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Advice for teenage boys

When you give someone a dutch oven, you are also giving them unsupervised access to your balls.

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Random Friday

I’ve only got two things today:

1. Two people have found my site by searching for “natalie portman panties.” That’s magnificent. Although it was probably a disappointment for those people. So let it be known:

There are no pictures of Natalie Portman in panties on this blog.

Sorry, perverts, you’re going to have to look elsewhere for your fake celebrity porn.

***

2. Remember my musical about shopping? Well, I found the dress that would have started it all if the movie was set in Mexico in the sixties:

See? Fabulous.

So, if we move the setting to Mexico, we’re going to have to recast. Obviously, Paz Vega will play the Anne Hathaway part. I think Rory Gilmore should be played by Maria from Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle.

And the devil? Alfred Molina, of course.

(Side note: Has anyone else had a really hard time watching Maverick since Mel Gibson unleashed his dickery on the world? That’s what I hate you for most, Mel Gibson. I loved that movie.)

I don’t even know if Alfred Molina sings, but doesn’t it just seem like he should?

Also, since it’s set in Mexico, we can make it telenovela style. Which means that, instead of having to choose between the three endings (dance fight, game show battle, or communist propaganda) we can do all three!

Joss Whedon, I know you’re still interested. Give me a call.

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I give you…signed panties.

Lots has happened in the last three days. So much that I might have to split it up into several posts. We’ll start with the main event.

On Saturday, my husband and I drove down to Austin (with a stopover in Stephenville) to see Chris Hardwick.

I went to Stephenville to get my hair dyed. My appointment was early, so we had to get up at 8:00 am. Yuck.

After hair dyings and lunch, we drove three hours to Austin. Now, at this point, I did not have a pair of panties for Chris Hardwick to sign, because I figured, where better to find some panties than Austin?

We got to Austin with 3 hours until the doors opened at Cap City Comedy. That’s three hours to track down some panties. Seems reasonable.

Okay, first, in my defense, since we were in Austin, I wanted to get some really cool panties. So we go down Guadalupe looking for…I don’t know, a big sign that said, “Cool Panties 4 Sale,” with a bunch of dirty hippies out front.

I’m confident that such a place exists in Austin. But it is not on Guadalupe.

So after coming up empty on Guadalupe, I figured we could stroll down 6th Street, because I know there are panties for sale there. Unfortunately, before we made it to the Panty District, we got drenched in sweat and nearly died of heat exhaustion.

So we headed back to the car, pantiless, with only about an hour left to get to the venue.

We spotted a strip mall on the way, popped in, and, after some deliberation over color, picked a pair of plain old regular panties.

(Okay, I said “we” there, but I was really the one deciding. Adam offered the very helpful opinion of “Whatever you want.”)

Then we went to the show, but there was a problem with our tickets. Adam had purchased them online on Tuesday and received a confirmation email, but we didn’t seem to be on any lists.

Turns out, he accidentally bought tickets for the wrong day because of the confusing nature of the internet. We were still able to get in, but we no longer had super special reserved seating.

It wasn’t that big a deal, because the venue wasn’t terribly huge, so most seats were good seats. However, during the show, Chris kept talking to this one guy Tucker, who had been chatted up by one of the opening acts. Tucker had reserved seats, right at the edge of the stage.

That could have been us! Damn internet.

There were 2 openers. The first guy was great, second guy not as great. Then Chris came out and he was awesome. And he came out to the bar after the show to take pictures with people.

I waited til the very end to approach him. And I’m sad to say that I was the only person who asked him to sign an undergarment.

He was super-nice and even claimed to remember commenting on my blog, which I appreciated very much.

And look! Panties!

That, by the way, is what pi would look like if rendered in pubic hair.

And note where he signed:

Lovely.

So, in summary, Yay me! I have panties signed by Chris Hardwick. Next on the panty-signing list is Louis C.K., who is coming to Fort Worth in November.

Who else will be bringing their panties to that show, I wonder.

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I’m dumb.

Okay, now that I look at my picture of Johnny Five’s head compared to a real picture of Johnny Five’s head, the resemblance is questionable. It’s more like the head of Johnny Five’s loser cousin, Larry Five.

But anyway, here it is:

Compare to:

It’s the eyes.

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Panties, panties, panties. Well, just the one pair actually.

So. Where were we?

Ah, yes. Mitch Hedberg.

I think I was in junior high when I fell in love with Mitch Hedberg. I saw him on Comedy Central (I think this was back when it was just called The Comedy Channel. Also, I was watching via the super old-school satellite dishes. The kind that take up a whole side of your yard, and you’d have to press the number of the satellite, and the dish would move and pass over other satellites, so you’d see glimpses of, like, Japanese cooking shows and the NASA channel, and in a few seconds, you’d be on the right satellite, and then you’d have to pick what channel you wanted on that satellite. I think The Comedy Channel was on satellite F4. That satellite had all the best channels.)

Anyway, the first few times I saw him, I came in late and missed his name. And this was before the days of the almighty guide button. So I just called him the beatnik comic. And I decided that someday he would be my mistress.

So, years went by. At some point I learned his name. And my love for him remained strong. Then, in college, I (finally) met a few people who knew and loved him almost as much as I did.

One day, word came through the internet that Mitch Hedberg was coming to DFW. Yay!

But also – I was quite poor. I couldn’t afford a ticket, so I couldn’t go to the show. Boo.

But I decided I still needed to seize this opportunity. One of my friends was going, and so I sent a pair of my underwear along with him for Mitch Hedberg to sign. (A friend of mine also sent her underwear. Her name is [REDACTED].)

Now, my friend who was going to the show was named Charles (pronounced CHAR’ less*). Charles and I had been like siblings from the start. We even called each other brother and sister (whichever was gender-appropriate, depending on who was speaking). My friend, [REDACTED], also referred to Charles as her brother. This is important to the story.

So Charles goes to the comedy show, and afterward, knowing that an unspeakable penalty awaits him if he comes back with unsigned panties**, hurries around the back of the club to catch Mitch Hedberg before he leaves. And he’s just in time – Mitch and his entourage, including a woman whose name I can only assume is Lynn with two Ns, are almost at the getaway car.

Charles shouts, “Mister Hedberg!”

They turn to look.

“Could I get your autograph?”

They give some kind of affirmative response. Charles goes up to Mitch Hedberg, and hands him…two pairs of panties.

They all look at him. They look at the panties. At him again.

Charles is a strapping young man, but these panties just don’t look like they would fit him.

Charles says, “It’s okay, they’re not mine. They’re my sisters’.”

Now they look even more confused.

Lynn-with-two-Ns protests. “Ew. Don’t sign those. You don’t know where they’ve been.”

Mitch Hedberg bravely takes the panties and says, “I never signed panties before.”

And then he signed them. Mine and [REDACTED]’s. With his actual hand.

And here’s the proof, modeled by my couch pillow:

Hell, yay-yeah! Mitch Mothafuckin Hedberg!

When choosing which panties you want signed by a celebrity, it is imperative that you pick something cute.

See? Spiders are adorable.

Also, apparently Mitch Hedberg kept the cap to Charles’s sharpie. I’ve never heard the end of that. A perfectly good sharpie gone to waste, all so I could have my panties signed.

Yeah, I hear you Charles. What a goddamn tragedy.

*I can’t figure out how to make a schwa. Just pretend that E is a schwa.
**I don’t know what. But I’m creative, I could’ve figured something out. I think I gave him some sort of vague threat involving his balls.

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