The Racial Profiling Game

Today, in Immigration and the Law, my class played a game all the hip kids are playing. The game was called "Who Looks Like an Illegal and Should be Thrown Off the Bus." Did I mention those "hip kids" are related to Sarah Palin? In this very appropriate game, my professor selects the whitest person in class (Side Note: I was NOT the whitest person for once in my life...looks like the dark shadow my freckles cast have finally paid off). The boy with blond curls, blue eyes, and albino-like skin was spotted, my professor motions him to stand in front of the class.

Professor: Okay, Mr. Whitey McWhiterson, I want you to pick all the people in the class who look like they could be illegals. Then tell them they must get off the bus.
Whitey Mc Whiterson: Um...um...I really don't feel comfortable doing that...
 Professor: SIGH!

She decides to select another lucky winner, while I duck behind my '17 computer screen.

Professor: Will you please help us with this exercise?
Other White Kid: I am sorry...I just can't do that.
Professor: Oh, c'mon!!!

Don't worry, Professor. "Let's Practice Racial Profiling in Law School," you have a volunteer. That's right. One out of the four whities in my class decided to participate in the new game only Mel Gibson would find fun.

Stupid White Guy: So, all I have to do is pick out the brown people?
Professor: (laughing) Pretty much.
Stupid White Guy: (pointing) Okay, well, you're brown, you're brown, you're Asian but that's the same, you're brown...okay, all of you off the bus.

Soooooo, how many inappropriate things happened in one class? Give it a go.

Additional Side Note: My professor is an immigrant from Mexico/Immigration attorney

Mumford and Buns

Told you I was going to do it, Jamie.

On Monday, I went to the Mumford and Son’s concert with my BFF Jamie. If you don’t know who Jamie is, well, she’s the one who always comments on my blog posts…the only one…singular…not plural. Ahem. We were really looking forward to this concert because we know every single song and have been obsessed with them for FOREVER (meaning: we thought the Opening Act was Mumford and blurted out “HER” when the word was “ME” in the song. Winners).

Anywho, since school has decided to take advantage of me, like a jock with a roofie, I had to drive to the city of smog inhaling Angels after class. Doesn’t sound that bad does it? Well, not initially, but then I had to go and wake-up at 5am. Um, I’m sorry but if it is still dark outside then my face should be planted on a pillow with drool all over it and I should be having dreams about Collin Firth feeding me Bahhhhhh-gels. What? It could happen.

Driving in LA was what I was looking forward to most. There are so many fun car games to play, like:

1.       Don’t hit the hipster crossing the street; or

2.       Honk as loud as you can and for as long as possible

After successfully dodging a man wearing jeans so tight that I am sure he will never utter the plural of “ball” again, I took a nap in a Target garage, and then made my way to the concert line. Boy oh boy was it a lucky day. GUESS WHO I GOT TO STAND IN FRONT OF? You’re probably thinking it was someone famous. No. It’s better. Recovering druggies. I was standing there. Alone. For an hour. I heard more about Jesus, needles, and wagons than I have in my entire life. The best (worst?) part was when Jamie finally arrived and said “I read that blog post and I was like ‘I want whatever Lauren’s snorting or shooting-up.’”  I kid you not. They got silent after that. 

I am going to sum up the next 5 hours:

1.       Pretty sure God shat wannabe hipsters into that concert hall. Jamie and I looked like Housewives compared to all of the emotionless, scarf/oxford/suspender wearing hipsters.

2.       Deodorant. No one wore it. What the shit, people?

3.       Opening Act, aka, Erykah Badu’s and Amy Winehouse’s crack baby.

4.       Amazing Mumford concert. AMAZING. Just next time, I would prefer that they don’t snort coke for 3 hours before the show, so I don’t have to wait 3 ½ hours for them to hit the stage. Thankyouverymuch.

Moobies With A Side Of Bra

You need a Man bra. No, not you! Silly goose. I am watching the Biggest Loser, which fits quite perfectly with my classy “taste” in TV shows. Like, if my taste was a fine wine, you could box my shit up and call me Franzia. So, anyway, this man’s moobies (man boobs) are just flopping up and down and it makes me sad because I know how much that hurts. STOP YELLING AT HIM, JILLIAN MICHAELS! That she-man is terrorizing the gym. I mean, do you really think it is a good idea to yell, “you’re going to die” at morbidly obese people? What the shit, Jillian?


I know, I am rambling, but let me get to my point. So, some chick was on her bike and then we get a shot of Jillian, talking behind the scenes, “she tries to use her asthma as an excuse, she says she can’t breathe, but I know that’s not her problem.” You’re right, Jillian. Having a 280-pound woman peddle on a bike for an hour couldn’t possibly trigger her asthma. You asshole.

Bike Lady w/ Asthma: I…can’t…breathe…my…lungs…burn

Jillian: I know that’s not the problem. Tell me. What’s the problem?

Bike Lady w/ Asthma: My…lungs…burn…

Jillian: You’re sad your dad died, aren’t you?

Sooooo, she’s using her asthma as a defense mechanism? Trainer and psychologist…YOU GETTEM JILLIAN.

The Reason You Just Got Slapped...

is because you premise a story with FAKE horrible news, only to tell me the really good news.

Example:

Dumbass: I have herpes.
Unfortunate Girlfriend: WHAAAAAAAA? Oh, no. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY VA-JAY-JAY?
Dumbass: Just kidding! Will you marry me?

I really don't know who thought it would be a good idea to make someone depressed before you tell them good news, but whoever it was, is a fartbucket. Extreme lows before extreme highs only work in certain situations, like when you are trying to make something really bad sound better:

Boyfriend: Sarah Palin is President.
Girlfriend: Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Boyfriend: JK. I have herpes.
Girlfriend: Phew.

Word.

You Sound Like You're From London

You know those people who use an accent when pronouncing foreign words? Like, instead of using their best Kevin Costner to say "Chill-ee Kon Car-nay," they use the spanish accent they never had and channel Sofia Vergara "Chee-leh Cohn Carr-ne". Not to brag or anything, ahem, but I am one of those people. I KNOW. I am sooooooooooooooooooooo annoying, but when did you ever doubt that? I am the person who says "ahh-nt" instead of "Ant." I am a classy broad. Gosh, I have the biggest wedgy right now.

Okay, I have a point. So, I drove past an Einstein's Bagels yesterday and it got me thinking. No pun intended, but homegurl got it doooooooooown. It got me thinking about the En-ga-lish. Does a person from England pronounce "Bagel" as "BAAAAAH-GEL"?

Say it out loud, because I cannot stop laughing. Furthermore, what if they are eating Bahgels and playing boggle??? That must be horribly confusing. It also explains the whole "scones" for breakfast thing and the lack of a Jewlation (sounds more like a sexual act - Did you Jewlate today? I love experiencing Jewlation...I'm done...Jewlating).

Real Friends are WAAAAAAY Better Than Imaginary Ones

Me: Rachel, I need to cut my hair. It keeps getting super knotted.
Rachel: Do you know why?
Me: Because it's long.
Rachel: No. Your hairs don't like eachother, so they keep beating one another up.

I thought this was by far the funniest thing she has have said. Then, I remembered this little jewel.

This is Rachel learning who won American Idol.

No one should expect me to be normal with a best friend like this and a mom like, well, you know.

Crunchy Leaf, You Lookin Fine

Fall. I truly love this season. It means I can wear my 50 zillion cardigans with my pearls. People ask if I stole my style from Mad Men, then I look at them as if they deserve to be punched, because they are dumb, and tell them that 1952 came up with the style before Mad Men did. Ahhhhhh, the serenity of fall.


I also love CRUNCHY LEAVES. I love it like a platter full of gas inducing cheese. I would make out with those crunchy leaves if I thought it was mildly appropriate or sanitary. Whatevs. I rather live in lust. Nevertheless, you totally know what I am talking about, right? The leaves that fall (little pun, don’t be a playa hata) and are all crunchy when you step on them. I LOVE IT. I have never done drugs, but I imagine drugs are like stepping on crunchy leaves. THE ADRENALINE. Okay, I am calm. Phew. The worst is when you are walking all ziggy-zaggy (grammatically, I am five), so you can step on every leaf, and then you get that one leaf that looks crunchy, but it is soggy. UGH, such a downer. That’s what I assume someone in rehab would feel like.


Excuse me, Mr. Party Crasher, this is my moment. Not yours.



My almost adulterous obsession with leaves and appreciation for sweaters and pearl necklaces (the one’s from oysters, not weinies) are the things that eliminate the evil that comes with fall. What evil do you speak of, Lauren? Vampires? A new season of American Idol? All of the above? Don’t be silly. Vampires don’t exist and American Idol provides swoon-worthy Ryan Hotcrest moments. The evils I am referring to are holiday flavors and slutty costumes.


Holiday Flavors

It really peels my onion when I open my F-book page and every single status update in my newsfeed has to do with a “pumpkin spiced chai tea latte.” First, any beverage that sounds like it has a vagina and needs a purse is automatically on my “you are dumb” list. Second, I am pretty sure the only reason you people are obsessed with these dumb “seasonal” beverages is because it is SEASONAL. Unlike, the daily “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” you brutally attack, like Lorelai Gilmore would a Pop-Tart. I did just make a Gilmore Girls reference. Pat on back.

Slutty Costumes

Yeah, I know. Almost every human has made some type of comment about slutty Halloween costumes. I have worn them. A lot of them. Boobs, butt, perhaps a flashing of the hoo-ha…been there, done that, hung my head in shame. My new motto: If Oprah cannot fit it, then it should not be a costume. Ladies, you do not need a Halloween costume to act slutty, we have alcohol and fake blackouts for that.

No one I know…Definitely not me: OMG. Did I really hook up with that guy, tell you that you are ugly, and slap a baby? Sorry. I was soooooo wasted.

Costume manufacturers have made slutty versions of every costume. Real police woman uniform= kind of looks like a lesbian, but costume police woman = kind of looks like the hooker the real police woman should be arresting. Real female firefighter = hides all the cellulite, but costume firefighter = you are probably going to come out of that burning building looking like a melted Chucky doll. Just sayiiiiin.

I think every woman who wears a slutty costume on Halloween should have to wear her costume the day after. All day. Hahahaha. President Obama, can we make this a law? Next year. After I wear my last slutty costume of the decade…

Momism: I'll Haunt You

This is not a recent conversation. This conversation has taken place on numerous occasions, such as dinners, holidays, and birthdays. It started when I was seven, and thank GOD, I was mature enough to look at my nutso mom and tell her she's barking up the wrong tree. What is this mysterious conversation? Here you go:

Mindel: I don't want to be buried in the ground.


Me: Mom, that has nothing to do with my birthday.

Mindel: You are a year older, Lauren, and I am not getting any younger.

Me: Oooooookay?

Mindel: Well, I don't want to be buried in the ground.

Me: Don't start with me mom.

Mindel: You are the meanest daughter.

Me: Mom!

Mindel: I can't believe you...your own mother...you can't even give me one little thing.

Me: Mom, I have told you a million times. I AM NOT PUTTING YOU IN A SHED.

Mindel: But what if I wake up. Do you really want me to wake up in the dirt or a wall?!

Me: Are you serious right now? You are crazy. All these nutty superstitions have made you insane.

Mindel: Fine! You don't want to keep me in your garage, then I am just going to haunt you. Forever.

Me: You are the creepiest person.


I know that there are some very serious issues here, like a fear of death or the fact that my grandpa told my mom he would be hiding in the closet when he passes, so if she ever does anything bad he will catch her. But, honestly, WHO ASKS TO REMAIN IN YOUR GARAGE AS A PRECAUTION??? Gosh, I love her.