We Smell Like Baked Goods and Other Reasons you Need a Girl Best Friend.

My best friend is a real trooper, y'all.

Just the other day we were discussing how I can get blogger rich by writing about scrotums and reality TV and she did the nicest thing ever!

Offered to do webcam porn with my blog address written across her lovely lady lumps.

Good looking out, girl!

That's why when I decide I'm done with dudes because they smell weird and care way too much about guys who play catch for a living, we're going to get all kinds of gay married and live in a log cabin in the mountains and stop shaving our legs. I just can't wait! 

Of course, we can have an open relationship, because the most intimate thing we're ever going to do is snuggle under a cashmere throw and watch every episode of Dawson's Creek ever made. Dawson and Joey? Pacey and Joey? You better pick a team! But don't get me wrong, I think you're beautiful, it's mainly because I think of you like a sister. Except for that one time in high school. Whoops! Sorry dad, I told you to stop reading my blog.

Our love will be one that stands the test of time. And honestly, it already has.

It's lasted through: Random dudes. Breakups. Makeups. Babies. Dudes we met on the internet. Those awkward middle school years. Those awkward high school years. Bangs. We can endure anything! We're going to be like the Will and Jada of best friend marriages.

Nicky&Allie- To Duckface and Beyond

I couldn't live without my girls.

Which is why every time some chick wearing pigtails and a toddler-sized football jersey laments about how much she hates girls and feels more comfortable with guys, I die a little bit inside.

Doesn't she know that we are the best?!

If you're a girl, who thinks you can't be friends with other girls, then you've been hanging out with the wrong vagina-havers. Come sit at my lunch table, pumpkin nose.

First and foremost, we smell awesome, and we'll totally let you borrow whatever delicious thing we have expertly placed behind our ears and inside our wrists. We will never try to fingerbang you in a booth at Applebee's after your fourth mudslide. We will escort you to the ladies' room, hold your hair while you vomit up your alcohol milkshake, and give you a ride home. We understand how you both love and want to kill your mother. We will let you borrow our copy of 50 Shades of Grey with the good parts highlighted, so you don't have to pretend it's not porn. You know your ex's new girlfriend that you hate? We hate her too. We can talk about the Kardashians and the government shutdown, we're versatile like that.

Did I mention we smell like oatmeal cookies? What else do you need to know?

If any of my lovely female readers are currently in the "I can't be friends with girls" category, I want you to go back to the beginning of this blog. My best friend offered to pimp herself out because she loves me. And because she's kind of an exhibitionist. That is what girl-on-girl-best-friend love looks like, and you need to get yourself some of that.

If you don't know where to start, then let me be of assistance. Get at me on Twitter (@AllieOopsie). We're about to be internet BFFFs!

And I already hate your ex's new girlfriend. She's a major bitch, and I heard she has herpes.

Rorie Gilmore: The Only Thing That Could Make Me Watch 50 Shades of Grey.

I don't give a shit about 50 Shades of Grey. I just don't care about some hot ass billionaire beating the hell out of his virgin assistant.

If someone gave me dental insurance and I didn't have to make coffee anymore, they could do whatever they wanted to me. That's not called BDSM. That's called being a college graduate in the year 2013.

But moving on. I know the whole entire internet exploded because they picked the characters for the 50 Shades movie and they weren't attractive/homely/brooding/brunette/fictional enough for the fans of the series. There's even a petition.

These sex-starved soccer moms sure are picky, y'all.

I thought the actors cast looked just fine for a movie that will undoubtedly rake in millions and make PeeWee Herman feel less weird about masturbating in a theater that one time.

That was until I realized who exactly fans were petitioning to get cast in the film.

Wait!!! They want to cast Rorie Gilmore in the horrible sex movie?

Sold!

If you don't know about Gilmore Girls you can escort yourself off this post now, there's a post about twerking a couple days back that might interest you.

Oh Em Gee! Where can I sign this petition? The only thing that might get me to watch this awful shit storm of a movie is the hope that I can watch Stars Hollow's own Rorie Gilmore getting paddled by the stripper from Magic Mike.

Hell, if they got Jess to play Christian Grey, I would fund this fucking movie myself. It's like my high school wet dream. 

For those of you that can't tell, I have an unhealthy obsession with the show Gilmore Girls, and it would make my whole entire life to have this fantasy realized.

I know some of you are thinking, if you love the show and one of it's main actresses so much why would you want her subjected to a movie that would more than likely be this decade's Showgirls?

Well, I might say, Ms. Bledel's Gilmore money may be drying up, and horny middle-aged women's money is still green.

However, that would be a lie.

I'm actually just a pervert, who loves the idea of my favorite TV character having semi-kinky sex on screen. And if that makes me wrong, then I just don't want to be right.

I know I can't be alone. Who would reconsider watching this full-length porn movie if their favorite TV character was cast in the lead? 

Michael Scott as Christian Grey, anyone?

Magic Mike and the Case of the Sexually-Dissatisfied Soccer Mom

I did something. Something I'm not particularly proud of.

No, I didn't finally follow through with my Marco Rubio/Mitt Romney roleplay fantasy.

It's worse than that. I went and saw Magic Mike.

Now I know you're probably thinking, "Yeah, you and every other red-blooded female. What's the big deal?"

And to that I would say, "Valid point, reader. But how about you keep reading anyway."

I pride myself on not being a fan of romantic comedies. I'd rather chew off my own arm than read 50 Shades of Grey. And Twilight, well, let's just not talk about Twilight. But there was something about the premise of watching a bunch of oiled-up men shake their junk at a camera for two hours that made me eager to jump on a bandwagon.

So I jumped.

My friends and I pushed ourselves into the sold-out theater, managing to acquire seats that were exactly three rows from the screen. This was partly to ensure that we would feel like the werewolf from True Blood was teabagging us. And partly because we lost track of time while we were trying to get hammered before seeing this ridiculous movie.

A low hum buzzed through the packed room. (I'm almost certain it was from nervous excitement, not because anyone had snuck in a pocket rocket.) It seemed everyone was eager for the lights to dim and the action to start. I can only assume this is what an organized orgy would feel like. A room full of people all waiting for something to happen, but trying to play it cool.

"Oh man, I can't wait for this silly ol' movie to start. I'm just going put 

my phone on vibrate and place it directly between my legs."

"That sounds like a great idea. By the way, if I ask you to call me your

 dirty little whore at any time during the movie, just overlook it."

After what seemed like a really awkward eternity, the movie began. And it was just as horrible as anyone could imagine.

Two hours of loose plot about a stripper/furniture designer. A broke kid who starts doing a lot of ecstasy. And Matthew McConaughey doing exactly what he would be doing in real life, if the whole acting thing hadn't panned out.

It was a mess. 

A hot mess. 

One that made me want to make a baby with the first man I saw after leaving the theater.

Holy mother of God, does Channing Tatum have no bones?

And I would literally quit my life and lay around naked, smoking marijuana, and playing the bongos with Matthew McConaughey if he just said the word.

When the movie ended and I exited the theater, I was left with a lot of unanswered questions.

Why was there no full-frontal in that movie? Where is the nearest male strip club? Would they do full-frontal? Why is that woman not wearing any pants? Did someone really bring their 4-year-old daughter to see Magic Mike?

None of my questions were answered, of course. 

However, I can say without a doubt, that paying money to see men--albeit gorgeous, genetically-gifted men--dry hump a stage is shameful.

But it could definitely be worse, I could be masturbating to 50 Shades of Grey.