A Few Of Meg's Favorite Things

In Chicago, we have a version of what I guess the Village Voice is in NYC. It's the trendy, stick-up-your-ass paper that the tragically hip try to adhere to. Its mindless reviews can either make you or break you if you're in my profession – my profession being that of a deadbeat writer/artist trying to exploit yourself horribly to gain a dime. The publication has exploited me and my stories, my clothes, and my films for its value, and I of course consented. Personally, the only time I like when this paper decides to bottom feed and sink to my guttural level is when it talks about what a terrible worthless retard I am.

The recent issue highlights the forty best things about our wonderful city, Chicago. I will leave any promotion out. They managed to hit on a couple of good spots, but for the most part, it was a bunch of hipster, fake, lamoid, boring, turd events that the foul, steaming, shitpile, hipsters who they chose to write about them attend. At first I was a little insulted. I was insulted that I am a pretty well known shithead, scumbag writer in Chicago, and I was not chosen to pick my favorite place. That feeling lasted about ten seconds, and then I slapped myself in the face for even entertaining the idea that I would bless them with my foul mind turds. I couldn’t believe I would even have such ambitions.

There is a hierarchical totem pole to the hipster madness at this chic, Chicago paper. The head of the totem pole turns out to be a wonderfully "hip" girl that I had the pleasure of attending high school with. We never cease to exchange dirty looks when we see each other anywhere. This rivalry has been going on ever since that over-privileged brat went to the same over-privileged suburban high school that I went to. And when she was not busy being a tawdry, dirty cunt and a shame to the female gender, she was spitting on me and calling me trash.

We parted ways for four years. She became a cokehead stripper, completed college, and gets paid shitloads of dollars to be Ms. Hip in Chi-town and prance around like Paris or Lohan or Bijou and write regenerated garbage about the Chicago "scene." I became a drunk heroin addict who barely survives on extra government money, graduated college, and emerged a smut writer who almost no publication will touch (thank God for CJ); and when they do, I am labeled a "shock-columnist" – a title which always makes me gag (I like "smut peddler" much better). I guess it’s because of my lack of “literary merit” that this prissy piss pouch still spits on me at hipster parties, and once she even tried to steal one of my boyfriends. Trash. Apparently for her, high school has never ended.

I haven’t seen the most recent issue, but I’m going to take a guess as to what it’s about. She no doubt highlights some terrible pick-up clubs and crappy bands and writes the most banal, Sex in the City-esque dumpster stories about where to shop and bands that kick out "gnarly synth mauling beats"… whatever the fuck that means.

Some might come to the conclusion, by reading this, that I am jealous. My response? YOU'RE GODDAMNED FUCKING RIGHT!!!!! I'm jealous as hell that I sit here and tell my dirtiest of dirty secrets and am a truck stop away from being a full time hooker, whilst she, and many like her, recycles boring, thumb-up-my-ass crap about what kind of pussy fragrance to wear. The tit-less little bone prances around with her expensive shoes and froo-froo scarf around her little neck, and groans and gargles out garbage onto a page for tons of dollars. Instead of wanting to hit the next hot club, she makes me want to hit myself in the roof of the mouth with a shotgun and blow the back of my head off.

In lieu of further bitching, I feel it will be more apropos to write a list of my 42 favorite things. These could have all graced her hipster turd paper and been beautiful. Besides, it’s about time I write something upbeat. I don't hate everything folks, and here are 42 of my favorite things to prove it:


1. That new reality show where the children have to toil and work. I'm waiting for it to turn into real life Lord of the Flies.

2. Watching the obese, children, and people in wheelchairs fall down.

3. Seeing Tyra Banks cry.

4. Jan Michael Vincent at this age and the fact that he has cirrhosis of the liver.

5. Juggalos. (hardcore ICP fans).

6. Honor amongst thieves, especially in the old west.

7. Natural disasters.

8. When Valerie Solanis shot Andy Warhol.

9. The extremely racist Disney movie "Song of thee South," which is now almost impossible to get because Disney owns the world, and is for some reason ashamed of this slice of genius.

10. The women in the film "Grey Gardens" and agoraphobic women in general.

11. The Hemloch Society and assisted suicide.

12. Canadian Landlords.

13. When celebrities complain about how terrible their lives are because of the paparazzi.

14. The fact that my breasts have grown 1 1/2 cup sizes in the past year.

15. Television. (I could go on forever).

16. The plays of Cho, the fellow who shot up Virginia Tech, especially the one entitled "Richard McBeef".

17. Abusive Relationships.

18. Disneyland jail.

19. Red Lobster Lobsterfest.

20. Getting paid by the government without working.

21. Blogs of high school girls with low self esteem.

22. Xanax.

23. The bridge when you enter Tijuana over the boarder where all the sick and decrepit beg for money, and children play the accordion and yell.

24. Sitting in the house and getting bigger.

25. Food stamps.

26. Jack in the Box, two tacos for 99 cents.

27. Bars that don't search my bags so I can bring my own drinks in.

28. Secrets.

29. The smell of my neighborhood. Kind of like the smell of slaughterhouses.

30. Child Beauty Pageants.

31. Waiting for the man.

32. Pee pads.

33. Hentai.

34. Hitler mustaches.

35. The scene in the movie "The Wall" where Pink tears apart his hotel room and arranges everything in this beautifully obsessive compulsive way.

36. The photos in my Pediatric Nursing and Clinical Dermatology books.

37. The time when a guy told me that I looked like "a toy box threw up" in reference to the colorful way I dress, I guess. Who knows? It was a wonderful thing to yell at someone.

38. Plastic surgery disasters.

39. Sugar Mammas and Daddies

40. Fixing cars with Duct tape.

41. Bridezillas.

42. Multiples of five.



Not too shabby of a list, if I may say. Man, I like a lot of things. And it definitely proves I don’t hate everything in the world. Hell, I could make an even longer list if I tried. Notice "life" was not in there, but neither was "death". So I can do other things than complain. I actually consider myself a humanitarian and a proponent of social justice. Fucking weird. I don't like to write about that stuff, I just hope it comes out through what I write.

I have to admit, however, that even after all this positivity I still can’t help but hate that nasty, cum-stained journalist whom I far surpass in intellect and creativity, but I feel a lot better that I have a way better forum where I can write my 42 favorite things. I don't even have to worry about whether the audience loves or hates it, because either result is a success to me.

FTW. I love life.