I used to think I had game, but that was until someone informed me that “your ass is grass” is not an effective pickup line, even when coupled with the Roger Rabbit or the Electric Slide. Wish I knew this before I spent 6 hours studying “Bring It On.” Now what am I supposed to do with my awesome Jazz Hands skills?

Being unable to charm my way into a guy’s heart without looking like a desperate loser or creepy pervert, I’ve had to rely on traditional methods–not the one where you knock guys out with a club because that just makes them angry when they regain consciousness. I’m talking about that other traditional method: good, old fashioned hotness. It’s way more tedious, but at least I won’t get sued again!

I work my physical appearance the way everyone else does: nice clothes and makeup. I might even take a shower if I’m really determined to meet someone. I generally enjoy making the most of my looks even when I’m not prowling for man meat, because I don’t get to do it very often. Outside of school and the once-in-a-lifetime social outing, I remain indoors in my true form: wrinkly old bag. So it’s really a treat to be made up; meeting a guy is actually just an added perk. 

When I am able to trap a guy, the dating part is always pretty fun. It’s when we advance to boyfriend-girlfriend status that things get complicated. The transition is automatic and always, always, starts with a request for me to stop being hot. Even though my appearance is what brought us together in the first place, the first thing most of my boyfriends have tried to do was get me to stop taking care of myself. I call it “Girlfriend Uglification.”

Girlfriend Uglification is practiced by douchie guys who believe they are unable to keep their girlfriends in the relationship, yet don’t want to put in the effort to get her to stay. They instead use their energy to turn their girlfriends into frumps that no man would bother hitting on–thereby cutting off potential competition and further ensuring that their lazy, undeserving asses will have women who love them.

I have been uglified before, and it was horrible. But I gave in because my then-boyfriend admitted he was insecure and did not want other guys looking at me. I thought it was very sweet of him to be so honest–until I caught him checking out another girl. Oh hell no! I’m walking around the mall in this ugly ass burlap sack you told me to wear because you said it would put your mind at ease, and you have the nerve to look at a chick who I would be way hotter than if your testicles hadn’t shriveled and died?! Looks like I get to make use of all the time I spent studying “Bring It On” afterall–because I am going to shove my fists up your ass and tear you open with my Jazz Hands!

Yes, I really hate Girlfriend Uglification. I already spend 80% of the year looking like a tore up banshee, so I’ve got to get my pretty on as often as possible during the remaining 20%. Plus, I know how this age thing works: I’m not going to have this body or face forever, and there is no way Botox will be enough to lift my raisiny body. Therefore, unless beauty trends change to where I’ll be able to attract lovers despite my saggy, 84-year-old boobs and crap-filled diaper, the only way I will put up with Girlfriend Uglification is if the boyfriend cuts his nads off. You heard me: old bag + eunuch = love.

When I was 5 years old, I watched my neighbor’s sister’s friend’s cousin’s classmate’s friend’s acquaintance get trampled by an angry elephant. The experience was so traumatic that it prompted me to write a few sentences which will eventually go into my memoir–probably in the chapter where I talk about the time I flew into space in a cardboard box. I hope my story will help me make millions of dollars and give people advice on how to visit Saturn in a hobo’s bedroom, or what to do when they watch someone get owned by an angry elephant.

Of course none of that stuff is true, but you no longer need to base a memoir–which is “an account of the author’s personal experiences”–on personal experiences. Just ask James Frey (fake hardcore criminal), Laura Albert (fake tranny), Misha Defonseca (fake Holocaust survivor), and Margaret B. Jones (fake Bloods member). Fake memoirs are hot! Real ones are not!

No matter how lame these losers are, you have to give them credit for realizing that their lives were not worth writing about unless they included fantastic embellishments. If Mischa Defonseca wrote about being a Belgian Catholic whose parents were resistance fighters, i.e., her true life story, I’d be all like, “ew, yawn snooze!” Lucky for me, she instead wrote about her experiences as a Jewish Holocaust survivor who was adopted by a pack of wolves–much more entertaining stuff, and apparently highly believable because her “autobiography” has been translated into 18 different languages and made into a movie. Oh yeah, and she won $22.5 million dollars in damages after she sued her publisher for–get this–“willfully and knowingly [engaging] in unfair and deceptive acts and practices”! Talk about getting bit in the ass! Not only did the publisher find it realistic that this woman was roaming around with “friendly” wolves, it also has to pay her for such a stupid story! The woman’s got balls of titanium! Where do I sign up for her fan club?

Just last week Margaret B. Jones, who wrote a book on her life as a drug dealer for the Bloods, admitted that she has zero street cred. She claimed to have grown up in the ghetto–when in reality, she was a Valley girl who was brought up by her wealthy, biological parents and attended some upscale private school. Now I might be wrong, but I don’t think living in Sherman Oaks is the same as living in South Central L.A. But that’s a non-issue; the real issue is: what the f*ck was she doing lying about being in the Bloods? You should not mess with gangs, people, just like you should not mess with elderly drivers, stressed out law school students, or people with explosive diarrhea. Definitely avoid the explosive diarrhea group because we will stomp you if you get between us and a toilet.

I wonder why these authors couldn’t just call their fiction “fiction.” Does it look bad if you write fiction? Is there a stigma? Do nonfiction writers get VIP rooms in strip clubs or something?

Or maybe the fake memoir people are like me, who sometimes get “fiction” and “nonfiction” confused–like the time I referenced “Jurassic Park” in my report on dinosaurs. I should have gotten an A on that one. It’s not like anyone could prove velociprators didn’t attack slow moving tour vehicles during the Cretaceous Period.

Xanga and I are celebrating our five year anniversary today–even though (1) Xanga probably doesn’t know this, and (2) our actual anniversay date was January 31. I forgot my profile had that “Member since” thing, and was just going to go by the date of my first post–March 3, 2003 (it is long gone for your protection). But let’s pretend I’m not an idiot so that I may still have something to write about.

My relationship with Xanga started five years ago. Most of my friends had been using it for awhile and they convinced me to sign up…which I did because I’m a conformist. I wrote a little here and there–sometimes pasting an entire AIM chat log, song lyrics, or my answers to a 100+ questionnaire–and left comments on my friends’ pages. It was basically just that for the first few months.

Then one day while I was browsing some blogs, I read one of the worst works of prose ever written. It was saturated with boring crap like the stuff the writer had done, the stuff she had yet to do, and the stuff she was supposed to do but wasn’t going to. And the freaking thing took forever to load because the writer put up a bunch of pictures of–oh hey! That’s me! And me again! And me some more!

Do you hear that? That’s the sound of the tsunami of shame that washed over me when I noticed that I was reading my own blog. I just had my ass handed to me…by me.

I was really embarassed. If I found my own writing to be stanky, then that meant everyone else thought it was a steaming pile of crap, and that I was the maker of that crap. And I really didn’t want to be known as a crap maker–even though it is a natural bodily function–but the damage had already been done. And that left me feeling pissed! I spent the rest of the day in a really bad mood.

While walking to class I noticed a girl wearing a sun dress and Ugg boots. She looked disgusting, and I was so tempted to beat her down with some twigs–like a fat stack of twigs that would make me look really scary. But I couldn’t get near her because she was too horrifying to look at. So I just went straight to my laptop and onto Xanga, and typed up an entry describing how much I hated Uggs. I felt much better afterwards.

After that I started using Xanga as a form of therapy, e.g., I hate PeOpLe WhO tYpE lIkE tHiS–must Xanga about it! This person’s grammar and spelling deserves to be mocked–must Xanga about it too! And surprise! I loved ranting like a crazy bag woman way more than writing about what I had for breakfast. Sure, I knew complaining so much would make me look like Barry Bonds but I could get away with it because it was my Xanga and I do what I want! *snap* *snap*

It’s been five years since I started Xangaing. Most of my friends have stopped using their accounts, and those who do only blog sporadically. A few have even sent me messages, telling me how surprised they were that I was still here. But I’ll always be here. I paid $100 for Lifetime Premium, so I’m going to stay here until I die to get my money’s worth!

Aside from that, I have known for awhile that there are very few things I am good at. However, this has never bothered me because being able to write somewhat decently made up for all my shortcomings. As long as I can keep doing that, then I’m okay with not being able to play sports or rinse my mouth with Listerine for the required 30 seconds (that stuff burns!). And Xanga has made writing even more worthwhile because it’s connected me to people who actually like what I have to say. It’s the best thing ever! And you guys are the best people ever!

So happy five year anniversary, Xanga (even though I’m the only one celebrating it and it’s the wrong date)! May we have more great years together!

Today was one of those days where I could not remember how many friends I had or who they even were. When this happens, I usually sit and sigh, pull petals off a sunflower, maybe ask a bird–usually a crow because that’s all there is around here–if there is such thing as a number one resource for wrestling games…to which the crow responds, “CAW!” and flies away. And then I go back to doing the things people typically do when they waste time lamenting over “Dawson’s Creek” type issues, while a Nora Jones or Vanessa Carlton CD plays on repeat.

After being pathetic for several hours, I had an ephiphany! I know who will know how many friends I have and who they are! Friendster.com! Of course! Friendster is there for people like me, who have trouble remembering that they have five friends! It also lets me compare my number of friends to everyone else’s number, because if I have more friends that tells the world that I am cooler and more fun to be around than they are!

I logged in and my memory was automatically refreshed! That’s right, I only have three friends, not five. Thank you, Friendster! *thumbs up* 

And then I logged out of my account…only to realize that I hard forgotten how many friends I had again. I started to wonder: was it three or four? Five, six, seven…? And I kept wondering up to 116 until it occurred to me that…I didn’t know what came after 116! Oh yeah, and I still didn’t know how many friends I had or what their names were!

Suddenly, I felt something…*fart* And then I felt something else! Another ephiphany! Myspace.com also knows how many friends I have and what their names are! Because Myspace is available for people like me, who use Friendster to keep track of their friends but need another forum to keep track of their friends.

I logged in and saw I had–four friends…? That’s odd; I could have sworn Friendster said I only had three friends. But apparently I have another friend–some pale pedophile-looking person named Tom. And…who the hell is he? More importantly, why is he on my Myspace page but not on Friendster? Why do I have one more friend here than there? I have to know, because if I can add Tom to my Friendster page, everyone will see that I have four friends and think I’m really popular!

There was only one way to find out…but what was that way…? What is the key to finding an answer to such a stupid question? I looked around my desk. It had been really messy since the semester started–with my textbooks piled on and my makeup mirror randomly lying there…

Hmm…

Mirror…face…books. Mirror…face…books. Ah ha! Mirrorfacebooks.com! No, that’s wrong. I mean, Facebook.com! Yes! I will log into my Facebook account, which is yet another website devoted to helping people keep track of their friends! And even though it is exactly the same as Friendster and Myspace, it’s still useful in situations like mine–where remembering how many friends I have is so impossible that I need three separate accounts on websites that all do the same freaking thing. It’s not redundant at all!

I logged into Facebook…there, I found my answer…

I didn’t know if I would have any material to come up with Lesson 2, but if I did I was planning on waiting a few days before posting. But this is was too much for me to keep to myself. So here is…

Lesson 2: Leaving Comments

The blogging community is made up of two groups: the Writers and the Readers. The group you belong to depends on which activity you do more of. I’m obviously a Writer because I don’t have the balls of steel required to be a Reader. Just the thought of clicking on a link and ending up on a site maintained by an asshat who can’t spell…I’d rather get violated by a horse than take that chance. And I’m not talking about those cute, mini horses, either. I am willing to take it inmate style from one of those crazy Budweiser horses if it means I can avoid a bad blog.

Anyway, the relationship between Writers and Readers is what ensures blogging’s posterity. As a Writer, I have the freedom of writing whatever I want, however I want–but I also have a responsibility to my Readers. You subscribed because you were high on crack entertained in some way by something I wrote. And because you spend your time reading my stuff, it’s only fair that I do my best to make it worth your while.

In order for me to maintain your interest, I have a scientific method of determining which features are more prevalent in my audience’s entertainment values. I print out all my entries, put treats on them, and then see which treats get gobbled up by my cats first. Unfortunately, this has yielded zero results because my cats don’t like the carrot sticks I give them in order to avoid eating them myself (carrots are nasty!). Instead I just read your comments to make sure I’m on the right track.

The feedback from Readers keeps us Writers motivated to do what we do. And in turn, we will continue to write stuff that you prefer to read. The Comment is therefore a huge part of blogging, so it is important to both sides that your opinions are heard.

However, this is not possible if you don’t proofread your comments. I understand that it seems pointless to go over something that is only three sentences long–but it is a huge deal if you want consistent quality from your Writers. Luckily for me, you guys have got grammar and spelling down–including contractions! Thank you so much for paying attention in your elementary classes!   

I know I’m a grammar/spelling whore, but I’m not asking for perfection. However, at the very least, please don’t leave comments like this:

To all the hatters out there that are happy that Yao is out, well that proves that you where scared of the Rockets and know that we where the best team in the west. We are going to miss Yao, but we will make it far this year.

Word! All those hatters wearing their stupid hats best stop hatting on Yao Ming and go back to You, the state/country where all the people who are scared of the Rockets live. Where is the best team in the west? We, that’s where. So don’t fake the funk on the nasty dunk!

(By the way, I did not make that one up. It really is someone’s comment.)

Now that I am done mocking that bit to pieces, what does a comment like this do for me? First of all: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA x 1 billion trillion. Secondly, this person should get himself some “Hooked On Phonics” lessons ASAP. Finally, I’m not going to cater to his opinions because he sucks ass.

There is probably no such thing as “proper blogging”, but there should be because some people are seriously abusing the literate community with their noxious brain waste! Those whose blogs make us regret learning how to read are usually punished by getting beat down with rubber hoses, but since I don’t have time to hunt them down I’m just going to have to do the next best thing: educate the masses on what I believe is good blogging behavior! *cue “O Fortuna”* Naturally, I’m sure some of you are wondering what makes me the proper authority to dictate such rules. My answer: I have a tree growing out of my ass, with the words “blogging etiquette” carved into the bark…A.K.A. I have no authority.

Lesson 1: Profile Pictures

The profile picture is an important part of a person’s profile. It’s the first thing visitors use to decide whether or not you’re worth their time. Depending on how you want to manipulate the system, you can either put up a picture that summarizes your blogging style, or put up a picture that contradicts it so much that people start to question your identity. My own profile picture seems to fall into the latter category because I always get asked (1) if I’m an ugly ass using someone else’s pictures, or (2) if I’m really a dude who has been impersonating a girl for the past 4 years. I will be addressing those questions later–but until then, you can all wonder if I’m really a leathery swamp monster with a penis.

Considering the importance of the profile picture, it’s not surprising that many people will use their best photos. However, this may be difficult for those of you who aren’t necessarily photogenic or have a lot of pictures of yourselves to begin with. Under those circumstances, you will have to make do by taking a picture of yourself–which is not an easy feat because you’re basically guessing where to hold the camera or how to angle your face. The process takes way too long and isn’t worth the effort.

To get around these difficulties, many people have resorted to standing in front of a mirror and taking a picture of their reflections with their cell phones. With this method, they can see how they look on the screen and determine where to hold the camera and which side of their faces they like better. Such creativity deserves praise–except that the pictures all look like sh*t:

When I see pictures like these, I get the impression that you are not only a waste of time, but a waste of skin. These are, by far, the worst profile pictures ever! It’s got nothing to do with the quality; they are terrible only because the flaws could have easily been avoided if you had thought about it a little. You just needed to face your phone screens towards the mirror instead. Yes, I know this means the lens will be facing you, but shut the f*ck up, dumb ass! The mirror will reflect the image on the camera, so you can still make adjustments before you take the picture.  

See? With this method, there is no weird flash thing or wayward eyes! Don’t know if it will help with the graininess though…hey, I’m not a miracle worker!

The moment I made Xanga’s “Featured Blogrings” list for the second time in my entire blogging career, I knew my life completely changed. No longer could I live as someone who averages 4 eprops, 2 comments, and 76 footprints (70 of them being my own) a month–a lifestyle that revolved around chili cheese fries (extra chili and cheese) and diet soda; granny panties and sweats; “Cops” marathons; “Dance Dance Revolution” exercise regiments; kitten collecting…it all had to go. I had hit the big time and there was no turning back. I was now…a celebrity…no, I was a Xangalebrity!

Given my rise in social status, I had to make some changes as part of my transition from commoner to not-so-commoner. First things first, I needed an assistant and PR person. All celebrities must have someone to be their bitch answer phones, pick up dry cleaning, and throw Blackberries at. It is also equally important to have someone who can BS the media when the celebrity is caught flashing her hairy va-jay-jay as she’s exiting a car. Some might say I don’t need either because the only person who ever calls me is the Pizza Hut delivery boy, and because I only wear panties that go down to my ankles. However, I was certain I’d eventually be too busy being famous to pick up the phone or wear underwear, and therefore had to find myself a Farnsworth Bentley ASAP–a BS-ing Farnsworth Bentley because my income of $ 0.00 made it difficult to hire both an assistant and a PR person (unless one of them accepted cat hair as a form of currency).

Anyway, I thought I’d do the Puff Daddy thing and put up a video on YouTube, but for some reason none of the major television production companies returned my calls. I knew they weren’t busy shooting television shows…but I figured they were just too intimidated by my Xangalebrity power to work with me. Instead, I posted an advertisement on Craigslist: “Asian female seeking qualified individual to attend to her needs. Must be able to multitask and have good oral skills.” Five seconds later, my inbox was flooded with responses–some of which included pictures of genitals–all from people wanting to be my piece of ass and not my assistant. *Wer-wer* Apparently, only those who cannot read try to find jobs on Craigslist…as well as people with very small dongs.

When I became violently ill from having to squint so long, I decided to put my assistant/PR person hunting off until later. I had to go to class that evening, even though I was famous and no longer needed higher education. It would be the first time I ventured out into public since becoming a Xangalebrity, and I was very worried about being hounded by the paparazzi and autograph seekers. I decided the best thing to do was put on a disguise. I didn’t have any wigs, hats, or sunglasses–but I did have this homeless person costume I bought for Halloween 2007. Being incredibly smart and capable of thinking on my feet, I was able to come up with a perfect plan in less than two hours: I would wear the costume to school! That way, everyone would think I was some random hobo prowling the halls, allowing me to avoid photographers and fans and still be able to attend my second class (missed the first one while thinking of my perfect plan)!

When I got to school, I was still high on being a genius–which was probably why I didn’t notice the huge pile of poop on the grassy knoll until I stepped in it. And I mean it was huge; possibly cow or Great Dane. It stuck to the bottom of my left, open-toe Keds sneaker and added about 3 inches of height, making it difficult for me to walk without looking like I had a severe limp. Thank goodness I was dressed like a homeless dude, because those freaky tabloids would have gone ape sh*t over seeing me in sh*t and attacked by angry flies (they were very, very angry…I’d be upset if someone stepped in my doodoo buffet too). However, I decided not to risk staying outdoors for too long so I quickly ran into the building.

Upon entry, I could tell right away that no one had any idea that the poop-shoed, limping, homeless dude standing in the hall was really me, a Xangalebrity. All the students who saw me were staring and whispering stuff like, “what the hell?” and “he smells whack.” It was such a great reception, and I really wanted to stick around and watch people cringe away from me, but a security guard showed up and told me to leave. I tried to explain that I was a student of the school who dressed as a stinky hobo in order to avoid photographers and fans, but he wasn’t having it. Kept saying something about me being crazy and demanding that I get my “rank ass out” or else he would call the police. I panicked at the thought of cops coming: they would probably check my ID and confirm I was really a student, and then the security guard would apologize for the misunderstanding and let me go to my class–but…it also meant everyone would learn my identity! And then the paparazzi would take pictures and videos of me looking like a hot mess and put it up on YouTube…! And then I would have to go on “Larry King Live” to tell my side of the story because I didn’t have an assistant/PR person who could spin the situation! And that would require buying a plane ticket with money instead of frequent flier miles because Hawaiian Airlines does not fly to New York!

So I went home.

I thought I deserved to have some fun after all that drama, and decided to go out and party with fellow A-listers. According to Perez Hilton and TMZ, celebrities go to Hyde Lounge–which of course meant that I was supposed to go there too. But I had to do some serious prepping first. Being in the biz, I could not be seen wearing the same stuff as the regular people–I had to wear the best, trendiest, most amazing outfit and accessories if I wanted to maintain my image, i.e., my blue junior prom dress, a pair of faux crocodile skin boots, and my designer Hucchi purse. I was so hot, it made the people on the bus stare and point at me. Yes, I took the bus to Hyde. I didn’t want to drive around Los Angeles, and none of my friends would take me because they refused to be part of my posse. They kept telling me I wasn’t famous at all and shouldn’t embarass myself any more than I already had. It’s sad how friends act differently towards you when you become a Xangalebrity.

By the time I arrived at Hyde, there was a long line of people trying to get in–but I didn’t have to wait because I was better than them. Instead, I walked right up to the doorman, whose name was probably Biff or Meats, and tried to give him the standard air kisses but he pushed me away.

“What do you want, lady?” he asked. “Your costume party is not here.”

“What do you mean ‘what do you want’? I want to get in and hang out with my girls, Paris and Lindsay.”

Biff/Meats must have had a hearing problem because he started laughing at me.

“Get in the back of the line.” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah right. That line is for the commoners.”

Biff/Meats continued to ignore me, but I wasn’t worried. I had come prepared to meet ig’nant fools like him who were too busy being ig’nant to keep up with important news, like me becoming famous. I reached into my purse and pulled out my secret weapon: a color-printout of Xanga’s homepage, with my Valentine’s Day post listed under “Featured Blogrings.” I threw it into Biff/Meats’ face, shouting, “Chiggity check yo’self before you wreck yo’self!”

Biff/Meats glanced at it, tore it up, and handed the little bits back to me.

“Hello!” I said. “Didn’t you notice I was Featured last week? That’s the second time I’ve made the list, and that means I’m a Xangalebrity!”

“Don’t know and don’t care. You’re not getting in, so get the step’n.” He said.

“Fine,” I replied. “Then maybe this will educate you some.”

I handed him a dollar bill. He tore that up too!

“That was a dollar bill,” I explained to him. “It’s what we use for money. You must not be used to seeing it because you get paid in ‘roids.”

No, I didn’t get in to Hyde Lounge that evening.

I was extremely depressed about how little respect I had received despite my Xangalebrity status, and decided to call my sister for comfort. I explained about how I became superior to everyone else because I had been Featured twice, and yet no one was acknowleding me for my accomplishments. Her response, after asking me many times if I was being serious, was:

“I think you were Featured because the Xanga Team found out you were sacrificing fetuses in order to make it on the list. They probably threw your blog up there so that you would stop practicing arcane rituals.”

*uncomfortable silence*

“Wait,” I said. “Does that mean…?”

“Yes, it means you inadvertently put up an ad looking for a male prostitute, went to school dressed as a homeless person who stepped in a mountain of doodoo, and tried to get into Hyde while looking like a tranny prom queen. You got PWNED by yourself.”

*tumbleweed*

This is way overdue, but I have been studying for an evidence midterm *cry* and haven’t had a whole lot of time to Xanga. Thank you guys so much for giving me eprops on my Valentine’s Day entry! I really appreciate all the comments. You guys have such great senses of humor! I love it! Good thing I didn’t actually have a harem because, wow, some of your suggestions were brutal!

Thanks again!

Valentine’s Day may be 8 days away, but I’ve already got a harem of guys trying to get me to accept their invitations for an evening of roses and fancy dinners. Contrary to what you may think, I don’t have any Game–unless you count the chloroform-soaked handkerchief I keep on me at all times. That’s my go-to whenever my body isn’t enough persuasion.

Anyway, being faced with the dilemma of choosing one date out of a batch of many, I though I’d just take the most democratic approach and draw someone’s name out of a hat. However, I had to drop that idea because I don’t own any hats. I do have boxes, plastic bags, and Tupperware, but it’s called “drawing a name out of a hat,” not “drawing a name out of a box, plastic bag, or piece of Tupperware.” Get with it, people!

Luckily, I have a Plan B: a process of elimination based on reality television shows. It makes sense to have these guys work for the chance to spend lots of money in exchange for a hug, maybe even a peck on the cheek. Afterall, hanging out with me is like an automatic ticket to Heaven. If people are willing to drink a maggot milkshake for cash, then they’d definitely be willing to go through Hell for me.

Here are some of my ideas. I don’t watch anything other than what’s on my TiVo, and the only reality tv shows it records are “Project Runway” and “Top Chef.” That means I am in dire need of suggestions.

Three Panelist Shows (American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, Top Chef, Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model, Dancing with the Stars)

For this one, I’m going to do a Mr. Harem pageant and have the three judges score each guy. One judge will be a random person pulled from the street, who will rate the guys based on their physical compatibility. If a guy doesn’t look like he’d make a cute couple with me, he gets a bad score.

Another judge will be a good friend of mine, who will determine how long each guy will be able to hold my interest. If he talks a lot of nonsense about cars, hockey, politics, or social issues he gets a bad score. But if he talks about the Final Fantasy RPG series, he gets a great score.

I will obviously be the third judge. I’m scoring the contestants based on how well they play video games and get along with my cats. Bonus points if they can fold origami.

As for the contests, I don’t have a firm list but I know I definitely want to have a Business Attire round and a Naked round.

Survivor

Eight days worth of brutal challenges, with the winner getting to hang out with me for two hours. I’ve never seen an entire episode of “Survivor” before, so I don’t know what happens other than living in squalor and forming alliances. Who cares though? It’s all about making the guys go through obstacles anyway. Here are the challenges:

1. Take the Bar Exam in One Day: people who’ve taken the Bar know it’s the worst part of law school; law students who have yet to take the Bar know it’s the worst part of law school. Having the guys take a 3-day exam in 24 hours will definitely separate the weak from the weakest.

2. Contraction Matching: since I hate it when people get “their,” “they’re,” and “there,” mixed up, I think it’s appropriate to have a challenge for the guys to showcase their grammatical skills. They’ll get a worksheet with a bunch of sentences, and each sentence will have a blank space where they will have to fill in the correct contraction. One incorrect answer equals death elimination.

3. Find an Indian restaurant that has patrons: This one is probably an unfair challenge. When have you seen an Indian restaurant that wasn’t dimly lit and empty?

4. Beat me in Bust-a-Move: It’s impossible to do–ask the rejects who were close to getting in my pants but instead  ended up getting their nuts cut off by my super skills.

The Bachelor

Okay, so “The Bachelor” is an obvious choice–but the only reason why I would go this route is so I can have a “rose ceremony.” Except, instead of roses, I’ll give the guys kittens. I’ve never watched “The Bachelor” so I don’t know what else happens during the show.

As I said, I am in dire need of suggestions. Come on, my three readers! Share some of your brilliance with me.

One of many memorable conversations I have had with my Daddy.

DADDY (reading the Chinese newspaper): Mrs. Family Friend was complaining about her son still being single.

ME (doing a crossword puzzle): Uh huh.

DADDY: She asked Mama and me if you were interested in meeting him.

ME: Oh.

DADDY: Her son is a doctor, I believe. A surgeon.

ME (Looks up from the crossword puzzle): Really?

DADDY: (too busy reading to respond)

ME: What did you tell Mrs. Family Friend?

DADDY (turns the page over): Mama and I are always polite when people ask us to set you up with their sons. It would be rude to just tell them “no.”

ME: I know.

DADDY: We told her we’d ask if you were interested.

*silence* Note: no one asked me anything!

ME: Did she want to know what my answer was?

DADDY (adjusts his reading glasses): No, Mama and I never brought it up again. This was about a year ago so I’m sure Mrs. Family Friend has forgotten about setting you up with her doctor-son. This is how we handle all the times our family friends ask about you.

ME: ….

DADDY (goes back to reading the paper): It’s okay to be single forever anyway.

*crickets*

I found myself in a perilous situation today. I’m not going to lie–I thought I wasn’t going to make it without going blind. This was a most traumatic experience, one that I had suffered through before and vowed to never go through again. Was I in a horrible accident? No. Held at gunpoint? No. Forced to go to the dentist? Worse than that. I browsed another person’s blog! *scream*

The blogger wrote about how she woke up at 11:17 AM, brushed her teeth with Crest Whitening toothpaste, and then spent the next 4 hours trying to decide what to wear to the mall before settling on the first outfit she picked. My eyes began to bleed, angry that I had abused them so. Before my vision completely faded away, I grabbed my mouse and desperately tried to close the page.

But wait! As my cursor moved toward the red box in the upper right corner of Windows Explorer, my eyes caught the headline: “if you don’t like my site, then get the f*ck out!!!” I froze: this sentence, with its three exclaimation marks and original use of the f-word, clearly indicated that the blogger was a badass mother f*cker! And only badasses tell people who are leaving their site to leave their site.

Longtime Xangans have seen their fair share of these banal catchphrases since they appear on at least one out of every five blogs. They’ll usually be in the header or somewhere on the person’s profile page, perhaps typed out in the extremely chic UpPerCaSe-LoWeRcAse style, and accompanied by a profile picture of some 12-year-old kid who thinks he is a gangsta because he tilted his Nike cap to the side. With a picture like that, I’m definitely crapping my pants–I mean, he might pull a gat out of his “Yu-Gi-Oh” backpack and pop a cap in my ass…or worse, make me do his math worksheets! Basic addition? NO WAY!

The pointlessness of those phrases should be obvious: if your blog isn’t interesting, I’m going to close the window and never visit your site again–unless I’m writing another post on bad grammar, in which case I must visit your site because it’s got tons of great material for me to bag on. But for the most part I’m going to leave your site as soon as possible–the typical reaction of all living creatures who are confronted with a painful or uncomfortable experience.

Can’t people think of a better defense mechanism to veil their deflated ego? Telling someone to “get the f*ck out” is like kicking yourself in the crotch just so you could beat the person whose leg was raised and aimed at your nads. It’s just stupid.