Like many happily married long time couples, my husband and I have found ourselves in bed, not having sex with each other yet happily discussing other people we’d like to have sex with if we were good looking, rich and or famous.

That’s right. Why get hot and sweaty with each other when we can dream about our Laminated List. You know, the ones we’d give each other a free pass to see us naked if they didn’t call the police on us first.

My husband has no problem with this game. In fact, his laminated list tends to grow in direct proportion to the increasing size of my arse. Fickle bastard.

My List is pretty static. The same couple of guys have been on there since it’s inception and I haven’t felt the need to add or change the names over the years. What can I say? I’m a dedicated stalker.

In case you are wondering, Boo’s list includes, but is not limited to: Alyssa Milano, Geena Davis, Salma Hayek, Demi Moore, Jamie Lee Curtis and Miss Hammer Thumbs Herself, Megan Fox.

(The man is an oddity. What can I say?)

(I mean really, what is attractive about this?)

(Or this?)

(When he has THIS waiting for him at home.)

(Never mind.)

I’ve written about my list before, but it bears repeating. John Wayne baby.

(Don’t judge me.)

Where am I going with this?

Oh right. (It’s hard to think clearly with Salma’s rack staring me in the face.)

Then my friend, Jason Mayo, wrote a post about his own version of the Laminated List game.

Except in his twisted world, there are rules and debating and choices.  He calls it Friday Fun. I call it work. And it’s a well documented fact that the only work this gal likes to do involves getting on ones knees and barking like a dog when a certain husband is home. Ahem.

A conversation ensued shortly after reading his post and quickly degenerated into a “I think you should write the F, Marry, or Kill Blogger post,” he taunted me behind his computer screen some 3000 miles away.

The dude is a total pussy.

What Jason neglected to take into consideration when he clucked like a chicken shit issued his dare, is that I’m a middle child. I have a big brother. One who routinely sat on my face and released enough gas to float the Balloon Boy’s latest hoax.

I never back down from a dare. Years of sibling torture have honed and cultivated this unique character flaw.

(Thanks Stretch. Mom and Dad are so proud.)

Without any further ado, because I have balls, unlike my feathered friend Jason, I present to you, my own version of F, M or K, Blogger Style.

Which, mercifully, is easier than a Laminated List of Bloggers.  That’s a post for another day.

Who I’d EFF:

Catherine, over at Her Bad Mother, wins that honor. Really, it’s not so much of an honour. I’d pretty much put anyone on this list if they let me get drunk and fondle them publicly while others take pictures.

I’m kinda whorey that way.

Who I’d MARRY:

I know, I know, Neil Kramer? Hear me out. The dude has mad writing props, routinely wears a tiara and prances around New York while moaning about how Twitter is the downfall of modern society. Think of the writing fodder he’d provide me with for life. I’d never run out of things to mock him for and post about on my blog.

Plus, I’d never have to worry about sleeping with him because he’d have annoyed me so badly he’d always be sleeping on the couch. All this plus the tax privileges of holy matrimony.

It’s a win-win.

Who I’d KILL:

This one was significantly harder because well, the choices are limitless I could never wish harm on another person. I’m like Ghandi. With boobs.

In the end, it came down to who had the most embarrassing picture I could find on the internet life I covet the most.

Sorry Evans, you win this round. Not only do you live in the land of Sunshine, beaches and no snow, but you have a hot wife to fold your underwear, a successful blog, AND a book, but you look better in the Mominatrix shirt than I do.

For that, I have to kill you. But trust me, it hurts me more than it could ever hurt you.

And that dear Jason, is how you alienate friends and readers in one fell swoop it is done.