God, I’m sorry.

Operator: Don’t worry, we’re over it. She died in 1985.

Kat: Wow, this is really embarrassing.

Operator: I’ll say.

Kat: Is there anyone el—

Operator: No.

Kat. But—

Operator: (muttering) @$%#! publicist. [click]

Upstate embarrassment

I know some people who are really proud of their hometowns. They come from places with good schools, winning pro sports teams, fun shopping districts. Places that get written up in the New York Times with headlines like “An Ocean View” or “Organic Heaven”.

I envy them.

I'm from Coxsackie, New York.




Yes, that’s right. Coxsackie. (Which, for the record, is pronouned “cook-SOCK-eeeeee”. But I know that you-all will continue to prounce it that other way, which is fine, because it deserves it.)

Coxsackie is a sort of typical small town—pretty white, pretty blue-collar, pretty farms with pretty cows. In certain ways, it's quite nice, emblematic of a way of life that’s near-extinct in our dangerous, modern times… in a people-don’t-lock-their-doors, everyone-knows-your-name kind of way.

In other ways…. well, check this.

You rarely see anything even remotely related to Coxsackie in the mainstream press, but sometimes you’ll see little tidbits about upstate life in general that feature the surrounding counties, and such. So I was very excited when today, in the New York Times “Most Emailed” list, I saw this headline:

In Tiny Courts of N.Y., Abuses of Law and Power

Scandalous! And, having grown up in (and surrounded by) little towns with teeny-tiny courts just like that, I was really interested to see exactly what was being said. So, within a couple of minutes, I’m keenly following all the details about abuses of power by local judges who are too inexperienced/ignorant/mean to care about upholding the law. Anecdotally speaking, a lot of this stuff is pretty horrifying. But I’m glad to see that they’ve taken time to get to the root of the problem:

“For the nearly 75 percent of justices who are not lawyers, the only initial training is six days of state-administered classes, followed by a true-or-false test so rudimentary that the official who runs it said only one candidate since 1999 had failed. A sample question for the justices: “Town and village justices must maintain dignity, order and decorum in their courtrooms” — true or false?”

Well, that explains a lot! Obviously, there need to be some higher standards than an idiotic true-false test to determine who holds a position in small town courts. But seriously, someone actually failed this thing? What kind of complete asshole would be that clueless? Where would you have to go, to find somebody that asinine?

“In the Catskills, Stanley Yusko routinely jailed people awaiting trial for longer than the law allows — in one case for 64 days because he thought the defendant had information about vandalism at the justice’s own home, said state officials, who removed him as Coxsackie village justice in 1995. Mr. Yusko was not even supposed to be a justice; he had actually failed the true-or-false test.”

Oh.... right. I've got hometown pride. The kind that makes you want to rip your hair out.

The Tale of the Weather Roach

My job has been keeping me busy, busy, busy. I have every intention of writing something very entertaining this weekend—something that will BLOW YOUR MIND, BABY!—but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy the following clip...

...But first, a little backstory: This video makes me very nostalgic as I used to have a roommate—Stephen was his name— who talked just like this weather man. Stephen was from Virginia. And fabulous. And really, really gay. And when he opened his mouth, whatever came out was so astonishingly homosexual that you could practically see a rainbow-colored flag unfurl as he spoke. It was great. A typical exchange between the two of us would go something like this.

Stephen: Hey, huuuuuun?

Kat: Yes?

Stephen: Can I wear my Dior rhinestone cuff with this outfit? Or is that too gay?

Kat: Come in here, let me see.

(Stephen ambles into room wearing drawstring camo shorts--over the waistband of which protrude three visible inches of bikini-briefs printed with pictures of rocket ships-- with sequined flip-flops and a bright yellow t-shirt that says “YEAR OF THE COCK!”)

Kat: Oh my god.

Stephen: Wait, are you getting dressed? Let me help!

Kat: No, really, that’s ok, I think I—

Stephen: I’m gonna make you look soooooooooo cute! What are you wearing, a white tank top? Oh my god, wait—PUT A BLACK BRA UNDERNEATH IT.

Kat: I think you should wear the Dior.


Stephen eventually tired of having anal sex with anonymous men in my spare room, fell in love with a nice boy from North Carolina, and moved back down south. Where, last I heard, they were living in complete bliss with a Russian Wolfhound and a French Bulldog named—respectively—Christian and Dior. (What’s that saying about stereotypes being based in truth?) But anyway, seeing this made me think of him. I really hope he’s still wearing that rhinestone cuff.

And now, without further ado, I give you… The Terrifying Weather Roach.

Drinking with the stars

I love these ads:

Perform a ridiculously simple task and win an astronomically expensive toy, you say? (The only one better is “Stomp the spider and win a free iPod Nano!”, which I usually go ahead and take advantage of—not because I believe that I’ll win a Nano, but because the virtual spider is just as gross as, if not grosser than, a real spider, and icky things should always be squashed. Even on the internet.)

But then I realized that this particular game is rigged, and it has nothing to do with filling out an endless advertising survey after you flip that bad boy into the shot glass. This is no ordinary game of quarters, my friend. Why?

Because this is Celebrity Quarters.


First off, Julianne Moore is flirting with you. Yikes. That’s distracting.

And—oh God— John Cusack has his hands in his pants.

And even if Lusty Redhead and Groping Cusack don’t faze you, and you manage to flip the quarter…

Sigourney Weaver’s retarded twin sister will probably catch it midair and eat it.

And if she doesn’t—if, in fact, you land the shot and collect your Playstation amid much rejoicing—if, God forbid, Julianne Moore makes out with you and John Cusack removes his hands from his pants to applaud and Sigourney Weaver comes to pick up her sister and take her home for some ice cream and cartoons...

Robert Downey, Jr. is about one beer away from clocking you with his stein, screaming, “What did you think this was, motherfucker—Dancing With the Stars?!!!”, and then stealing your PS3 to sell it for coke while you lie on the ground, sobbing quietly and wishing like hell that you’d just stuck to playing FreeCell.

Political ideology and shagging, Part II

A few days ago, I joined up at ConservativeMatch.com with the express purpose of mocking out the profiles of the various Bible-thumping, woman-hating gents who I was sure would be populating such a site.

I was pretty chagrined to find that, overall, none of them were remotely obnoxious enough to make fun of in a public forum.

But then, I had the good fortune to stumble across this guy:

(Yes, I know, you're shocked-- shocked!-- that this man could be a jackass. He doesn't remotely look the part. I know. But just remember, my child, that the face of an angel may only be a mask for a tarnished and unlovely soul.)

What makes this suspicious-looking fellow such a turkey, you ask? His profile contained so much nuttiness that I had a hard time deciding which bits I should post.

There was this:

Ethnic Background: Native American (meaning I was born in this great country as a white male christian and I'll be d@mned if I am going to let some pinko commie liberal tell me that I'm not a Native American).

And this:

Seeking: I am looking for a white, christian woman. No fatties please. I know that sounds harsh but there are no lies in my heart-you must look presentable. I love redheads and blondes, and if you are a burnette we'll email and see where it goes. My perfect date understands that the man is the man, as the bible says, and a woman is a woman, as the bible saids. Make me dinner and I will buy you clothes.

Well, ok then. I...

About Me: Im a conservative. I believe in our constituion. I believe the liberalism should be outlawed and all violators shipped to France, Cuba, Canada, etc... I plan on starting LiberalAir with one way flights to the destinations. My favorite conservative voices in order of their greatness are Ann Coulter (who knows the roles of women) Sean Hannity, and Rush Limbaugh.

Um. What can I say? Ladies, this man is single. You'd better snatch him up quick, before someone else does! (You might want to get tested for "the liberalism" first, though, lest you find yourself on a one-way flight to the godforsaken land of.... France.)

McGreevey. All over your face.

Oh, Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim. This just devastates me in so many ways.

"We undressed and he kissed me. It was the first time in my life that a kiss meant what it was supposed to mean — it sent me through the roof. I was like a man emerging from 44 years in a cave to taste pure air for the first time, feel direct sunlight on pallid skin, warmth where there had only ever been a bone-chilling numbness... I pulled him to the bed and we made love like I'd always dreamed: a boastful, passionate, whispering, masculine kind of love."

--excerpt from Former Governor James "Gay American" McGreevey's new book

I'm not devastated for the reasons you might think. I'm glad that Governor McGreevey found love. Whispering, masculine, gay, gay love. And I feel sorry that, at what was certainly an already difficult and terrible time in his life, McGreevey's lover then tried to blackmail him. That was wrong. No, it isn't McGreevey's sweet homosexual romance-on-the-rocks that upsets me so much.

It's that he didn't bust out any of the homoerotic hotness when he spoke at my college graduation, three years ago.

McGreevey, I feel so betrayed by you. You got up on stage and rambled for over 25 minutes without ever forming one complete thought. Your speech was a poorly-constructed sham, heavy on quotes from Machiavelli (of all people!), chasing itself in time-killing circles and never drawing a single conclusion about how we, the class of 2003, should conduct ourselves as we left the halls of academia and entered the cold, cruel world. And now I discover that, deep inside, you were harboring a narrative that reads like the love child of Anais Nin and Penthouse Letters?

What about our needs, Jim? What about the sea of hung-over graduates who stood before you on that day, desperately hoping for erudite, original, even entertaining words to fall sweetly on our overeducated ears? Where was your boastful passion then, JIM?! What about our own pallid skin-- skin that yearned for the warmth of a graduation speech as it was meant to be?!!!

Of course, I understand now that you were suffering the torments of your own demons, borrowing the words of Machiavelli and others, because all of your own were stolen by a love that dare not speak its name.

But seriously, your speech? Just one reference to the "tormented tenseness of his tumescent manhood" would have made that sucker fly.

Political ideology and shagging

While researching articles today, I came across a banner ad that caught my eye.


(Oh, I hear you, sister. Can’t stand those liberal guys—they’re always doing crazy stuff, like advocating for universal health care. Or expecting me to have a job. A girl can only take so much!)

But this is a tad odd, isn’t it? Aren’t conservatives always talking about how the vast majority of Americans share their views? Family values, and all that? If most people in this country are conservative, does Miss White Supremacy over there really need a conservative-specific website to help her find someone to date?





Well, apparently so. Welcome, kids, to ConservativeMatch.com!

You have to give them some points for creative marketing. I wish I could come up with a tagline like that.

So I was pretty curious about what sort of singles would specifically join a conservative dating site. Yeah, yeah, I’m liberal-leaning, but I don’t like fighting about it, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before I sign up for BushHaterHookups.com, or whatever. So, seriously, ConservativeMatch.com??? Who are these people?

Well, Sadly, it turns out that you can’t view anyone’s full profile without signing up for an account yourself. But I browsed around a bit, becoming more intrigued by the minute. This place sure is conservative! Right down to the site-specific, "Conservative Match Magazine".

(If you can't see that, the top one says, "In the first of a two-part series, Stephanie Wood explores the benefits of a long distance relationship, and reaches into Scripture to encourage readers to be bold."... And Jesus did say unto them, that to board an airplane in the name of finding conservative love is good in the eyes of the Lord. Amen.)

Well, with my curiosity now raging, I took the obvious next step… I signed up.

The first part was simple and didn’t set off any red flags—pick a username, tell us how old you are, pick a password. The only little-bit-funny part was that one of the options in the marital status drop-down menu was “Annulled”. Hee.

But then, I got to the section called "beliefs". And things got interesting.

Agree/disagree?

The homosexual lifestyle is immoral.

Sex outside of marriage is immoral.

Pornography is immoral and harmful.

Prayer should be permitted in public schools.

Whoa.

And then...

Agree/disagree?

All men are created equal regardless of race, gender, or nationality.

What???

Gee, I’m really not sure about this one. I mean, a lot of brown people are inferior to us, aren’t they? If you have one guy who’s running around in a forest wearing a loincloth and speaking some language that isn’t English and eating things he finds under rocks, and another guy who wears nice, real clothes that he bought at Walmart on sale and drives a truck and knows to order a Supersize meal because it’s such a better value (duh!), then obviously the first guy can’t be equal to the second guy. If he was equal, he would have been smart and come to America where you don’t have to eat bugs or speak weird languages and can wear something other than burlap, for God’s sake. You can’t argue with that. Because it’s science.

Also, “all men are created equal regardless of… gender” seems like it might be a trick question.

Anyway.

So here I am, set up and ready to go on a nice, conservative date with a nice, conservative boy. (Well, sort of… I didn’t really fill out the profile, I just put in some standard stuff and went straight into “Search for Singles” mode because I was just. That. Excited.) So, I entered some criteria— gentlemen between 23 and 26 who are over 5’6 and identify themselves as “Very conservative”—and click “search”.

Three things jump out at me right away:

• A preponderance of mullets.
• Serious over-representation of Mel Gibson in the “favorite actors” category.
• Lines like this: “I'm seeking someone who is a conservative Christian and who puts God first in her life, and will put her husband and family second.”
• And this: “I listen to Rush Limbaugh just about ever single day.”
• A lot of cowboy hats.
• A lot of military garb.
• One black person. (ONE!!!)

But, worst of all…

Only a few of these guys are really peculair, some are actually cute, and none of them are really big enough assholes to make fun of.*

Damnit. I hate when I go to exploit the biases of other people, and then just end up learning something about my own, instead.

*Update: Wait, I found one!!! Keep an eye out for the next update.

When nerds get sinister

This is just about the only way you could get me to watch Star Trek, too.



Fortunately, the girl managed to outsmart her kidnapper by telling him that she was a Level 9 wizard with ninja capabilities. And then stabbing him to death with his own pocket protector.

Why you shouldn't let France borrow your toys

PARIS, Sept. 8, 2006—Human error led to the shattering of a fragile artwork on loan from the United States, while the reason for the loss of another piece was unknown, Paris' Pompidou Center said yesterday.

(full article here.)

Geez, this is so like the French, isn’t it? Borrowing things and then not even having the decency to hang them properly. Oh, sure, France, it was an accident. You’re so sorry, standing their in your snide couture and your cute little beret. Just a guess, but I’ll bet the discovery of the accident went something like this:

Curator #1: Sacrebleu! Zee art-worhk, she eez broken!
Curator #2: Mon dieu! How will we tell zee United States?
Curator #1: I have zee pehr-fect idea! We will send zem a box of cheese-buhr-gers to distract them from ze tragedy.
Curator #2: Ooh la la! It is ze best idea! And zen we willl blame ze whole incident on ghosts!
Curator #1: Stupid Americans! Ha! Ha! Jean-Luc Picard, you are ze smartest man in ze world.
Curator #2: Merci, Jaques Cousteau.
Curator #1: Boeuf.
Curator #2: Oui.

You think I’m kidding about the ghosts thing.
Well, yeah, I kind of am. But I’m also kind of… not.

Four visitors and a museum guard testified that no one touched the work before it fell, the Paris museum said.
''Despite a close and thorough investigation, the cause of the incident cannot be unequivocally determined,'' Racine said.


Sound familiar? Have you seen “Poltergeist”?, complete with the final hands-in-the-air, “Beats me!” conclusion drawn by the museum director. All we need is for Tangina Barrons to show up at the Pompidou Center, waving her hands in the air, claiming that the whole structure was built on an ancient Indian burial ground and that Jacques Chirac is a clairvoyant savant.

Something really gross happened on Wednesday night

The backstory: For those who don’t know, I have this cat. Her name is Vivian Leigh, She’s old-ish, her legs don’t really work, and sometimes she pees on the rug. But I love her anyway.

Most of the time.

Cats are alright pets. You can leave them alone all day, they don’t go for walks, and they don’t drool. But sometimes, especially at night, they do go totally batshit crazy and start barreling around like unstoppable, furry juggernauts. So I wasn’t totally surprised when Vivian started cavorting around the apartment around 1:30am, running in and out of the room and making a fucking ton of noise. I tried to sleep while this was going on, periodically sitting up to throw socks at her and hissing, “God damnit! Calm the fuck down!!!” before dozing back off until the next giant crash as the cat richocheted off the television, punched holes in the walls, and tore the couch to shreds. (My boyfriend, who sleeps so soundly that I could host a breakdance party on the bed without him waking up, slumbered on in total oblivion.)

After two hours of insanity (during which the cat actually opened the door three times when I tried to shut her out of the room), Viv finally got tired of running back and forth, climbed up onto my stomach, and started purring. I lifted up my head to see if she was going to sleep, and saw to my great relief that she was lying down with her head on her paws. She’d even brought one of my socks up onto the bed with her. Awww, I thought, that’s cute. But, it was lying on my chest, so I went to pick it up and throw it in the hamper.

I touched it.

It was NOT a sock.

I flipped the light on.

There was an enormous dead mouse resting on my sternum.

“Oh my God,” I said. Dave, who up to this point was still fast asleep, picked his head up.
“Wha?” he said.
“Vivian killed a mouse,” I said. “It’s… on me.” Dave got out of bed and looked at me, at the corpse on my chest, and then at me again.
“Oh,” he said, and then, “Well, ok, I have to pee.” And he left.

My boyfriend left me lying in bed with a deceased rodent draped over my decolletage.

I’m grateful for the perspective, really. The whole “you left the toilet seat up” thing suddenly just doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

Please remove your appendage from my head

The place: Off the Wagon, Macdougal Street @ Bleecker

The party: After-work happy hour populated by miscellaneous suited men drinking beer straight from the pitcher

The problem: Large-sized member of the aforementioned crowd decides that I’d look good as an armrest




This happens to all short people, right? (Right???) You’re just standing there, minding your own business, and some big oaf next to you decides that the top of your little head looks so damned inviting that it would be a crime for it to go untouched. And plop, they go ahead and just throw their enormous forearm all over you, and you look up at them, and they give you a big grin usually accompanied by a statement like, “I can’t help it! You’re just so tiny!”

(Note: I kind of, sort of understand this. Even at 5’3, I still have a couple friends who are significantly smaller than me. And I’m always trying to curb myself from picking them up, throwing them around, patting their cute little heads, etc. I can’t help it! You’re just so…. Yeah. But still.)

But really, guys, we need to work something out here. I’ve long since given up on growing tall enough to avoid this, and it’s a little odd to turn around at that top-of-the-head touch and find that I’ve just put my face into the wide-open armpit of someone I don’t know. Not to mention that your oily arm-pores are making a mess of my hair. So from now on, I plan to:

1. Wear a horned helmet to any/all bar-specific social events.

2. Retaliate in kind by whacking the big guy with a sledgehammer and-- as he clutches what remains of his sternum and falls to the floor-- shrieking, “I can’t help it! You’re just so sturdy!!!”

Have you seen this woman?

Sure, you have! She's Janice "Dorothy Hamill never rocked this haircut so good" McSweeney*, the Classmates.com go-to girl when they want to express shocked surprise that ugly people can have normal lives, too. (Ok, so maybe the model thing is a bit of a stretch. But I mean, skinny is the main criterion for that, and you can't even see her body, so who knows.)

God damn your superficiality, Classmates.com! That girl could be desirable for a thousand reasons that have nothing to do with her physical appearance (intelligence, wit, gives a great blowjob, etc). And for all we know, her body is slammin'. Why can't she be a model and get married? And I don't think that Mr. Feathered-Hair-and-Earnest-Eyes is such a fucking fabulous catch, either. He looks like this kid from my high school named Adrian Honn (not his real name, but if you're good with anagrams, I bet you can figure it out), who told us all during a game of Truth or Dare that he'd lost his virginity at age 15 to a nameless "college girl", and then offered to advise any of the other slack-jawed young gentlemen present on "techniques to please a woman". Of course, we all felt horribly inadequate and completely baffled at living in a world where college girls would sleep with Adrian Honn while the rest of us were left to dry-hump each other on rec room couches. (Not that I ever did that.)

Of course, Adrian Honn was lying. He had never had sex with anyone. I know this, because he sent me a frantic instant message at the end of senior year, confessing that he had no idea how to even have sex and begging me to unburden him from the terrible weight of his still-intact virginity. Being a good friend, I said no and then proceeded to forward his IM to all our mutual acquaintances.

Anyway, Classmates.com, the point is: Adrian Honn was an asshole. And so are you.

*I have no idea what her name is, really. But whoever she is, I hope they're paying her good money for this.