Tag Archives: barney stinson

Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day Three

This weekend, I watched the film, Julie & Julia—primarily because it starred Meryl Streep and the chick from Enchanted.  I mean, Meryl Streep is like the most celebrated actor of all time.  She’s kind of like bacon.  If it’s got bacon, you know it’s gonna be good (except for that awful bacon dessert made by Kevin aka “the MIT guy” on Top Chef—can we say EW?).

I had no idea what to expect in watching the film, but I become quite envious of the Julie character (I was going to say spoiler alert, except it’s not a spoiler to state the complete obvious), because she effectively became rich and famous by blogging.  Julie earned her accolades by going through the Julia Child cookbook, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” and blogging about her attempts at accurately following the directions of the iconic American Frenchie, Julia Child.

So I’ve been inspired by Julie to continue in my pleas to Tina Fey and NPH who, to date, have yet to acknowledge my existence.  Although, in a moment of sheer insanity, I did believe that the most recent HIMYM contained NPH’s secret signals to me—you know, when he continually winked at the camera.  I was totally like, “Neil!  I see you!  I love you!  I will carry your lovechild!  I will travel to LA to find you and follow you in a totally legal and non-stalkerish fashion!”  I digress.

What can I, an attorney with outlandish dreams of eventually becoming an EGOT winner, possibly write about, on a consistent basis, that would yield in the achievement of my laughable fantasies?  I certainly don’t have the patience or wherewithal to cook from a fancy French cookbook every day (unless someone were to provide me with a substantial advance . . .).  I could write about my attempts at mimicking dance routines from SYTYCD, but such shenanigans cannot be adequately described in just words alone—just a couple weeks ago, I tried to complete at least 5 pirouettes in sequence and found that my body would effectively become frozen at about 3/4 of a pirouette, causing me to tumble to the floor in a heap of all that is not graceful.

Perhaps that, then, is why Tina and Neil have not discovered me.  I don’t have direction.  What shall I devote my blogging to in the upcoming days until my pending occupational nuptials with 30 Rock or HIMYM?

Screw it.  I like my current theme.  Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Filed under Discover Me, Plea to NPH, Plea to Tina Fey, SYTYCD, Television

10 Days for NPH — Day Six

The hubby went to Vegas this weekend for some Dude time and poker.  When I think of Vegas, I think of slots, sluts, and slits.  I’ve been to Vegas more times than I can conceivably count, but there are certain guarantees that will be met in a single trip to Vegas.  First, there will be debauchery.  Perhaps not from you, but you will certainly witness people engaged in behavior that mommy and daddy would not be terribly proud of.  Second, lots of money will be exchanged.  Perhaps you like to gamble, in which case the odds of you being on the receiving end of that money exchange will be low.  Perhaps you like to frequent the red light district, just off the strip.  Here too, the odds of you being on the receiving end of that money exchange will be low, unless, of course, you decide to allow HBO to film you while you are on your Bunny Ranch tryst—again, mummy and daddy won’t be so proud.

And alas, this brings me to the point of this post.  JT (the non-Timberlake JT) alerted me to this article in Time.  I can already envision him giggling as he read this article entitled, “From Bangkok to Berlin, Hard Times Hit the Sex Trade.”  The writers of this article used some choice language in discussing the financial woes of the world’s prostitutes, e.g. discussing prostitutes being “laid off,” noting that the “world’s oldest profession isn’t about to take the recession lying down,” and describing ways to “stimulate business.”  Given that this is Time magazine, and not the Onion, I imagine that the writers deliberately, but covertly, tried to insert this ambiguous language to give the dirty minds of the world something to giggle about.

There is one promotion discussed in the article that hit me hard.  Apparently, Berlin’s Pussy Club “charges guests a $98 flat rate for six hours of unlimited sex, access to a sauna and solarium and an all-you-can-eat buffet.”  Like whoa.  Basically, for just over $16 an hour, you get sexy time, sauna time, solarium time, and stuffed time.  How the hell can a place like this actually grow profits with prices like this?  After some thought, I realized what the Pussy Club was up to.  The Pussy Club was leveraging an analogous trick used by casinos all over the world.  Allow me to explain.

In virtually every casino (at least in the US), if you gamble, you get free liquor.  Now, the concept of free liquor is quite enticing to anyone, especially considering the fact that a single Sex on the Beach (the drink) can easily cost you $10 in Vegas—and that’s with the make-you-vomit, squirt bottle, well vodka.  So even if you’re not inclined to gamble, perhaps the thought of not paying for your crappy beverages will suffice to entice you to the epilepsy-inducing floor.  Alas, however, one should realize that the casinos are not exactly being philanthropic in their free alcohol offerings.  To the contrary, the alcohol not only induces additional gambling (meaning extra profits), but it also induces stupidity.  And if you’ve ever seen a Girls Gone Wild commercial (or Joe Francis), you’ll know what I mean.  And guess what?  Stupid people lose more money!

So what’s the analogous plan in the sex business, you ask?  The buffet!  Free food is incredibly enticing, no matter how bad the food is.  Just ask any of my college roommates about our weekend trips to Costco, where we gorged ourselves on such health-conscious dishes such as Bagel Bites, Teriyaki Chicken Wings, and Costco pound cake.  After about round 3, we were fat and full.  After loading up Timmy (the van that could) with groceries, we headed home and immediately fell asleep on the couch, drooling in our food coma stupor.  The Pussy Club is essentially engaging in the same type of plan.  Give patrons free food—and lots of it.  Because guess what?  

Drunk people are too stupid to win; and

Stuffed people are too full to f*#@.

So Barney Stinson, avoid the buffet.  It will only hamper your Rico Suave moves.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!!

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10 Days for NPH — Day Four

Last week, I received a cryptic message from an anonymous individual to my pseudonym email address:

Should you fervently desire to meet the Great Neil,

Continue to read and examine this spiel.

Embark on the Post Hunt this forthcoming Sunday,

Win the P.H. and achieve your dream of Pay per Play.

I will emphasize this point just once more,

You can’t have NPH without P.H., you skanky little whore.

P.S.  I don’t really think you’re a whore, but it rhymes with more and is just freaking awesome.

Upon receiving this message, I jumped in glee.  I arose from the seat in which I stew in my lawyer juices and performed my NSYNC Bye Bye Bye dance, pumping my fists in the air.  Could this be it?  The key to meeting Tina Fey NPH?  I quickly searched Al Gore’s Internet to determine what this “Post Hunt” could be.  Alas, I saw the task that lay before me.  The Post Hunt was a scavenger hunt of sorts—for the brain!  Eureka, I thought!  I may not be able to outrun or outlast, but I can surely outwit, right?

However, in the midst of my celebratory dance and preparation for the Post Hunt, I began to wonder if someone was screwing with me.  Perhaps someone saw my pleas and desired, just for kicks, to elevate my hopes to the point in which I outright quit my job in a blaze of glory in order to fully devote myself to winning the Post Hunt and achieving my dream to meet and become best friends with Tina Fey NPH?  What if this is all a ruse to distract me from the real Tina Fey NPH?  But then, I thought, even if the prize was not Tina Fey, NPH, I could surely parlay my 15 minutes of fame into a shameless publicity tour in the hopes that Tina Fey NPH will happen to stumble across an article in the Washington Post, where one of DC’s finest lawyers is on the winning Post Hunt team, strips down buck-naked, and reveals a tattoo on her chest and buttocks that reads:  DISCOVER ME, TINA FEY NPH!!!  It’s a genius plan!

So, with three other brilliant minds (the AGs and the hubby), we embarked on the Hunt.  Initially stumped by the first clue, we abandoned the clue temporarily to tackle the other clues.  Like a well-oiled machine, the four of us steamrolled the competition by making quick work of the four other clues.  Finally, we returned to the original clue and began twisting our minds in the final leg of cranial gymnastics.  As the minutes wound down, and the answer did not come to light, my dreams of meeting Tina Fey NPH began to fade.  Would this be it?  Would my dreams become thwarted by two human statues standing before the Post Office, mocking me with their poses?  With defeat only 20 minutes away, I hung my head in shame.  I did not meet the great Tina Fey NPH yesterday, but I can hope that he will someday hear my pleas and marvel at my devotion.

Because Lord knows getting these tattoos on my butt and chest hurt like hell.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!

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Filed under Legal Woes, Life, Plea to NPH, Plea to Tina Fey, Television

10 Days for NPH — Day Two

Recently, news of the inevitable swine flu pandemic has ebbed.  Coupled with the 1 hour drive to move 4 miles, I actually took the Swine Flu Express to and from work yesterday.  Let me clarify—when I say that the news has ebbed, I mean in the States.  Not so much in China.  If you are Mexican (or “look” Mexican) and traveling to China, here’s what you can expect.  From the NY Times:

OUTBREAK!!!

Image Link

Yes, folks, my people don’t kid.  China is not the greatest country for freedom of speech or other progressive liberties, but it is a good place to be the target of pandemic profiling.

Speaking of the swine flu, I’ve been more vigilent about the amount of time I have washed my hands recently.  The CDC suggests washing hands with warm water and soap for 20 seconds.  It’s kind of like your dentist telling you to brush your teeth for 2 minutes.  Without a means to regulate yourself, you end up brushing your teeth for all of 30 seconds and curse yourself as you sit in the dentist’s chair getting chastised for improper oral hygeine as a chick with intense perfume hovers over you, jabbing your gums raw with what feels like an ice pick in the third chapter of Basic Instinct.  So, for my teeth, I invested in the Sonicare brushing system, which basically runs and counts down the 2 minutes for me.  

For my hands, however, there is no machine I can purchase.  The CDC recommends that children sing “Happy Birthday” all the way through to achieve the 20-second wash.  Frankly, if it’s not my birthday or anyone else’s birthday, the thought of singing “Happy Birthday” is horrifying, because it is just a constant reminder that my body is degenerating from its 25-year old physical and mental peak.  Being that I use the facilities more than most due to my infatuation with H2O, I really don’t want to put myself through that mental destruction.

So what song can I sing?  In honor of NPH, I tried to sing some numbers from Rent.  I tried Seasons of Love, but repeating “525,600 minutes” over and over again also made me feel old.  So instead, I settled on singing the title song, Rent.

Mark:  How do you document real life when real life’s getting more like fiction each day?  Headlines–bread-lines, blow my mind and now this deadline “eviction—or pay!”  Rent!

Roger:  How do you write a song when the chords sound wrong though they once sounded right and rare?  When the notes are sour, where is the power you once had to ignite the air?

Mark:  And we’re hungry and frozen!

Roger:  Some life that we’ve chosen!

Mark & Roger:  How we gonna pay?  How we gonna pay?  How we gonna pay?  Last year’s rent!

An added benefit of singing this song as you wash your hands is that, if you decide to accidentally sing it out loud, the bathroom may quickly empty, allowing you to wash your hands in peace and further avoid contact with any potentially infected individuals.  So NPH (and Jonathan Larson), thank you.  You’ve saved my life.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!!!

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10 Days for NPH — Day One

When I began my 10 Days for Tina Fey series, I was hoping, in fact praying, that my efforts would lead to Tina Fey acknowledging my existence, leading to a position on her writing team, a contract to be an executive producer of my own series, development of my own highly successful series and spin-offs, along with a slew of professional accolades, and culminating in the hubby and me retiring on a beach in Santa Barbara sipping sweet tea vodka as we watched the sunset every day from our ocean-front mansion.

Well, I haven’t heard from Tina Fey yet, so I have decided to turn my attention to NPH, aka Neil Patrick Harris.  As I child, I enjoyed watching NPH’s adventures as the precocious Doogie Howser, M.D.  During the show’s heyday, I recall repeatedly requesting that my parents purchase a computer, so that I too could log my thoughts and intuitions into digital immortality.  That never happened, so I was resigned to tapping my fingers erratically on a pillow, as I spoke my theories of youth and self-realization.

NPH has since evolved into a comedic genius.  His outrageous cameo in Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle was merely the tip of the iceberg.  On How I Met Your Mother, NPH plays Barney Stinson, a womanizing bro with a soft spot for true friendship.  

So NPH.  Hear my pleas.  I have now completed a script for How I Met Your Mother.  The storyline for my script has come and gone on the show, but I don’t care.  And neither will you when you reach the climax of my script and scream, “Eureka!”  And once you finish reading my script, you will channel your inner Doogie Howser, get onto your blue-screened computer, and write an email to me at alexis.nectar [at] gmail.com, in which you state:

Alexis Nectar,

I have read your script, and it tastes like sweet nectar from the heavens.  I shall call you Manna.  When can you start?

NPH 

Oh, and before I forget.  NPH, if you’re reading this, I have a friend who totally wants to make out with you.  I realize that you’re gay, but I don’t think she cares so much, so long as you don’t care.

Discover me, Tina Fey NPH!

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