Flashback: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. The year was 2007. The place, here. And two newly sororitized girls awoke in a haze. Where specifically they were, we cannot say, and whence specifically they were, we cannot say either. Except that it was a Tuesday morning, they were outdoors (?) and sobriety managed to elude them. Nothing new. Those days it was drunk on the reg, yachts on the reg, poppin’ caps on the reg, stealin’ cars on the reg, run-on sentences on the reg …

R: that’s enough.

We’ve been doing a lot of thinking about “things.” All these things, like the environment and health care and people on the street getting diseases from monkeys and pigs and birds. Who’s the weirdo that’s been touching all these sick animals? We mean, come on. They’re sick. They’ve got problems enough as it is.

So, not too content with how “things” were going, what with the temperamental economy and our joblessness and sleeplessness and everyone else’s crazy competitiveness, we decided to take happiness into our own hands the only way we know how: eating! With all these kids killing each other with guns and knives and forks, we thought, why not put all this cutlery to better use? Like, to eat pie. So we made a pie. And we think you should make one too!

The world is a big fat mess full of even huger fat messes. Things are flooding. It’s getting hotter but the weather is getting colder (weird!). Our genes are conspiring against us. Bitches are mad broke and we’ve been watching over 10 hours of Law and Order a week. Multiply that figure by five and you approach the number of hours a week we spend a-drinkin’.

Disclaimer: What you’re about to read is really, really gross. If you’re a weak-stomached pansy-ass, this is about as far as we recommend you go. Better luck next week, pansies-ass-pansies. You’ll have to get your superfuntimes another day.

So here goes. The other day, R and R went to the gym as they occasionally do after apple festivals, and they were feeling pretty good. One R took to the treadmill while the other R mounted her usual weird-elliptical-treadmill-hybrid-thing and began to ...

R: WORK IT!

Can you believe the nonsense: when R was in high school, she spent the summer of her 16th year doing what all nerdy-nerds do. She took some classes. Sure, she chilled too, but she took some classes. She did some homework. She studied her nerdy little heart out, took some mad hard tests and sacrificed suns and funs, all in the pursuit of one aim: earning college credit.

Imagine you’re walking down the street, minding your own business when suddenly it approaches: something between the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man and Will Ferrell with a tranquilizer dart in his neck, leaving behind a trail of booze, sweat and drool in its path. What a horror! You exclaim, as it slowly gets bigger and bigger, crying “mmmmmf I waaan sanwichesss! And peeeezzaaaa!” and as you dive to avoid its pale, blubbery, annoying wrath, you see it, and then you know: side boob. What we have here is a big, fat, mess.

A few weeks ago, I was contentedly sprawled across the couch and enjoying my requisite weekend-at-home House / Law and Order SVU combo marathon-extraordinaire, when my mom casually interjected, “Have you read today’s Newsday?” I, seething from the interruption, responded, “You know I don’t read that shit.” She glanced at the screen. “How many times have you seen this episode?” Umm … “How about ENOUGH?” She turned off the TV and Hugh’s face flickered into the darkness. “Read this,” she insisted. “It’s very interesting.”