An Emmy Rant

Emmys, we need to talk. I really have loved your praise of well-crafted, intelligent shows and your inclusion of more and more people of color, and you’re rewarding of networks that allow writers and directors free range to create honest art.

Now that the gross niceties are out of the way…

What the hell is wrong with you, Emmys? If you haven’t seen the list, here is Variety’s Posting of the Full List.

I’d like to start with Uzo Abuda and how incredible she is. I have loved Crazy Eyes from the moment I laid my crazy eyes, upon her crazy eyes. She is always owed a great deal of praise for the performances she gives year in and year out. I will never be mad at a nomination for her. But I feel like something…someone…maybe…is missing. Did they happen to watch this past season of Orange Is The New Black before making these nominations?

Did they laugh along with Taystee while she would nail her sassy and comedic dance moves and deliver one-liners that tickle to the core? Did they do this, only for moments later to be in tears; sobbing in the corner, rocking themselves to sleep in fetal position because they literally COULD NOT with Taystee’s heart wrenching monologues about the death of Poussey and the inequality and tragic hardships minorities are suffering every day? Did they not get goosebumps every time her eyes would well up with tears that she had been fighting to hold back and stay strong? Did they not sit in anxious anticipation every time she walked into frame, because they knew that she was about to create magic on their TV screens?


They didn’t do any of those things?


Yeah, okay.


Danielle Brooks delivered so many powerful performances in this past season of OITNB that I can’t keep track of them at this point. Basically every time Taystee spoke this season, this was my chart of emotions:

-“Oh God. I think I might cry.”
-“Okay, I literally can’t stop crying.”
-“Well I think I stopped crying. But only because I am paralyzed. Oh no. I cannot move. I can’t stop staring at the screen. I am stuck in a paralyzed state of emotions raging through my completely still body.”
(The episode ends)
(4 hours go by)
(I come to, as if a hypnotist just said my trigger word to wake me. Side note: my trigger word is most definitely ‘Sarsaparilla’)
-“Well she is definitely getting an Emmy.”
(I eat my feelings until sweet slumber takes me away to dream about how good Danielle Brooks is)

If you watched Danielle Brooks this season and did not feel those exact emotions and ride that rollercoaster; then you are probably dead inside and will become a notorious serial killer and don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Taystee always provides unprecendented levels of laughter and shockingly beautiful sadness, but this season she was on another level. And to not acknowledge that with a nomination is a damn shame. Cue the Shame Nun from Game of Thrones

Also worth mentioning that GOT is not nominated for 70 million awards this year because of their late release date. Which by the way guys…IT’S HAPPENING. It’s all happening. This weekend. #khaleesiforever

Next, let’s move onto another show that was ineligible. Let’s move onto how I want to punch BBC in the face for pushing back the release date of Orphan Black and making Tatiana Maslany ineligible for nomination. They missed the cutoff, due to their release date being later in the year than normal this year.

This year. Of all years. The final season. Emmys, let’s just get real: she plays like 10,000 characters with poise, brilliance, and insane levels of commitment. Make an exception. New rule! I shall like to made an addendum to Emmy law: If on average, you convincingly play more than 3-4 different characters in an episode and over a dozen throughout the show’s existence…YOU GET TO DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT AND WE WILL ALWAYS NOMINATE YOU.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to boast my extensive knowledge of legal jargon. Ugh. So arrogant, sorry. I need to listen to Kendrick. Be humble. Sit down.

The last major sticking point for me this year were the multiple nominations for some of the ladies of Saturday Night Live.

Kate McKinnon – DUH. She is a force who cannot be stopped and has brought so much comedic talent, charm, and brilliance into our lives that she should be immortalized. Excellent nomination. Excellent human. Kate, please be my best friend forever and live in my pocket.

Vanessa Bayer – DUH…and thank you! Whether she is needed to be a supporting player, or the star of the sketch; she always delivers flawless performances. Her characters are lovably hilarious, her screen presence is undeniably captivating, and her smile will make you want to go hug 1000’s of puppies. This was her farewell season, and to see her get a nomination for this season makes my insides feel just as happy and warm as her majestic smile.

Leslie Jones – It’s great that we are able to see a story such as hers. Dream big, guys. Because if someone who constantly breaks, stumbles on lines, stares directly at cue cards, loses her blocking, and can’t play a character outside of the realm of screaming at people can get an Emmy nom…you can too!

Harsh, Maestri!

But it’s true. I’m sorry, I would have really loved it if Leslie stuck to writing and to stand up. When Leslie is being Leslie, she is hilarious and committed. Sure, I get a bit burnt out on her style after a while, because personally that’s not really my jam. But her talent in that arena in undeniable. When she is not yelling into camera on Weekend Update, or playing a sexually aggressive character in a sketch…it’s as if she has never been on camera before. And even when she gets to play those “Leslie-esque” characters, you can pretty much bet on the fact that she is going to break or step on a line. I. Do. Not. Get. It.

Everyone loves a good “break” now and again. A chuckle here, a smirk there, a serving of Jimmy Fallon giggles from time to time, an epic ‘Debbie Downer’ moment once every couple of years. But when you haven’t even been on the show for that long, and I immediately associate you with breaking or flubbing a line; that is supes annoying. Even more annoying than when people use the word “supes”. Totes? Totes.

You want to nominate a third SNL heavy hitter…look at Cecily Strong. Look at Beck Bennett. Look at Bobby Moynihan. Any one of them would be a deserving nominee to sit next to Kate and Vanessa. (I know Beck and Bobby are men. They would be in the actor category. Get off my shit.) Cecily had yet another amazing season. Give that girl some golden hardware.

Whew. That felt good.

For real though…here are some things I actually do like about these Emmy nominations!

Master of None: Season Two was IN-SANE. I would love to see them clean up. The show, Aziz, and the writing all deserve all of the things. From beginning to end, this was a superb season filled with smart and poignant comedy and commentary.

Julia Louis-Dreyfus: Give her everything. Now.

Drama Actor: Tough category but Kevin Spacey is terrifying and terrifyingly good this year on House of Cards. Also, I want to do so many dirty things to Milo Ventimiglia. I suppose that’s unrelated to this, specifically.

Limited Series: This is mean and unfair and mean and unfair. To have only one winner with Big Little Lies and The Night Of in one category is just cruel. Maybe it can be like the Oscars when two accepting teams were on stage…but this time one won’t be kicked off. Everyone wins!! (Except LaLa Land. Sorry, LaLa Land. I still love you xo)

Limited Series Actor & Actress: What even?? Have you seen the lists?? They all win. Cue Oprah. You get an Emmy! And you get an Emmy! And you get an Emmy!

Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series: Outside of Leslie Jones, this is a stacked category and it makes me so happy. It makes me Vanessa-Bayer-Smile-Happy. So, yeah you can probably guess who I am leaning towards on this one. I’d love to see Vanessa get it. But with such a stellar group of funny ladies I would be happy for any one of them, other than the one who shall not be named. (I’M TALKING ABOUT LESLIE)

Reality Competition: You can all fuck off.

Directing For a Drama & Comedy Series: Four female directors between them. Keep ‘em coming, ladies.

Donald Glover: You do you, boo. I love you. *face caress*

Well now that I have had my internet therapy for the day by ranting to a bunch of internet strangers while they scroll through their phones and avoid their loved ones; I will go have my real-life therapy, and rant to a bunch of real-life strangers while they scroll through their phones and avoid their loved ones…and the crazy girl yelling at them about TV while they are in line at Starbucks.

Special Olympics World Games

Take a break from watching me be terrible in Terrible HR, to read an article I wrote about some people that are anything but terrible. They are the athletes of the Special Olympics and they are the best humans you could ever imagine. See link below to read at WSN247. – Special Olympics World Games Recap


Special Olympics Blog

Although you can wander your way over to any time to see dozens of blogs I have written, I am posting this one specifically because it is one I hope everyone reads. And not just because I am a writer and I am needy of approval. But because it is a topic I am pretty damn passionate about and I know many others who are as well. I hope you are one of them.

Check out the link below to read my blog about the Special Olympics and being more inclusive for athletes with intellectual disabilities.

Working Together For Special Olympics Inclusion


Story Time: Drunk Golfing is the Best Golfing

Sometimes you just need a drink at 8am.  Sometimes that drink is at a golf course club house with your work acquaintances and a hot bartender who is going to feed you vodka like water all day.  Sometimes you’re a hot mess.

I’ve learned a lot of morals in my 25 years.  Things like; don’t swim after a fin in the ocean because you think it’s a dolphin that you want to name Cornelius and become friends with.  Or don’t go out on a rooftop in NY in January when you’re drunk and its covered in ice.  Or most importantly; don’t talk to someone dressed as a nun with no legs playing electronic ‘Wheel of Fortune’ games in a New York City hotel lobby.  I suppose those are stories for other times.  In this story the moral was……..well how about I just tell the story and then we can figure out the moral together.  It will be like a team building exercise.

The company I was working for had a golfing event in Rochester, NY which was about an hour or so from Syracuse where I was living.  I will use code names as to protect everyone’s identity.  I drove out with my co workers, Dom and Queen Beatrice.  Dom was the Dirty Old Man of the group, hence my name for him.  You know this guy, we all know this guy; the old guy who is the most helpful person you know, but also has the most dirty jokes.  We all love this guy.  And I don’t feel the need to explain Queen Beatrice, mainly because I’m not 100% sure where I got it from.  We were playing in foursomes and our fourth was already there.  We’ll call him Babaloo.

We were early for our 9am tee time and walked into the club.  The bartender was just walking in and Dom was the first to break the ice.  “Welp, it’s almost 9.  Get me a scotch.”  Once he had ordered I knew I had to represent for the non AARP card holding members of the group so I ordered myself a vodka tonic.  The bartender was young, hot and serving me vodka.  The only thing that can be assumed from this point on is that I was going to be in intoxicatingly intoxicated trouble.  Say that 5 times fast…while intoxicated.

We had a phenomenal time golfing.  I hit things, I drank, I tanned, I flirted with my boss; it was a superb day.  After the first 9 holes we were all getting loose.  And by loose, I mean me and Babaloo were pulling 360’s down hills in our golf cart.  Throughout the day we indulged from the lovely little man driving around the course with adult beverages and stopping back to the club house to see my shot serving boyfriend.  Then it happened.  The tipping point came.  If I drink all day at a steady pace; I’m an all star, no worries.  But all of that went out the window when I met my match: The Travel Mug.  Queen Beatrice had brought vodka and cranberry juice to make our own cocktails on the course because we’re classy bitches like that.  She had decided to call it a day, knowing she had to drive us home that night.  So she offered me what was left, saying it wasn’t much.  She handed me the travel mug.  I assumed it was the pre-mixed cocktail and figured I’d just slam what was left.  I was parched and didn’t want it to get warm, ok?  What happened next was a series of Darth Vader breaths mixed with squeaking and severe eye watering.  I had just gulped down roughly 3 shots of straight vodka.  Oops.

After Queen Beatrice picked her jaw off the fairway she told me that was straight vodka. I thanked her for warning me by tipping over and falling directly on my ass.  After the game wrapped up we headed to the club house for a complimentary buffet dinner where they had give aways and speeches…I think.  The dinner portion of the evening is a little foggy.  I do remember heading to the bar to see boy toy bartender and do shots with Dom.  As cute bartender poured more lemon drops for me and shots of Jameson for Dom, I could feel my balance, speech and chance of keeping my job after this weekend all slipping away.  But I hung in there.  I’m Princess Champion, damn it.  (By the way, I did end up keeping my job.  I think it’s my lovable charm that saved me once again.) With Dom being the oldest on the team in the state and me being the youngest; it only made sense that we were the group’s alcoholics.  Once they stopped eating “dinner” and I stopped eating ice cubes and limes at the bottom of my cocktails we had to head home.  My sexy drink retriever gave me his number and I left with Dom and Queen Beatrice.  It took me a solid 20 minutes to remember we were in Rochester and had a drive home ahead of us.  Then it also hit me that I live an hour away from bar boy.  Yelping, “What city are we in?!” was my subtle way of figuring this out.  Needless to say; bartender’s napkin phone number went out the window.  The drive home would prove to be my kryptonite.  There was far too much vodka swishing around in my tum tum with far too much nothing else.  Every time we hit a speed bump it sounded like a water jug when it bubbles after pouring yourself a cup.  I believe I made Queen Beatrice stop at one point for something…or something.  Then I also believe that I got rid of the only thing in my system; vodka.  I did this by throwing up in case you couldn’t figure that out.  It was basically like someone spitting up water after they’ve drowned.  I bet Queen Beatrice was pretty happy I opted for a liquid dinner at this point.  I’m not typically a ‘sicky’ when I drink.  So this came as a surprise to me.  So now when I drink on a golf course for 10 hours I tend to avoid long car rides immediately following.  I’m not stupid.

When we got to my apartment I had one last task I would be faced with.  I had to get my golf clubs up the stairs to my 2nd level apartment.  I convinced Queen Beatrice I’d be fine on my own.  I can be very persuasive, although also very wrong.  I got on the first step and immediately was dragged backwards by the clubs and fell, once again, directly on my ass.  Attempt two looked painfully similar.  This wasn’t going to work.  But I’m a thinker; an idea woman.  So, I took out each and every club and carried them upstairs separately and the bag also.  It took roughly 6 trips and 30 minutes but, ahoy!  I made it!  It was so exciting that I’m using the word ahoy!  It was still only about 10pm at this point and I was supposed to attend a surprise party.  I decided to take a quick power nap on the couch and then make someone come get my drunk ass and take me to the party.  This power nap of course turned in to me sleeping until around 2:30am and being woken up by my roommate when she got home from work.  I was confused, I was thirsty and I had 16 missed calls / texts, give or take, asking where I was.  I had to respond before drifting back off to dreamland and wasn’t really sure what to say.  But decided honesty was the best policy.  “Sorry I missed your party.  I was drunk golfing in Rochester for the past 10 hours and then passed out.  I understand if you want to find better friends.  Love, Amy.”

So I guess there are a few morals I could take away. I’ll tell you what my biggest moral take away was. I’ll also let you in on the real “kicker” of the night. Remember my struggle to get the golf clubs upstairs? My moral of the story is to always, always make sure you walk around the corner…………..

to the elevator.

I think I failed life.

New Hampshire or Bust

Chelsea Handler is one of my favorite comedians. Not only because she makes fun of Angelina Jolie and drinks more vodka than any human ever should, but also because she makes fun of Tori Spelling and drinks more vodka than any human ever should. I have gotten to see her perform her stand up live 4 times and loved each one.

I heard Chelsea would be performing in New Hampshire and decided it was a must that I be in attendance. I asked a few of my friends if they wanted to go by telling them they were going. So we bought the tickets, booked the hotel and hit the road from Syracuse, NY. It was me and my friend Rhac (Yes, pronounced like ‘rock’ and yes, his real name) and our friends the super couple, Shaun and Evangeline. They were one of those couples that were either super fun or super lame. So Rhac was there as my safety in case the lame couple showed up. I mean, his name is Rhac- you know he is a good time. We were planning on getting into town the night before the show, spending the following day exploring New Hampshire, go to the show that night and then drive back the next day. The plan took a detour when we found a fun moose statue and Santa Claus. Let me explain.

We were driving through Vermont, right on schedule to get to our hotel in New Hampshire around 7pm when Rhac noticed a moose statue he wanted to get a picture with of course. Rhac and I had been drinking for most of the trip already while Shaun drove. So we were basically like drunk children wanting to take every detour possible that seemed fun. We turned around, took some pictures with the moose and then tried to get back on track. But since we are all directionally impaired and in backwoods Vermont where there is no service for our GPS we did not. Instead we asked some guy for directions and while walking back to the car Santa spotted us. There was a tavern across the street and a man who looked like Santa Claus (if Santa was from the sticks and it was the off season so he trimmed his beard a bit). He was wearing jeans, a white tee, and American Flag suspenders. He called out, “What are you doing? I’m drinking! You should come do the same!” I’m not one to disobey Santa, so we adhered. It was a stereotypical small Vermont town. Everyone in the bar knew each other and accepted us like we were all old friends. Right down to Kathy the bartender and all of the beer vendors there who got drunk with us giving us free swag. We barely spent a penny with all the free drinks we were getting and also walked away with shirts, beads, beer buckets, and lots of stories from Santa Claus. We came to find out Santa’s name was Bob. We also came to find out Bob was a bit of a creeper which still to this day taints Christmas for me a little bit. I’ve never had so much fun with a bunch of strangers in my life. Evangeline was the responsible one to step up and say she would stay sober to get us to New Hampshire. I think we had all forgotten we still had to get to New Hampshire.

So after a night of drinks, taking 100’s of pictures with the locals, singing to classic 80’s jams on the jukebox, free swag, and creepy looks from Bob; we headed to New Hampshire. When we got there Rhac and I went to check in. Rhac was wearing every shirt we got at the bar, his sunglasses, and a Bud Light bucket on his head. I was sophisticatedly dressed with about 3 pounds of beads around my neck, Land Shark sunglasses and Hawaiian leis around my head. We got checked in, Rhac got the keys and I hit on the bell boy. Successful check in for sure.

The following day we took it easy and just drove around the town finding some little diners and shops to go to. We got back to the room with some time to pregame and get ready for the show.  Chelsea was hilarious as always and put on an amazing show. Heather McDonald opened for her and was funny as always too. I had gotten to see Heather open for her when I saw Chelsea in New Jersey too.  After that show I asked Heather for her autograph by brilliantly saying, “I have a book and you should sign it right now because you’re funny and I like your face.” I shouldn’t be allowed to meet famous people. They were doing a book signing after the Jersey show and I was convinced if I met Chelsea she would see what a talent I was and hire me for her show. I decided I would wing it and say something fabulous off the top of my head when I met her. I had brought her book to get signed but they were only allowing people to get signatures who bought the book at the store that day. Mine no longer had the book cover on it and was obviously not bought there. So I forced my boyfriend to buy one so we could get in line. Then we found out they were giving post-its with the correct spelling of your name to make it easier on Chelsea. So they only gave Jarrid one since he bought the book. I kept asking for one but that miserable woman was not budging and kept saying I couldn’t get the autograph since I didn’t buy the book there. So we moved up in line a bit and then I noticed my nemesis, the angry lady, was gone. So I grabbed Jarrid’s book that was bought there, went back to them and told them that the lady that was there before didn’t give me a post-it after I bought my book and that she should probably be fired due to a bad attitude and a slight lisp. It was a success. I got my post-it. When we finally got to Chelsea the fabulous thing I came up with was, “I lied to get in this line. Here is a post it with my name on it – It’s for you! I didn’t buy this here.” Then I spilled all the ice out of my empty rum and coke that I forgot I was holding and told the security guy to take a picture for me as I threw my camera at him. This is why I can’t have nice things.

But back to New Hampshire – we watched the show and were on a funny high. Afterwards we walked around looking for a fun spot to spend the night at and came across a group outside of a place that had some live music. It was a super chill bar with a really funnlive jam band playing. Rhac and Shaun are both huge jam band fans and I can tell you with 100% confidence if one of the band members asked them to go home with them they would have. I have never seen two grown men turn into groupies so quickly. While they threw their unmentionables on stage obsessing over the band I had my eyes set on Purple Shirt. This is still what we call him because none of us remember his name. He looked like a hot modern day Greaser minus the literal greasy hair and cigarette pack wrapped up in his sleeve. He was playing pool and kept looking over so I decided I would give him the privilege to buy the rest of my drinks that night. Purple Shirt hung out with us the rest of the night while we danced and partied with the band who Rhac and Shaun had of course become friends with. After the bar closed we headed back to the hotel where we kept the party going with some more drinks, pizza, and a giant kickball that had appeared at some point. Somehow we didn’t break anything in the hotel room from our drunken kickball / soccer game we were playing until around 5 am. When I woke the next morning I was lying with my head off the foot of the bed, Rhac was sleeping in the desk chair, and the room looked like a tornado hit it. A giant, drunk, tornado. This is the effect Chelsea Handler has on people.

It had been a great trip but it was time to go home. The ride home was a bit tamer than the ride there of course. We each had to take turns driving due to the lack of sleep and liver function. People always ask me what bars we went to and if we ever went back and the answers are – no idea and no. I would love to know the names of those bars so we could revisit them but sadly I do not. Hell, I can’t even tell you the name of the town we were in, in Vermont. But I can tell you that road trips and Chelsea Handler put together are always going to be a really, really great time for you and your friends and a really, really bad time for your liver.

Cheers Chelsea.

We Didn’t Start The Fire

If any of the following topics intrigue you, I suggest you continue reading: a massive fire, Christmas trees, drinking games, pickles and something about a Mexican. If these topics do not interest you, this may not be the story for you. I kind of have your interest now though anyways, don’t I? You’ll just have to trust me.

After a night out at the bars my friend Mollie and I were heading back to her house with her boyfriend. I don’t remember his name so we’ll just call him DD, because that’s the purpose he served for me on this particular evening. On the way back Mollie’s roommate called her saying she wanted to build a fire in their fire pit and have some drinks. We had a task at hand: get wood for fire. Wouldn’t you know, as we were driving we noticed a dead, old Christmas tree on the side of the road with some people’s trash. Our target was in sight. “DD, pull over!” If you have never witnessed two drunk girls wrestling a Christmas tree into the back of an SUV at 2am I highly recommend it. After various failed and somewhat painful attempts we finally prevailed. I can proudly say we beat the tree. Suck it, inanimate object. You were ousted by two drunkies and now we’re going to light you on fire.

There were three people back at the house and if I could remember their names I would. But since I have the memory of a goldfish we’ll call them Lady, Lady’s Boyfriend and Alfred. We had music, beer, food, and their shed in the back yard with a table inside ready and waiting for some drinking games to be played on it. We threw the entire tree in the fire pit and lit that bitch up. The tree definitely did not fit in the fire pit and I’m sure if anyone else was watching they would have been 100% positive bad things were going to happen. We headed into the shed and Alfred had a drinking game he wanted us to play. The only thing I remember about it was that there was always a ‘Mexican’. I really don’t know the significance of the Mexican or what it means in the game and to be honest I didn’t know that night either. You know how with some games the first time you learn them you pick it up right away? And then other times, no matter how long you play it and how many times it is explained to you, you just keep missing the boat? Well I don’t know if the boat ever even came for me that night because I just lied my way through that game acting like I knew what I was doing. Needless to say it didn’t fare well for me and my liver. The night was looking good though.  There were lights strung all around the shed for ambiance and they had some speakers set up to set the mood. (aka give us drunkie dancing music) I also remember an enormous jar of pickles. And that they were some amazing pickles. The only other time I’ve had better pickles in my life is a whole other story for another time. That one involves my friend’s haunted house, fighting, card games, Bud Light and creating our own sound and dialogue to an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

After a few hours we all decided it was time to head to bed. It was around 5 or 6 am at this point and we definitely looked the part. Alfred left at some point and I crashed out on the couch. Lady and Lady’s boyfriend – ah wait! Her name is Katie. Look at me remembering things. One gold star for me! So Katie and her boyfriend and Mollie and DD and I were all sound asleep when I was woken up around 7am. The couch is right near the front door which is mostly glass so you can see through. I woke up to see someone pounding on the door yelling at me. It was some girl who looked like Katie. I had barely been asleep for an hour and was still definitely drunk. I was really confused as to why Katie was pounding on her own front door yelling at me. This confusion and also seeing all of that obnoxious day light was bumming me out so I hid under the covers hoping she would go away. This technique did not work. She kept pounding and I decided I should try and figure out what she was yelling. So like a confused, drunk little gopher I popped my head up from under the blankets and listened. She was yelling, “Your shed is on fire!” This still took a moment to process before I could respond. In my head I pictured a little fire and just thought, wow this lady is freaking out. She needs to chill and let me go back to sleep. I also was still unsure if it was Katie or not. My thought process was not exactly going smoothly at this point. So I just responded, “So put it out.” And then hid under the covers again. She kept pounding so I realized what I needed to do. She obviously wasn’t smart enough to figure out how to put the fire out so I yelled to her, “There’s a hose and bucket on the side of the house.” Finally I decided maybe I’ll check it out because I obviously was not going to get any sleep until this little spark was put out. So I walked through the kitchen to the deck and looked up to see the entire shed engulfed in flames which must have been 20 feet high. Oops.

At this point the dogs were barking, the lady was still yelling and I was trying to find my phone to call 911 while attempting to wake the others. The woman was screaming at me to save the animals in the craziest shrillest voice I’ve ever heard. Both dogs were safely standing right next to me a little scared of the crazy yelling maniac while I tried to tell her she should have tried my hose and bucket solution a long time ago. Katie and her boyfriend were basically in a coma. They were not budging when I tried waking them. I went into Mollie’s room to find she was just noticing through her window what was going on. “Dude, your shed’s on fire.” Were my ever so eloquently spoken words to her. Her response, “Yeah, no shit.” Mollie then took on the task of waking up her roommate and roommate’s boyfriend who I had already slapped various times to no avail. She started yelling at her, “Your shed is on fire!” Katie finally heard her and began laughing. This went on for another few minutes before Katie finally got up. We found out later Katie thought she was saying “Your shit is on fire.” I see where the confusion was there.

We got out of the house with the dogs and the fire department finally showed up and put the fire out. We came to find out the screaming lady was a jogger running past the house and noticed the enormous fire from the backyard. As we stood in the street waiting to see what was going on we all asked ourselves the same question at the same time. I know this, because all at once we all looked at each other with a face that said “Uh, oh. Are we all drunken, accidental arsonists?” We discussed for about 5 minutes trying to remember if we put the camp fire out. None of us could give a definitive answer so I went into survival mode and just started shaking my head, muttering, “Deny, deny, deny” like a crazy person still slightly staggering around. At one point a fireman came up to me and started asking questions. Due to a mix of confusion, paranoia and sleep deprivation I just stared at him refusing to speak until he became uncomfortable and walked away to talk to the others.

After it was safe we walked into the back yard to see a skeleton of a shed left, a half burned picnic table, an empty cooler, empty beer cans everywhere, and a fire pit with a giant skeleton of a Christmas tree laying across it. It wasn’t looking good for us. The firemen asked us if we had been drinking last night and if we had built a fire. Technically we were drinking that morning, if we’re going by hours on the clock. We didn’t want to say anything incriminating that would make us sound like the irresponsible lushes that we were. Luckily though, they came to find out it was caused by the extension cord that they used to hook up the speakers. It was just an electrical fire that had nothing to do with the poorly constructed Christmas tree fire and our drunkenness. See, extension cords are what are dangerous…not drunken disorderly conduct mixed with open flames.  Take notes, kids.

After everything was all taken care of the firemen left and we were all left just in complete awe about what had just happened. Mollie got on the phone with her mom telling her what happened and all of a sudden we just hear her from the other room yell in a voice dripping with sarcasm and exhaustion, “Yea, Mom. I’ll just call up 1 800 come pick up my burned shit!” I don’t think Mollie was ready to start taking advice on how to clean up the mess quite yet.

All in all, it was a good night. Fun times, fun people, a giant jar of delicious pickles. No one was hurt, none of us were arsonists and their insurance covered everything. And as a bonus, the guy who lived next door who was always complaining about them being too loud…half of his shed burned down because it was right next to their shed. That’s karma my friend. People make noise, live with it or get your shed burned down, bro. That’s just how it works.

I suppose if someone were to ask me if there was a moral to the story that people can learn from I would say yes. The moral is if someone is yelling to you that your shed is on fire, you should assume they actually mean your shed is on fire and you should take some sort of action. Either that, or, that a Christmas tree makes one terrific piece of kindling. Yeah, I think that’s it.

Happy camp fires everyone! Cheers.