in completely unrelated news, LOST STARTS TONIGHT

I still maintain that seeing Jim Gaffigan live was one of the defining moments of my life (heh) and if you don't think he's funny, then I'm just not sure we can be friends anymore. Let us go over things that are funny, shall we?

Jim Gaffigan:



Demetri Martin:



Ludicrous speed:



Now that we've seen what IS funny, follow me over to The Collective and we can talk about something that is not only NOT funny, but thinks it's funny enough to win Emmys. AS. IF.

Roads? Where we're going we don't need roads.

This morning I fell into a wormhole. It happened while I was in the middle of getting ready, right after I'd finished drying my hair but before I'd put on any pants. I think the wormhole is somewhere in the vicinity of my closet, because that's where I seem to have lost the most time. At first, I fell into this wormhole and looked around and was all, "where are all my clothes?" because all I could see was a smooth see-through tube all around me and then I was like, "a wormhole? Seriously?" But whatever, I'd fallen into a wormhole, what could I do? I had to float around in it until it spat me out on the other side. I was just pissed because wormholes are really cold (who knew?) and I wasn't wearing pants. I mean, if I'd KNOWN I was going to fall into a wormhole, I would have put on a parka or long johns or something.

While I was floating around and shivering and trying to come up with a good excuse for being late to work that didn't include the words "pantsless" or "wormhole," this dwarf suddenly appeared next to me.

"Um, hi," I said.

"Hi. What's all this then?" he asked.

"Wormhole."

"Ah."

We floated in silence for a bit and then I asked his name and where he came from.

"My name is Algar. I come from a land called Dwarfatania," he explained.

"Where's that?"

"It's like 30 minutes south of Narnia, if you take Highway Fairy Princess and get off at the exit for Puck's Joke Shop."

"Oh."

"What is your name? What land do you come from?" Algar asked.

"Jennie. Ohio."

"Ohio. That sounds magical."

"It's not."

"Oh."

Then Algar disappeared. I don't know where he went. Such is the magic of wormholes. Eventually, I got out of the wormhole. I don't know how. Such is the magic of wormholes. I was a little disappointed that I didn't run into Jake Gyllenhaal, but there was a silver lining to this wormhole. When I got to work (late), I explained to my boss about the wormhole and when I got to the part about Algar, she sent me home for some reason! Something about not coming to work drunk anymore, I'm not sure.

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Today on The Collective, boys are smelly. True story.

it's the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine)

As I'm sure you all know, last night was President Bush's last State of the Union address. EVER. Like . . . no more. He's done. Well, with state-of-the-unioning anyway. We're so close to the end, you guys. I remember way back in 2004, when he'd just been reelected and I was bitter. Oh so bitter. It seemed like this day would never come. I was all, "FOUR MORE YEARS OF THIS CRAP I CAN'T DO IT AARRHHREWERDHFSDF." For real, that is what I said, but I might have misspelled that last part.

Still, I didn't watch it. One, because I was at someone else's house and I thought if I watched it I might accidentally punch a rage-hole in their wall or TV and I can't afford to fix that and TWO, because I had just finished watching United 93 which GUESS WHAT was a huge mistake because I sobbed like crazy through the majority of it. What I was thinking, I don't know, but do you know what I DO know? My gym played that movie in the Cardio Cinema one time and I stayed far, far away that night because this other time? They showed Hotel Rwanda and I had to leave the room because, yes, these are both good movies, but do they make you want to work out? No. They make you want to throw yourself under the treadmill which PROBABLY wouldn't even kill you. You'd just end up with this mangled, claw hand or something and people would be like, "What happened to your hand?" and you'd stare into space and get this faraway, haunted look in your eye and whisper, ". . . Hotel Rwanda."

So, no, I did not watch the chimp last night, but I have been paying more and more attention to the upcoming election. You know. The big one. I tried not to pay much attention at first, because it seemed too soon and also The Daily Show was off the air on account of the strike and I don't know how I can be expected to know what to think if Jon Stewart doesn't tell me (note to my Republican family members - that was a joke). I know who I'm voting for in the primary and hope that's who I'll end up voting for in the presidential election, but I'm afraid to get my hopes up. Especially after last time, when I wallowed in soul-crushing defeat for a good month or two.

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Speaking of the government, today on The Collective, Abigail tells you why she hates it and why you should, too.

saturday, I'm running wild, and all the lights are changing red to green

I just deleted this giant paragraph that was about how it's supposed to get up to like 50 today? And how that sounds amazing because the cold? I hate it. Seriously. I'm done with winter. I was done with winter before it started. I'm sure Heidi is tired of hearing me complain about it every day. I mean, I'm the one complaining and I'M tired of hearing it. So that's why I deleted that paragraph about how it's cold and I hate it. And then proceeded to write this paragraph about how it's cold and I hate it.

It was really cold Saturday night. Not just really cold, but really fucking cold. The wind was like an icy scepter of Satan, only not Satan because Satan's scepter is probably not icy on account of it'd melt in Hell. But whatever. It was cold. We went downtown to celebrate Steve's birthday and Heidi was nice and dropped him off at the entrance of the restaurant (because he's still crippled from knee surgery) but she made ME go with her to park the car. I mean, just because the parking lot attendant in the kicky orange vest told us that if any bums bothered us, we should yell "SECURITY," that doesn't mean any bums were going to jump out and attack her. And if they did, they're probably weak from hunger so she'd be able to fight them off pretty easily.

Then we all ate Thai food. We drove to a bar and left our tiny boxes of Thai food in the car. This will be important later.

So we played at the bar. The good? There was a popcorn machine, comfy couches, a clean bathroom, and pool table. The bad? Apparently lots of fights break out there, so we didn't stay long. Then we went to another bar. Wow, good story, Jennie. I mean, I could tell you how we played songs on the jukebox and did shots of . . . I don't remember and Heidi put on Lampl's scarf and danced around on Steve's cripple sticks and Lampl and I arm wrestled and the winner got to be the drummer whenever we play Rock Band and I won TWO TIMES because after we arm wrestled right-handed, she seemed to think she could beat me left-handed, but NO I was victorious again. It made my arms hurt, sort of. I know I don't seem like a very competitive person, but the thing is? I sort of am. It's not that I hate to lose, it's just that the thought of losing never even enters my mind and so if I DO lose, it's a cruel shock, like when you go to take a drink of lemonade and realize it's really a glass of urine that someone has left in the refrigerator. That's never happened to me or to anyone that I know of, but that doesn't mean it couldn't happen.

Anyway, eventually the bar closed, as they often do, and we had to go home. Heidi got in her car first and was all, "oh god, it smells in here," and I was all, "it can't be THAT bad, cut the drama, mama," but then I got in the car and yelled, "OH IT SMELLS LIKE DEAD BABIES IN HERE," like . . . now who is full of drama, YOU HYPOCRITE? But it really did smell like dead babies. Because of all the Thai food in the backseat, you see, not because Heidi keeps any dead babies in her car. THAT I KNOW OF.

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Today on The Collective, Heather explains how Ryan Seacrest is going to take over the world.

whatever, I'm not ashamed

I've been working on How To articles all day, and when I say all day, what I really mean is I've been working on them ever since I got up at noon and then went to Wendy's with Heidi and then, OK, watched like three episodes of America's Next Top Model.

After finishing How to Apply Smoky Eye Makeup (which, let's face it, like the blind leading the blind) and reading the entire Internet, I went into Heidi's room to procrastinate some more.

Me: Blah blah blah.
Heidi: Blah blah blah.
Me: Blah dee bloo bloo?
Heidi: Bleh.
Me: Ooh! It's Jane Austen Sunday! I better go get my shit done!
Heidi: . . .
Me: Shut up.

Happy Saturday, Internets

Heidi says I have too many t-shirts. She may be right:

But I have a hundred dollar gift certificate to Threadless that says she's wrong.

This is what I did last night, after ALMOST eating an entire Chipotle burrito (I had like four bites left but I JUST. COULDN'T. DO IT):

It was awesome. Tonight? There will be Thai food and who knows what else in honor of the day a woman made sweet love to a three hole punch and produced Three Hole Punch Steve.

PS: I know it's weird that I hang up my t-shirts, but that's only because my dresser is chock full of pajamas and workout clothes, so there's no ROOM for the t-shirts.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I did an original sin. I poked a badger with a spoon.

Heidi and I break a lot of stuff in our apartment. There was the oven knob incident, and the garbage disposal (twice), my toilet, our refrigerator, various light bulbs, our recliner, several coffeemakers, the dryer, the time I threw a coaster at the wall, and, very recently, Heidi's closet door, the patio door blinds, and our kitchen light. The beauty of renting, however, is that the apartment complex had to pay to fix most of this.

With our history of breaking shit, I wasn't too surprised yesterday evening when I broke the front door. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Jennie, whatever, you did not break the front door." Well, shut up, yes I did. You see, for the past several weeks, Heidi and I have noticed that the lock on our front door was getting harder and harder to lock and unlock. So what did we do? We mostly ignored it. And when we weren't ignoring it, we complained about it. This was working well for us, you know, until yesterday.

So there I am, all tired from work and shivering on the front stoop, and I stuck my key in the hole, like I always do, but this time? When I tried to pull the key out? Part of the lock came with it. You know, the little cylinder part that has all the pins and crap in it? That little cylinder was just hanging there. A bit was still in the hole, but most was hanging out in the cold, cold, winter air.

"Hmm," I thought. "Perhaps I can shove it back in." So. I tried to shove it back in. Nothing.

"Hmm," I thought. "Perhaps I can simply turn the cylinder with the key and, even though it's not even connected to the door anymore, the door will unlock." So. I tried to turning the key. Nothing.

"Hmm," I thought. "Perhaps this is something I cannot fix myself and I should stop messing with it before I make it much, much worse and Heidi and I can never get back into the apartment and we have to live in an igloo next to the front porch." And so I got in my car and drove up to the apartment complex office.

Things were looking up as I walked into the office, for who should be working but Hot Guy Who Works In Our Apartment Complex Office (who I will now call . . . Bartleby). He is the one I have a tiny, baby, little crush on. Not in a real way, but in the junior high way where every time he talks to me, I start stuttering and my face gets red and I say stupid things. Well. Stupider than usual.

Bartleby: Hi, there. What can I do for you?
Me: I'm having a problem!
Bartleby: OK?
Me: I broke our front door and now the door won't unlock.
Bartleby: Um . . .
Me: Allow me to demonstrate.

And this is when I got my keys out and walked him over to the lock on his office door and imitated the whole lock coming out of the door while attached to my key thing.

Bartleby: Wow, I've never heard of that happening before.
Me: Super.
Bartleby: I'll call the maintenance guy.

While I waited, I was just going to sit in the lobby and read my book (after calling Heidi to tell her if she tried to go home, it would be a fruitless journey that would only end in tears and frustration), but Bartleby came out to talk to me! Yay!

Bartleby: Talk talk talk.
Me: Reply reply reply.
Bartleby: Ha ha ha!
Me: Ha ha ha! Oh, we are laughing!

And the whole time, I'm thinking, "Is he gay? I can't tell if he's gay. He seems sort of gay. It would totally be just my luck if he were gay," but then I said, "I hope I'm not keeping you," and he said, "No, I'm here til 6 anyway," and I said, "Oh, OK," and he said, "I really don't mind staying after 6, though," and I thought, "Score!" but then he said, "My fiance and I were just going to get some wings later anyway," and then I thought, "Fuuuuuuuuck you." True story.

So, apparently Bartleby and I are not meant to be. Unless he and his fiance break up, but it feels wrong to hope for such a thing. Luckily, Heidi and I still have Bernard and Sebastian, who may or may not be gay and who may or may not have another Hot Guy now living with them. New Hot Guy has glasses (heart) and a black car (irrelevant) and a purple lunchbox (um) and now all he needs is a name. And so I shall christen him . . . THADDEUS.

Oh, we eventually got back into our apartment. Like THAT'S the important part of the story. Sheesh.

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Today on The Collective, it's your turn to tell us our business.