Under the Covers and Hard!

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m generally not a fan of hard things going soft, unless of course it’s the continuing trend of rock cover songs by indie bands/musicians.

I don’t want to cluster-fuck (yeah, I just made that a verb) this post with too many videos, so I’ll just stick with some of my current favorite examples and link to the originals.

The Good Wife (one of my fave shows) recently featured Audra Mae’s cover of Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Look, there was only one way to improve on the original, and that was to find a way to include clapping. Audra Mae ftw. I’m also a sucker for a pulsating piano, background-hoes, and a pop/alt folksy voice that dominated the nineties (my fave decade) and can best be described as Joan Osborne-esque. If you’ve been looking for a new weekend wine drinking anthem…look no further.

Sidenote: does any one else pretend they are Tawny Kitaen every time they’re in a car? No…?

Next up is a band from Sweden called Hellsongs who reinterpret heavy metal/rock/hair metal songs into what they (and now I will) call “lounge rock.” I have been listening to this band non-stop for the past several weeks while studying (facebooking). From what I can gather from the comments, fans fall into one of two camps: those who appreciate the covers, and those who consider the band to be rapists. To highlight the delicious polarity, I submit exhibit A: Hellsongs cover of Walk by Pantera. I think we know how I feel about it; I have Morning Underwear Dance Parties…Not Morning Underwear Mosh Pits (unless, like, the guy just won’t leave).

Other notable covers include: School’s Out (horns are the instrumental equivalent of clapping, they just make songs better) and Welcome to the Jungle.

Sidenote: Could Sweden dominate the music scene any harder? I mean…they gave us ABBA, Roxette, Ace of Base, A*Teens, The Cardigans, Robyn, The Hives, Perter Bjorn and John, Miike Snow, The Knife…etc. I don’t know why anyone who wants to study music seriously is wasting their time anywhere else; just move to Sweden and let it happen.

Isn’t this the real decision 2012:

Same Script; Different Cast: be sure to discover 2Cellos…cello covers of awesome songs, as mentioned in my previous post.



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An open letter to Glee

Dear Glee,

In regards to the episode entitled Michael:

1. B.J. (Becky Jackson) > MJ…where was she?
2. If Rachel and Finn stay engaged I will never forgive you.
3. Santana or die.
4. Remember that time Damian McGinty won The Glee Project and has been on your show for approximately .5 seconds. Yeah…he was like the nicest kid ever, so stop denying him his 5 minutes of fame. And stop saving the good shit for Predator  (aka: Samuel Larsen). He’s not a thing.
5. Other Asian and Arty perform Scream. Other Asian rocks guy-liner. My man-bits respond accordingly.
6. In a show of Michael Jackson songs, the coolest thing you did (by far) was include 2Cellos:

Fix it…


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My Ab-fab! Friends

No, I’m not friends with two snarky, booze-soaked, brittish socialites, nor an extremely chiseled Ryan Gosling…yet.

I have a very specific skill set*: dancing in my underwear, peer pressuring people, hooking up with scooby snacks, drunk dialing, judging people, helping even the biggest lame-tards have fun at a party (or in life), touristing, and brunching.

The one skill of which I am most proud is my ability to surround myself with disgustingly cool and immensely talented people. I’ve been told before that I have an eclectic group of friends, which is certainly true, but it’s by design. There is a direct correlation between an eclectic group of friends and Trabulous adventures.

Of course, it is mostly my antics and mis-behaviour that make adventures Trabulous, as the majority of people I know are able to function as, you know, adults. The one thing that all of my friends have in common (when not lead astray by yours truly) is that they are Absolutely Fabulous!

And for you skeptics who doubt my ability to run with the cool kids, I have three prime examples of friends dominating life at the moment:

The Puffins

My friend Kurt happens to be the son of my 55-year old best friend (because having friends your own age is so 80’s). He and his friends also happen to form the band The Puffins, who just self-released their debut album titled Shade of Blue. I’m hesitant to designate a genre, but it falls somewhere near country/folk and features some killer harmonies and tasty instrumentation. More importantly, it’s music by people who clearly love music.

Like their facebook page and listen to some sample tracks on their band page (I’m obsessed with Ave. B, Headin’ Home, and Somethin’ for Nothin’). You can buy or download the full album (do it) from cdbaby.

They were also featured on fearless radio and you can download the podcast.

If you happen to live in the Chicago area, and I know some of you do, then you can see them live for the next three Wednesdays at Uncommon Ground (Lakeview). Even if you don’t like country/folk, then show up anyway to enjoy eco-friendly cocktails, and then let The Puffins change your mind about country/folk. It’s sooooo easy.

Sidenote: Charity through cocktails is the best way to get me “involved.”

Bottom line: it’s pretty good theme music for mellowing out at home with one friend, three bottles of wine, and old stories…so I’ve heard.


The first and most important thing  you need to know about my friend Gena is that her life’s theme is Accessories.

The second most important thing you need to know is that she lives the life we all wish we had the balls to live. After leaving her job and discovering that her boyfriend had been cheating on her, she did not crawl into a corner, cry, and drink massive quantities of wine. Well, maybe she did just a little, but then she brushed herself off, moved to Paris for a month, and drank massive quantities of wine…french wine, in Paris, with cute french boys. Fuck you, ex-bf!

Now back in Ohio, her fabulousness transcends the Midwest. She landed a gig blogging for Glamour Magazine…from the Midwest, that’s how chic she is.  Seriously, read one of her posts and you’ll understand why she’s funnier, cooler, and better dressed than you and I…but not a bitch about it, which is both awesome and awful, as it makes it impossible to talk shit about her.

Become obsessed with her instantly via Glamour’s daily sex and relationship blog, Smitten.

Remember: Accessorize or die.

Lucas Klauss

YA novels are so hot right now, and this book is on fire. My friend Lucas has just published his first book and it was featured on Amazon’s Best of the Month List. Forget hypothetical universes and battle royales, Everything You Need to Survive the Apocolypse exists in the world of the ordinary teenager, where emotions run to the extremes, parents just don’t understand, a friend’s own journey of self discovery can be the ultimate betrayal, love changes everything, and everyone has the capacity to surprise you…including yourself.

Fuck YA, this book is for everyone who has, or has been, a teenager, questions their choices on a daily basis, struggles to express themselves succinctly, or is just trying to figure it all out…aka all of us.

You can buy the book or download it for Kindle (do it) on Amazon.com.

If you want to sample more of his awesomeness, then read his blog, lucasklauss.com. It’s like Trabulous, but well written, proofread, topical, clever, and funny.

So basically I look at my friends as if I were an athlete. You always want to train with people who are better than you, right, because that will make you better. And the minute any of them feel like diving head first into a liquor filled underwear dance party at a shady gay bar that doesn’t necessarily encourage stripping down to your underwear, I’ll gladly return the favor.

*Are any of these skills marketable? Can someone find me a job based on this list that also pays me lots o’ money and requires traveling around the world?

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New Year’s Eve!

I can’t believe the year is coming to a close. Seriously, what happened. Sorry for going AWOL, but life got in the way.

Remember that time I moved to Paris? Probably not, unless you know me personally, because I have yet to post a single update about it…coming soon.

New Year’s Resolution 1: Be a better blogger.

As you may recall, New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday of the year (with St. Patrick’s Day coming in a close second). I know that some of you feel as though it’s just another night to party, or even that there’s too much pressure, but if there is one night to celebrate being Trabulous, this is it. Don’t worry about plans, all you need are friends, booze, and a taste for adventure.

So before heading out and marrying the night, here are some basic tips for having a most wonderful New Year’s Eve:

1. Drink Champagne.

2. If by chance you are one of my few friends that doesn’t drink (and seriously, I’m impressed that we’re still friends), then do indulge in some form of gluttonous activity, be it those three extra cupcakes or that so-good-sex with that dumb-but-pretty, non-special person in your life.

3. Get rid of the negativity. Tonight is a night of possibility, don’t sully it with old grudges, put-downs or hate speeches, no matter how badly someone deserves it. Find one good quality on which to focus in a person you despise, take a deep breath, and then delete them out of your phone, from facebook, and from your life…with class.

4. Be sure to tell the lucky few people with whom you have selected to spend this amazing night one very specific reason why they are the most awesomely amazing people you know. Do it with sincerity; try not to slur (too much); hugging is encouraged.

5. Drink more champagne/eat more food/have more sex

6. Resolve to adjust the scale of Trabulous to be a little less tragic and a lot more fabulous.

Last but not least, every New Year’s Eve should have some fabulous music.

A theme for the evening:

An anthem for the new year:

Be sure to post your favorite New Year’s jams in the comments, perhaps I will select one of them for the first M.U.D.Pa of 2012.

To my friends and family: I love you dearly and appreciate your continued tolerance acceptance of my Trabulousness. Thank you indulging my eccentricities, sharing my adventures, talking me down from the ledge, and putting me in my place as necessary.

Dear 2012,

I’m coming for you…hard.

Prepare to be dominated.



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Under the Covers: Boyle vs. Depeche Mode

Cue Usher because this is my confession: I secretly love Susan Boyle.

No, I am not an 40-60 year old woman living with a pride of cats, but I just can’t help myself. Anytime I’m feeling down and out (or lost), I jump onto youtube and rewatch her epic win on Britain’s Got Talent.

I get the backlash, which is not to say I agree with it. Her voice is strong but somewhat limited; she was a karaoke queen who benefited from low expectations established by her dowdy appearance and goofy demeanor. Then she had the audacity to cover The Stones instead of sticking to other more predictable artists.

Honestly, do we need another greatest of broadway album featuring the same 12 songs? And her cover of Wild Horses was not nearly as egregious as the Natasha Bedingfield’s original song of the same name.

Sidenote: We also don’t need another Broadway Star releasing cheesy-pop, non-broadway albums. I’m talking to you, Idina Menzel.

But love her or hate her as you will, you should at least respect the fact that the woman is living her dream. How many of us can say that (typed the perpetual student while staring out of his window at the Haussman architecture of residential paris and eating a pear tart)?

Boyle has made another bold choice. She has covered Depeche Mode’s Enjoy the Silence. Depeche Mode is brilliant and one of my all time favorite bands, but I’m digging Boyle’s stripped down interpretation. I’m not certain I ever bothered to listen to the lyrics as I often get swept up in Mode’s signature synthe-pop beat (M.U.D.Pa style).

But that’s just my take. Let’s vote on it.

The Original:

The Cover:






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Mommala Photo Challenge

If you are the friend of myself, my sisters, my step-brothers, their spouses or happened to be in the near proximity of one of us while at a bar, then the chances are that you have drunk dialed the epicness that is my mother.

Let’s face it, the lady is legit. She cooked like Paula Dean before it was cool (Carolyn’s Lasagna recipe: double the meat, double the cheese), will babysit anyone’s kid for any reason at any time, constantly smiles and sings to herself, can play the accordion, had enough patience to teach special-ed for 30+ years while raising three Trabulous (each in our own way) children, and has seriously never failed to answer a drunk dial, mostly because she is nervous that I have somehow finally managed to land myself in a Mexican prison.

But don’t be fooled. This pleasant demeanor merely masks that fact that SHE CONTROLS US ALL. Have you ever tried to say no to her? Of course you haven’t, why would you?, how could you?. Seriously, try to think of how you would literally say “no” to her. You can’t.

I once tried. Last year I didn’t intend to come home for Thanksgiving as the month in between Thanksgiving and Christmas is a scholastic decathlon. That was, of course, until she called, told me missing Thanksgiving was not an option, and blasted a plane ticket into my inbox. When I got home and told her that maybe this year could be a weaning year and that next year I definitely would not be home for the turkey feast, she just laughed. She literally laughed in my face.


She laughed violently in my face.

And this is why I relish any chance to celebrate the very rare opportunity of Momala exhibiting her own Trabulousness.

My lovely cousin actually captured such a moment in a photo (see below). Was my mother actually chugging from a bottle? Of course not…but that doesn’t mean that she didn’t still dominate the party scene.

I’m offering 20 cool points and a dedicated M.U.D.Pa (song of your choosing) to the person who comes up with the best caption, posted in the comments section, celebrating the awesome ridiculousness that is my mother in this photo:

She’s the one on the right. This picture actually makes it seem feasible that this woman gave birth to such a hot-mess as myself.

Let the games (re: comments) begin.


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Under the covers…

Welcome to a new segment of my wonderful blog called Under the covers…

As soon as a new song rubs me the right way, I instantly search youtube for any and all covers that amateurs post. There is a lot of fabulous, a whole lotta tragic, and an endless amount of fun.

For my first entry, I have selected Lady Gaga’s newest song (and in my opinion, which is the only opinion that matters, one of her best) Judas. I will post the original and then my favorite cover. Who knows, maybe we’ll discover the next Justin Bieber together (because that kid is approaching his expiration date and needs to evolve or get out of the way; the hair cut was a good start).

The Original:

The Cover:

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The (Irish) Tradition Continues…

There are three reasons that New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day are my two favorite holidays:

1) Everyone is generally in good spirits.

2) Consuming egregious amounts of alcohol is required.

3) I usually get drunk and then laid.

This year’s St. Patrick’s Day was no exception.

Wifey Bartender (WB) and our crew had plans to meet at The Smith, a chill restaurant in the East Village and constant New York celebrity stomping ground (get the homemade chips with bleu cheese fondue as an appetizer, you can thank me later). In true Trabulous style, I needed to get some work finished last minute, which took longer than expected, and then needed to pick up the requisite green gear (not that I would ever mind a little pinching here or there).

Now if you know me, then you know that I use my phone about as much as Courtney Love uses rehab. I am notoriously bad at texting, and if I’m calling you, then it is probably a drunk dial and you are probably my mother. Needless to say, I was running about two hours late, missed the rendezvous at The Smith completely and caught up with the crew at a nearby sports bar. I quickly drank a beer or two to catch up with everyone, but couldn’t help but notice that WB was giving me the cold shoulder.

St. Patrick’s day is actually our anniversary. It was the first time last year that the two of us really hung out together in a one on one capacity and ventured away from our usual turf. We ended up wasted on the Upper East Side drinking directly from pitchers, dancing, and singing karaoke. It was love at…first drunken cab ride home.

WB is the quintessential New York girl, so when I broke standard New York etiquette (text if you are going to be more than 30 minutes late and then again when you are actually getting on the train), she was rightfully upset. Especially when I came bounding onto the scene all smiles and green soccer socks (oh yeah) completely oblivious to my behavior. We sat at separate ends of the table for a while which seemed to bother our friends much more than it did us. Seriously, one of our good friends who I shall call Bambi (he’s a total Stag, but also just a little guy) looked like a child of divorce.

But the best things about my friends is that we resolve our arguments in about the time it takes to order a drink at the bar. We knew we needed to check our attitudes. To be Trabulous means that one should neither bring a party down nor leave a party early, so WB and I took a commercial break outside, resolved all of the issues (I even issued the rare apology), laughed at some drunk people falling on the sidewalk, headed back inside, and ripped a whiskey shot. The night could officially begin.

We dominated the same bar for a while since they had deliciously cheap pitchers. I started to catch vibes from my friend’s coworker; it was nice to be the object of some scammin’ for a change. We dominated the bar for a hot minute before deciding to crawl onward.

As we were walking, my new temporary boyfriend and I decided to drunkenly make-out along the way. We fell behind our friends and decided that a giant and well lit glass window of Duane Reade in the middle swanky 5th Ave. was the perfect location to get down n’ dirty. This was all well and good until he tried to get me into a cab and back to his place. It’s not that I didn’t want to do it, but it was still early and I knew that everyone was still out and about. I hate nothing more than leaving a party early and then feeling left our during morning re-caps. So, I poured the guy into a taxi and set off to catch up with my friends.

The only problem was that my friends had left me behind thinking that I was about to close the deal. I continued walking North until I heard some live music coming from another Irish Pub in Midtown East and figured that was a good as guess as any. My friends were not inside, but cheap PBR tall boys and some double plus size Irish women dressed in glitter stripe wraps and hair bows were. This will do.

I grabbed some beers and started conversing my way around the bar until I found myself sharing a booth with a lovely Irish couple. They became extremely excited when they discovered I was gay. Apparently, they had never met “a gay” and asked to take my picture. My skill of promoting homosexuality internationally and across cultural boundaries continues.

Finally, I decided that I would make my way back to WB’s bar. I knew we would all arrive there at some point and figured I could entertain myself until everyone else arrived. Sidenote: my cab died on the highway on my way back up town, but was able to restart. I am where cars go to die.

This is where things get hazy. Everyone showed up and we went to a bar next door where we danced with a group of girls at a table and then met a very nice young couple. We grabbed everyone and went to the World’s Saddest Gay Bar to end our night in Trabulous style.

I quickly learned that the young couple was actually a gay guy and his hag (re: lingering romantic tension on her part). I focused my attention and went in for the kill. He was a cute kid, and I say kid because he turned out to be a nineteen year-old undergrad who lives in a dorm. He was born in the 90’s, probably around the same time as Nirvana.

As an expert maker of bad decisions, I demanded he take me back to his dorm room for a hook-up on his twin bed. Luckily he lived in a single. Unluckily, I had to pee early in the morning, walked to the community bathroom in my underwear only to receive confused looks from some freshman chillin’ in the floor lounge.

I also had to check into the dorm and leave an id with the person at the front desk, which I then had to pick up in the morning. It was a great way to start a walk of shame.

Still it was better than last year when I woke up in my underwear with my hand still in a take out container filled with chicken wings.

I think I’m improving.

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The Wifey’s must have been smokin’ ’cause the Firemen were all over them…

You only turn 30 once, and if it’s not an epic weekend of Trabulous, then you’ve fucked it up and will have to wait an entire decade to correct the situation (because after 25, no one cares about intermittent birthdays; in fact, I’m pretty sure my oldest sister once told me that we didn’t even really need to call each other any more on such occasions).

Hometown Wifey (HW) turned 30 last month and it was a downward spiral of drunkeness, bad decisions, glitter bombs and epic fun. The shenanigans began on a Friday night after 12 or so of her crew from Sexyana (that’s Indiana to you nobody’s who don’t know the sexiest state in the U.S.A.) made it to the big city. That is a ridiculous turn out for a birthday party that requires travel, but then again, HW and her posse are ridiculously awesome. We had dinner and drinks in the West Village before most of the gang ditched out to get a good night’s rest before a full day of touristing (new Trabulous Vernacular). Clearly I thought they were weak, but I suppose at some point I too was unaccustomed to the standard 3 hours of sleep per weekend that New York demands. On the plus side, I unlocked the “Frat-tastic” badge on foursquare for having been to so many bro-bars. I didn’t know there were so many in the city, but somehow I managed to hit them all. Since HW is a former sorority girl (re: diva), it was actually rather fitting

Everybody upped their game on Saturday. I opted out of touristing because that is how I spend my spring and summer break stay-cations. HW had arranged for a space at a fun sports bar in Hell’s Kitchen that is usually crowded with solid straight guys, a gift to herself methinks. I stopped buy a school function at a nearby club first to drink some free cocktails (Trabulous Rule Number One: Never turn down a free cocktail), grabbed the cool kids, and headed to the party. For a flat fee, you could drink as many draft beers and well drinks as humanly possible in two hours, and when it comes to boozin’, I am Superman.

Everyone was having a good time throwin’ back some brews and some vodka. I was doing my best to circulate (as a New York resident, I thought of myself as co-host, even though I did absolutely zero of the organizing) when I saw HW take a seat on a bench next to the bar in a most lady like fashion, gently raise her empty pint, and glitter bomb into the glass. Being the good friends that we are, we watched in awe until we realized that the glass was almost full. I grabbed the glass from HW’s hand as she simultaneously pulled over the nearest trash can and face planted into it. It’s surprising how in sync two drunk friends can be.

Also, by this point I am so comfortable with vomit that I forget that I am holding an entire glass of it and continue carrying it around while talking to people until someone politely reminds me that this is, in fact, repulsive.

We poured HW in a taxi and I took the reins. I directed the gentlemen to a chill bar with an epic selection of beers on tap and I took the ladies across the street to a Dance-tastic gay bar. To my surprise, most of the guys followed us into the gay bar for a drink.  The boys from Sexyana earned mad bonus points. Next visit, I’m getting them onto the dance floor.

But this is when my drunken memory stopped recording events. I’m not sure what happened next other than Wifey Bartender (WB) told me that I was in rare form and managed to make out with at least three people. It’s been a while since I’ve been that aggressive.

I awoke feeling less than stellar on Sunday, but I managed to pull myself together enough to be only 45 minutes late for brunch with the gang.

Here’s the thing about boozey brunch: if you’re not careful, it takes over.

We managed to stay way past the two hour limit they initially gave us and then stumbled into a sports bar next door so that someone could watch some kinda car race. I didn’t really care because the bar had $10 pitchers and the bartender was playing songs from a gay guy’s iPod. There was no turning back.

Several hours and bar hops later, we ended up at our final destination, a rather large bar emptied by the looming work week. A swarm of healthy looking guys swaggered up to the crew and tried to chat up the ladies but quickly received the brush off…until they revealed themselves to be off duty firemen.

I swear that you could hear a collective panty drop. Lil’ HW (HW’s younger sister) asked a firemen to pick her up and spent the rest of the evening clinging to him like a koala bear. HW made out with one guy only to tire of him and switch to his friend, and WB went in for the rebound. She and the rebound went back to the fire station to have some adult fun in one of the two fire trucks while she wore his firemen’s helmet (apparently it’s very heavy). After finishing (or rather, after she finished) she hopped up and out of the truck and headed back to the bar. In our group, sex is an anytime game, not just a final move.

While this was happening, HW and her boo had managed to be kicked out of both the men’s and women’s restrooms for making out hard. With nowhere left to go for privacy in a very public bar, they too headed back to the fire house where she demanded that he put on his “outfit.” Not his uniform, his outfit. As his gear went on, hers fell off and the two started some fun in fire truck number two…until the alarm sounded. HW had to grab her clothes and run but ass naked into the weight room (the designated hiding spot in such situations) while her friend scooped up the remainder of her clothes and ran after her. Unfortunately neither of them managed to recover her bra, which is currently riding shotgun to all of the fire scenes in HK. It was all very Sex & the City: both cliche and amazing.

By comparison, my night was quite tame. I spent most of the evening rockin’ out with the Sexyana sexy ladies to some old school Mariah Carey while people watching. There was one gay man with a barely there v-neck so low cut that he kept flashin’ man nipple and another man crying over free drinks at the bar because his best friend had just died the day before. I honestly didn’t know which was more intriguing, but the sad dude was killing my buzz (and I’m not very gentle when it comes to criers), so I talked to the other guy and his friends for a while.

The firemen actually had a cute gay co-worker not present at the bar who was on the outs with his boyfriend (I love a straight guy who understands that the way into a Wifey’s pants is through the Gusband). He asked them to send him my picture,which they did and to which he did not respond. Phone pics just don’t do me justice.

All in all Team Indiana (guest starring New Jersey) shut it down in the Big Apple…and by shut it down, I mean got drunk, got laid(ish), and managed to survive to drink another weekend (St. Patrick’s Day) without any permanent scarring or broken friendships.

HW is probably the most responsible of my friends and this is how things turned out.

I turn 30 in just over a year. Start fire proofing your cities now (mostly so the firemen can have the night off).



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…And I’m Back!

Sorry for the long delay, friends. I know how all ten of you eagerly await (or if you are my mother, fear) my next Trabulous adventure. I spent the last several weeks grabbing my ankles for The Ivy during midterms, and not in the fun sexy way. While I work on a few updates including a 30th birthday extravaganza, St. Patrick’s Day, some firemen, and a dorm room, I have some new Vernacular to whet your appetite.


  • A man’s chest hair that sticks out (or is flaunted) of the top of his shirt, unbuttoned or otherwise.
  • Ex: She closed her eyes and stroked his man-burger while they slow danced to a techno song.

Scammin’ on someone

  • To send strong or overt signals towards a crush; usually heightened by some serious  facebook/twitter stalking on your downtime.
  • Ex: I am totally scammin’ on James Franco after we made eye contact in the lobby.

Scooby Snack

  • A young, attractive person used for make-outs and sex by someone older who has no intention of dating him/her or ever calling them before 10:00 pm.; cougar prey.
  • Ex: The law student was on the hunt for a fraternity boy to be her new scooby snack.

You can find the entire list of Trabulous vocabulary on the Vernacular page.

Also, every so often I stumble upon such a pure Trabulous Incarnate that it shocks me to the core. Here, The Shures mash together two recent auto-tuned club classics, Brit Brit’s Till the World Ends and Enrique’s Tonight I’m Lovin’ You, into one awesome shit ball of fun-tarded. Consider the following video my gift to you (and a pure example of the meaning of Trabulous for those of you who still struggle with the definition).

Things to note while watching:

  • How seriously this band takes themselves, and how hard their fans love them (seriously, why aren’t they on TV?).
  • The number of blow job faces given in this video, mostly from Chris (aka: the dude flashin’ his man-burger). I didn’t know that was a common singing face.
  • Ashley’s attempt to bring back the head bounce from A Night at the Roxbury.
  • Gabz’s ability to oversing in a style usually found at gay karaoke’s while also changing the pronunciation of the word “you”. To D-I-E.
  • How all three singers managed to steal Angelina Jolie’s lips.
  • Arm dancing (arms are so in right now); finger guns.
  • Boobs

Oh, did I mention that you can Like them on facebook (you know I did).


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