Despite reports that there was a massive blizzard outside, I sat inside and got ready to go out for the night. All the news reports recommended staying in. But, like usual, I thought I knew better than the news. I assumed that checking weather.com daily qualified me to be a meteorologist. At the very least, it qualified me to change my last name to Roker on my Facebook profile. So in the face of the oncoming “blizzard,” my friends and I got dressed, did our hair and headed out to a party.

It was freezing cold and snowflakes were blowing into parts of my body even my gynecologist hadn’t explored. So we hailed a cab and hopped inside. The car swerved, it swooped, and it stalled. At one point I’m pretty sure we were just gliding on ice. The cab driver even hung up with whoever was on the other end of that Bluetooth.  And at that moment I realized how serious things were.

I haven’t felt that unsafe since I stood up on Space Mountain.

We arrived at our destination and were forced to turn into human snowplows in order to even find the door. It took so long that I actually constructed an igloo just to take a quick break from tunneling. And then to add insult to injury, the party sucked. Maybe it’s because my hair had turned into mini-icicles or maybe it’s because I was amputating my frost-bitten toes on the couch,  but every other guest at the party (which was, like, 5 wet people) was giving me dirty stares. I took the hint and left.

My friends and I decided we should bar crawl back to the apartment since there was no way we were getting back into a cab. The North Pole Bar Crawl started off with a bang as we walked from one empty bar to another. Apparently no one else went out. Apparently everyone else knew that this “blizzard” wasn’t just rumor.

By the time I reached my apartment, I had a broken hip from falling so much and new knee-high aqua-socks which were formally referred to as my nice leather boots.

As I peeled off my wet jeans thawed out my fingers over my hairdryer I realized that I once again learned my lesson the hardest way: I do not need to go out every single weekend night. It’s okay for me to stay in when the weather’s bad and the National Guard is warning people not to leave their homes. This isn’t college anymore, after all.

Guys look hotter with a little ink.

10 things your dad taught you about sex.

Sweat proof makeup for summer!

Palin’s people want Letterman fired?

Macho movie men in humiliating costumes.

So, today is World Nude Day. Yeah, we wish we knew too; this sweater is really itchy, and we are pretty sure our professor would cancel all Friday classes if we’d shown up in our birthday suits. Apparently this “holiday” was started in New Zealand to celebrate the body in its natural state and we applaud that. Everyone should love their body and want to show it off to the world!

At the same time, though, there are plenty people in this world who we’d rather not celebrate with. And we think it’s pretty obvious why. Call us haters if you will, but would you want to bump into a nude Dick Cheney, or have to compare your body to a nude Beyonce? Yeah, we didn’t think so.

Happy National Weatherman Day, everyone!

I have so many problems with this whole National Weatherman Day thing. For one, what about the weather-women? Don’t they deserve the same honor? And why you get a national day to begin with? You have the only profession in the world where you can be wrong all the time and no one holds you responsible. In fact, we celebrate it by giving you a freaking day!

But I can’t hate. I mean, I don’t know what I’d do without my daily dose of Sam Champion. That man is ridiculous. In fact, upon further research (Read: Stalking Sam Champion), I learned that most weather people are ridiculous. So, in honor of National Weatherman Day, I’ve compiled some of my favorite weather-people moments. Enjoy.

He’s Up…and He’s Down

This guy’s afraid of a cockroach:

Did he just say….? Yes, yes he did.

Al Roker Eats It. Always a Classic.

Is This Guy Stoned?

So Josh Hartnett has a sex tape. God heard our prayers! What we wouldn’t give to see that thing…in IMAX. [Wipes drool off of desk.] Knowing this (and praying that we can one day watch it) got us thinking: what does one eat while watching a sex tape? Popcorn? Edible underwear?

Also, who else would we want to see starring in their very own sex tape?

Ed Westwick, fo sho.

The teacher from the new 90210.

Ourselves (for private viewing only…and the cellulite would have to be airbrushed).

Anyone, in fact, besides these people:

Dave Coulier: We imagine there would be voices and impressions.

Barbara Walters: So. many. wrinkles.

Tim Gunn: “Make this work.”

Pamela Anderson and Michael Jackson: Self explanatory.

Al Roker: Imagine that face paired with an orgasm.

Al Gore: We imagine he’s opposed to the excess waste caused by condoms.

Carrot Top: Ew.

Gary Busey: Shudder.

Roseanne Barr: Would you want to see her in the buff?

Spencer Pratt: The actual act of sex isn’t the problem. It is our fear that he may reproduce.

Phyllis from The Office: She did earn the Dundee for “Bushiest Beaver.” We don’t need to find out if it was well deserved.

Honorable Mention:

Our parents.