This Just In: Reality not all it’s cracked up to be

24 Jan

There’s a lot of scary shit on the internet. This, for example. Also, this. And Jesus Christ, is THIS still on there?

But the scariest thing on the internet by far is when you’re on it. And by you I really mean me. Because I am possibly going to be on the internet soon. Along with my boyfriend. In a Jesus costume. Snorting lines of flour.

How did this happen, you ask? That’s a good question, you.

My favorite lesbian couple, which includes my former bar manager Bek and her girlfriend (and former bartender) Erin, was filmed living, partying and having sex for six months for the new Playboy reality show “Brooklyn Kinda Love.” This show ended up getting far more press than I expected, and even showed up on Slate last week, which means Bek and Erin have at least one more article in Slate than I do.

As you might imagine, during filming, I visited Bek and Erin’s apartment and engaged in numerous borderline illegal shenanigans while men with cameras strolled about with such frequency that one was compelled to ignore them.

That would be fine, except that over Halloween weekend I was off at an editors conference and got back just in time to throw together a ridiculous non-costume comprising a men’s tank top, ripped tights, drawn-on tattoos and some green hair gel I found in the back of my medicine cabinet (Ke$ha??) to wear to Bek and Erin’s Halloween party.

Seriously. What IS this?

When I arrived, I was immediately given a red substance from a crystal skull (looked like punch, was actually vodka and food coloring) and a cocktail, because Erin has an entire bar, complete with stockroom… in her apartment.

“Whoa, why do you have that enormous bag of cocaine around your neck? Are you going as Lindsey Lohan?”

Not Lindsey Lohan: “No, I’m coke, and this here is my boyfriend Jack.”

Jack: *wearing a giant playing card*  “Hi!”

Bek and/or Erin: “Who wants more blood juice?!”


Erin: “Hey! Who wants to try on my Jesus costume?”

And that’s how this happened.

It's flour. It's flour. OMG, please don't arrest me, it's flour.

I have no way of knowing if this incident will make it onto the show (or if Slate will approve), but I still need to see the damn thing at least because two of my friends have sex in it, so I tried to pirate the thing and failed, and then tried to find it on

And THEN, because I have a raging case of unmedicated ADD…

(Did I tell you about the time I took aderall? ItwastotallyawesomeandIgotsomuchdoneanddoyouwanttoseethemagazine  ImakeImakemagazinesforaliving.wellokjustonemagazinebutIlikeitIlike yourhairdoyouwanttogogetsomeicecreamIthinkweshouldputjimmiesonit  elephantpurpleBarbaraStreisand)

…I clicked on a Playboy interview with Tracy Morgan because the tagline was “Tracy Morgan on his drug dealing past and (yow) anal sex,” and even though I don’t want to think about Tracy Morgan having anal sex AT ALL, I like to know things about drugs because that’s how you stay down with the young folks.  That’s why I now know that Tracy Morgan’s dad died of AIDS, his best friend was a crack dealer who got shot, and he was essentially raped by a babysitter at the age of 8. That is some heavy shit, man.

Wait. What was I talking about?

Oh right, I was trying to watch two of my close friends have lesbian sex on television. I think maybe I’ll call them and see if they have a copy. But then what will I say?

“Hey, Bek and Erin! I have totally been wanting to review your sex life for my blog! Mostly, I want to know who does most of the sexing, and who does most of the laying. And how many toys y’all have. Perhaps I shall make a graph. So, since that’s not weird AT ALL, do you have a screener I can borrow?

“You DO?!?!? Great. Also, cokehead Jesus and I were talking about having a Yahtzee party on Saturday at 8. I’m making dip!”

Seriously, I am going to jail.


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