dc, you've changed!

Well, that's a bit of a stretch. Actually, that's a super stretch; a Stretch Armstrong stretch. See, DC -- the city that happens to surround me -- hasn't really changed that much. As to my attitude toward it however, that's changed tremendously.

Looking back at this past year's blog entries (because I can't get enough of my own intrepid genius), I noticed a sharp decrease of posts labeled "Exceptionally Messed Up Sh*t" as the months quickly and painfully moved on. This can mean either one of two things -- DC changed or I changed. Yet as I look around this chamber pot of a city, I still observe the same things that goaded me to start this blog in the first place. So why the decrease? Well, since I'm a word whore, allow me to pontificate electronically on a subject that seems to be coming up more and more on this blog -- myself.

Whereas this blog started off documenting other people's shambles, today I shall wax retarded on my own. It's been said before in the comments, perhaps jokingly though, that I've gone soft. However, considering I punched a baby in the face just this morning and plan on dropkicking a few puppies later today, I don't think I've necessarily lost my edge. Make no mistake about it, I'm still a major asshole. Likewise, DC is still a global rendezvous point for many-a-badly dressed tool and/or douche. Look around; take it all in; no amount of time will ever change that. The Blackberry-per-capita rate is just too high.

In fact, let's put myself aside for a moment and dissect a subject that has long ruffled this blog's proverbial e-feathers -- nametags. Nametags are still freely worn in public, which reminds me of the time in high school when my German Nazi sympathizer teacher, Mr. Ihrig, decided to forego teaching us about the horrors of the Holocaust through a viewing of Schindler's List, which is what every other class did, and instead required us to participate in something he termed "The Holocaust Game." True to its name, he really had turned the Holocaust into a game, featuring cards labeled "religion," "food," "family," "life," etc., that we either kept or lost depending on a homemade Chutes & Ladders style spinner. And to really "teach" us, Mr. Ihrig insisted that we call him "Fuhrer," while he called us Jewish ethnic slurs that even I, propagator of rape jokes aplenty, refuse to type on this blog.*

But wait, there's more! One of the most disturbing parts of this "game" "learning activity" psychotic attempt by an assumed Nazi sympathizer to live out his deadliest fantasies through a group of 15-year-old kids, was the requirement that we wear unnecessary flair -- construction paper Stars of David, naturally! Not only did this further trivialize one of the most horrific periods in modern human history, but it instilled in me a complete distrust of any authority figure and an intense hatred of all forced accessories.

Which brings me to my biggest pet peeve about DC -- the ubiquity of nametags being worn in public. It's already ridiculous enough that so many of us need to wear a visible identification badge to gain access to places that aren't even that exciting (see: office buildings, Congress), but, according to some sources, so many of these nametags are viewed as status symbols here, which not only is one of the most ridiculous concepts I've ever heard of, but is just plain pathetic. Anyone who invests that much self-worth in a piece of magnetized plastic should be required to endure my 10th grade U.S. history class. Not only will they have to suffer through the absurdity of Mr. Ihrig's "teaching" methods, but they will realize that their lives are retardedly based on an unnecessary accessory forced on them from above. Yet instead of near-certain death, their only punishment is looking like a gigantic tool. (That, Mr. Ihrig, is what your Holocaust game is good for. I learned NOTHING about the Holocaust, but learned to hate authority-ordered accessories. Congratulations on your teaching abilities, sir, if by "abilities," I mean "completely misguided, totally offensive and intensely wrong methods," and by "sir," I mean "dickwad.")

However, much like DC's penchant for public displays of nametag retardability, the kids assigned to Mr. Ihrig's U.S. History class will probably forever come out dumber than when they went in. (I'm a perfect example.) DC and Mr. Ihrig will never change.

Which circuitously pops me back into where I began this treatise -- it's me who's changed, not DC. Don't get me wrong -- my pants are still ridiculously tight, leaving nary an empty space between my skin and the fabric (similar to the lack of space left vacant when a 12-pack of kids are forced to huddle under a table labeled "Auschwitz" and wait bored to see who would be the lucky ones to lose their last "life" cards and end their participation in this most pointless of exercises). That is, any change I've experienced has nothing to do with me conforming to DC's toolish tendencies. Instead, I think I've just grown used to them. For example, after complaining about Mr. Ihrig to no avail myriad times and seeing nothing change, I began to grow increasingly complacent, which probably led me to just believe him when he emphatically noted later in the year we won the Vietnam War. (I wasn't kidding when I said I came out dumber.) I could reason all I wanted with the guidance counselor, drop as much logic as scientifically possible, yet Mr. Ihrig continued to have a job. Likewise, despite complaining ad nauseum on this blog, in bars and to my doorman, DC continues to sport its nametags in public. In both situations, after a while, one can only shrug.

Or blog (if only blogging existed in 1994...). But just as complaining to metaphorical deaf ears about Mr. Ihrig being a Nazi got old after a while when I was 15, complaining about DC's backward habits seems to have grown redundant to me at 29. Simply put (which probably should have been typed 972 words ago), I've grown complacent, which, if you think about it, is very DC of me. I came in with all these grand notions about stopping the insanity Susan Powter-style, however, the more time that passed, the more I forget about my own ideals. Saving the world from the rampant doucheosity took a backseat to satiating my own e-ego, which has grown unjustifiably large (larger, perhaps, than the insanity Ms. Powter targeted) as I suppose it does with any blogger or, to put it in a DC-friendly context, aspiring politician. (After all, Narcissistic Personality Disorder is what bloggers -- and aspiring politicians -- specialize in.)

Moreover, the more I got to know the (very few) parts of DC that didn't suck as well as the (slowly increasing number of) people who unabashedly defied the stereotypes I had haphazardly made up in my mind, the less I noticed all the exceptionally messed up sh*t around me. Or if I did notice it, I didn't feel as motivated to write about it. Suddenly, it wasn't as exceptionally messed up as it had been in the past. Instead, I started to find it all very amusing. Then one day last month I read the following, written by the great secret genius Bike Snob NYC, who put my untethered thoughts into logical terms: "Stupidity minus Anger equals Weirdness. In other words, when I observe something inexplicable and get angry about it, I've observed something stupid. But when I observe something inexplicable and don't get angry, I've simply observed something weird. And weirdness is much easier to live with than stupidity."

Voila! DC is simply weird! The unnecessary nametags, the dishabille attire, the backward customer service, the retarded drivers -- it's all just weird. Granted, not as weird as Mr. Ihrig's 10th grade U.S. history class, of course, but still weird.

The thing about "weird," though, is that it is much harder to complain about than "stupid." Stupid is easy. Blog posts about stupid write themselves. With weird, one must think creatively to get an idea across. Weird is complicated. It's neither good nor bad; right nor wrong; tight nor gnarly, as it were. It's just...weird. And it's hard to write about something that cannot be easily tucked into a stereotype based on the most unresearched of generalizations, a concept upon which this blog has depended since its not-so-immaculate conception just over a year ago.

Moreover, in a noun, a verb, a sometimes-adverb and an adjective -- I am effing lazy. It's hard not to be redundant while complaining about the same stupid weird sh*t over and over again, which is probably why I've lost focus expanded my retardulous repertoire over here at The Anti DC. I've become more random, less hating-DC-centric; I've become weirder.

And as 2009 looms, I'm sure I've only just begun exploring this bizarre new direction I seem to find myself and my writing (at least on this e-platform) heading in. To be sure, I'm not giving up my original mission, which is to bitch incessantly -- but creatively -- about the city in which I find myself living, but I'm not sure that's my main focus anymore. To be honest, I'm not sure what my main focus is, which is dangerous territory for a blogger to find herself in as I suspect it will translate into a loss of audience. (All two of you.)

So, in the spirit of losing what few -- but precious -- readers I may have as I venture onward into this semi-new, wholly retardulous direction, I'll just go ahead and communicate to you via a very weird (but not in the Holocaust game way) music video by Cadence Weapon:



Yep, that was weird. (But not in the DC way.) And I love it!

Gadzooks! It's on in 2009...if after I return from not getting framed for murder in Nicaragua, that is.

And in the spirit of redundancy, allow me to once again wish you a Happy (preemptive) New Year!

Ciao (for real this time)!

*To make matters more absurd, when I went to the school's higher powers, I was told to calm down and that this was an "out-of-the-box learning activity." And yet somehow, Mankato West Senior High School didn't make the list of top Minnesota public schools again. Verflucht!

happy preemptive new year!

I truly hope everyone thoroughly enjoyed their celebrations of Christmahanakwanzakuh this year. I know I did! Except for the part when my mom and I decided to break tradition of not doing anything Christmas-y (or Hanakwanzakuh-y) on Christmas and instead opted to make a home-cooked meal. Apparently, Santa brought me kitchen skillz this year. And this time I didn't unnecessarily harm myself. In fact, I didn't even necessarily harm myself, which I suppose, means I did thoroughly enjoy that experience.

What I really didn't enjoy was when my mom and I went to see Seven Pounds and for the first time in my life, Will Smith did not make me simply miss DJ Jazzy Jeff, which means I guess this was a really good movie. However, the character Smith played made me feel like a 17th-century sufferer of melancholia, meaning when we returned to my mom's house later I naturally treated the condition by making a broth of laurel, white hellebore, bugloss, marigold and pennyroyal, and, of course, I let a little blood with horse leeches. Then, seeing as it was Christmas, I thought what better time for a bit of transubstantiation in reverse than now? But, on second thought, that seemed like a really bad and quite revolting idea (Jesus would, in fact, not do that), so I decided to watch a whole lot of cable television instead.

Indeed, it was a grand holiday.

But I must admit, as New Year's dawns, I'm not that sorry to see 2008 go, as I'm absolutely certain 2009 will punch 2008 in its proverbial face. For example, I started off 2008 sitting in my apartment feeling sick and missed my flight to New York City. Juxtapose that to this year when I'll be in effing Nicaragua hopefully not getting framed for murder. I'll also be learning how to surf! So, unlike my past cooking fiascoes of 2008, when I hurt myself in 2009, it will be well-worth it.

Unfortunately, while I'll be scouting out the best medical treatments in Central America for the next week and a half, I won't be blogging. That is, I won't be available to make you feel slightly better about your own life by oversharing the shambles of my own. But, hey, nothing makes the heart grow fonder than a little distance, especially e-distance.

So, with that in mind, allow me to preemptively wish you a Happy New Year! I'll e-see you next year (possibly in a full-body cast). Ciao!

simple songs inspired by animals and assholes

It has come to my attention that animals are very talented. So talented, in fact, that besides just doing what they do (like riding mopeds), these animals inspire people to make music.

Now, for anyone who knows me (or read this blog yesterday), you know music is very important to me. In fact, I'm kind of obsessed, if by "kind of," I really mean, "disturbingly." So, when fellow DC blogger LiLu of LivItLuvIt showed interest in the little list I put together yesterday, I instantly began e-accosting her with a series of emails accompanied by copious amounts of MP3s. And while I didn't expect anything but extreme gratitude and maybe an e-restraining order in return, she was kind enough to send me a video, which includes three of my most favorite things in the world -- a hamster, a piano and popcorn.

This video blew me away. (I'm easily amused...)

Not only is this talented hamster nothing short of amazing, but the soundtrack...it's...it's...BRILLIANT. Just listen (well, and watch, too ... this is too goddamn adorable).



Hamster on a piano! Hamster on a piano! Eating popcorn on a piano! Yeah the minute I saw you on that piano eating popcorn, I knew you were no ordinary hamster...

Such a simple tune, yet so poignant. Indeed, that is no ordinary hamster! But more than that, this song reminded me of something...but what?

So I did what anyone too stupid to think for themselves would do and forwarded it to The Law, who replied within seconds, "Wait -- does this remind anyone of Wesley Willis?"

YES! WESLEY GODDAMN WILLIS! "Hamster On a Piano" is like a Wesley Willis song for children!



And while I noted Wesley Willis isn't really suitable for the kids, he is certainly most suitable for this blog. In fact, I now feel inspired to make a Wesley Willis-style song about not wearing visible nametags on the street. "Take off your nametag! It makes you look like an asshole!" Yep. Instant classic.

But I digress. I need to perfect those lyrics before I release that ditty for public consumption. In the meantime, let's return to the animals. It's a Chimpanzee On a Segway!



You're welcome.

goodbye oh eight.

As I look forward to putting one hell of a year behind me, I find myself vigorously planning for 2009. And I don't mean that figuratively. I'm actually last-minute scrambling around trying to figure out what glorious beach in Nicaragua I'll be learning to surf at in early January (ideas and surfing tips appreciated, by the way). What this means is that I'm going to go off schedule when it comes to taking care of e-business. That is, instead of whittling away hours in front of the Web ruminating on all the stupid sh*t that somehow passes for routine around these parts, I'll be watching Point Break over and over and over again. Basically, I won't be blogging every single day. Probably. Who knows.

But before I go on a sporadic, probably short-lived break from the blogging non-business, I want to share with you my hellish observations from earlier today.

• The waitstaff at Cafe Asia in Arlington is functionally retarded.
• And I think their red curry has lots of MSG in it.
• Pentagon City is hell hole.
• The sales associates at the Borders out there blow.
• And they're illiterate.
• Best Buy doesn't give out bags for their larger products.
• Linens'n'Things has bags, but will not give you one unless you make a purchase.
• The sales associates also cannot be bribed with a shiny dime to give you a bag.
• I suspect a sales associate at Barnes & Noble at Metro Center lied to me on the phone.
• I thought about stopping by on my way back from Virginia to prove my assumption correct, but thought better of it when my Cafe Asia MSG headache really started to kick in at around 3 p.m.
  

Like I said, "Goodbye, 2008."

But before I really grab this year by the proverbial seat of its badly tailored pants and kick it out of my life for good, I want to pay due diligence to a small subsection of it that didn't suck. This was a good year musically -- a fact I was reminded of by a reader with exceptional musical tastes.

His efforts to put together a list of his Top 25 songs of 2008 inspired me to try to do the same. (Specifically, putting emphasis on the "try" because this was hard...that's what she said...) And if you don't agree with me, don't blame me; blame the MSG. It's still definitely in my head...or I suppose that could be the bottle point five of wine I consumed last night that's coming back to let me know I probably shouldn't have consumed that last .5 liters. But what's a lush girl to do when she has two weeks paid vacation??? Exactly.

Moving on, here's 2008's ultimate (or at least penultimate, as I think my musically astute reader has me beat) playlist in reverse order.* Consider it my aural gift to you. (I said AURAL!)

25. The Killers -- Human
24. Raconteurs -- Salute Your Solution
23. Ghostland Observatory -- Dancing on My Grave
22. Crystal Castles -- Vanished
21. Cut Copy -- Unforgettable Season
20. Kanye West -- Love Lockdown
19. Deerhunter -- Nothing Ever Happened
18. Fleet Foxes -- White Winter Hymnal
17. The Roots -- Criminal
16. Bon Iver -- Flume
15. Portishead -- Nylon Smile
14. Chairlift -- Bruises
13. MGMT -- Weekend Wars
12. Snowden -- Anti-Anti
11. TV On the Radio -- Love Dog
10. Liam Finn -- Second Chance
9. Vampire Weekend -- Oxford Comma
8. Santogold -- You'll Find A Way (Switch and Sinden Remix)
7. Cold War Kids -- Relief
6. Hot Chip -- Out at the Pictures
5. MGMT -- Kids
4. Liam Finn -- Better to Be
3. Foals -- Red Sox Pugie
2. TV on the Radio -- Halfway Home
1. All I Need -- Radiohead

when is 2009 coming?

Today is a glorious day, e-friends. Not only is this the last day I have to slave away at my day job until Jan. 8, but it's also the day of my office's holiday Christmas potluck, which means I can look forward to feeling sick to my stomach by 5 p.m. because I'll be eating everything from collard greens featuring something called a "ham hock" to Polish sausage (and no, that is not a euphemism to anything but smoked meat, which is also not a euphemism). But even more than just the motley menagerie of foods to make me feel ill, will be the dish I've been selected to cook -- shchi, which is a traditional Russian cabbage soup.

Now for those of you unaware, the kitchen and I haven't quite figured one another out. Most of the time I just crack a can of beans and heat them up using a fire I set in a garbage can in my living room. Strangely, when I suggested that idea to my coworkers, they didn't have the reaction I expected. Instead of licking their lips in anticipation of some delicious canned beans, they asked me why I live like a homeless person, despite the fact that I have a home.

This afternoon they will find out when they taste this hot mess of shchi-t that I made. It's not that good. More than that, however, making this stupid soup scarred me, literally, as I burnt my effing mouth trying to taste it using the large metal spoon that had been boiling along with the soup for an hour. I'm smart. And to reward such genius, giant lip burns look strikingly similar to giant lip herpes. Oh, and since I was also lucky enough to be holding a glass in my hand, I dropped that as I burned through several layers of precious skin and will probably cut my foot, get tetanus and have to amputate that off later. Yay.

Anygnarliness, this has been one hell of a week not just for me in the kitchen, but for all of us on the Web. Not only have we all watched President Bush dodge shoes in a Matrix-like manner over and over again, but we've taken the time to learn how to count to five in Swahili. Or at least I have, not least of which is because it's time for this week's edition of Web Regurgitation, where I save you from myself, or at least my e-self and all of its sick and twisted narcissitic tendencies. Instead, allow me to count in another language and possibly make you privy to some of the sick and twisted narcissistic tendencies brilliance of others!

Moja! Speaking of the Matrix, let's talk about Keanu Reeves (a subject that, for some reason, has come up strangely often on this blog). In light of some inevitably sh*tty new movie coming out starting one Mr. Reeves, New York magazine put together a slideshow of Reeves' facial expressions. While this may sound ironic, considering he really only has one and the rest are really highly technical special effects, NY mag discovered 29, ranging from "Baseline Keanu-ness," which ranks at a 1 on the Kean-U-Meter, to "Infernal Rage," which clocks in at a 9. I'm at about a 4.5 right now. I'm breathing.

Wili! Despite this little somethin'-somethin', I really had a hard time keeping my e-sights on DC sites this week. Which is why, once again, I'll be turning my e-back on this place once again to point out tight sh*t that originated on servers elsewhere in the world. Um, jello shot recipe blog, anyone? Much safer than soup...

Tatu! I think I've made clear my love of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, however, I don't think I've emphasized my love of Flight of the Conchords quite so flagrantly. Well, what better time to reveal my not-so-secret love for yet another television show I can only watch on the Internet than now? Check out the first episode of Season 2 here!

Nne! I am truly sad about this. I can't believe it! They've hangered my baby!

Tano! But I hate to end on a sad note, so allow Santa's Gmail to cheer you up. For the most epic of Christmas-y lulz, I beseech you to read Santa's Gchat, Rudolph's and Jesus's Gstatus messages and what you can from the emails sent to Santa from Frosty the Snowman, Macy's Customer Service and, of course, Elfbang.com.

Have a good weekend!

*** UPDATE: BURNING LIPS EDITION ***

For anyone else shambley enough to pull off a feat like burning your mouth, I want to report that Carmex works wonders. Not only did it numb the pain, but it de-swelled the situation. Now it just looks like windburned or really badly chapped lips, opposed to, you know, lip herpes. Phew.

*** END BURNING LIPS UPDATE FOR OTHER LEGALLY RETARDED PEOPLE ***

the anti dc rules for tight gift-giving

As evidenced by my post yesterday in which I channeled A Nightmare Before Christmas's Jack Skellington and revealed that the first gift I received of the season was a rape whistle from my aunt and uncle, I am clearly in the holiday spirit over here. As such, I think it's only fitting that I try something new. That is, instead of complaining about stupid gifts (i.e., not rape whistles), I will try to advise on some Anti DC-approved gifts that will not only delight the recipient, but make your sh*t look tighter by setting up a few easy-to-follow guidelines. It's a win-win, really.

Rule 1. Give something useful.

There's nothing worse than a receiving a gift the receiver has absolutely no use for. For instance, if someone doesn't have a television with more than four channels and will lose even those channels in a month because he or she is too poor resourceful to shell out for cable, do not get that person some sort of Tivo device. That's just stupid.

In its place, may I suggest a gun rack? Even if there are no guns in the house, having a gun rack on your wall still looks bad ass and you can always tell people that the gun is not on said rack because you prefer to keep it close to your heart under your bed, or, better yet, easily accessible to children attached to the side of your bed. Meet "The Back Up." It's the rape whistle of bedside gun racks.

Rule 2. Give something awesome.

The Back Up is pretty useful, but it's not as awesome as, say, the Fish Pen. It may look like an ordinary pen, but watch it transform! And of course it fits in your briefcase! Because everyone knows that when you have a job that requires a briefcase, you probably definitely have time to make your way to a decent body of water on your lunch hour (which you may or may not even get, depending on how fancy of a briefcase you own) to catch a meal of food.

And although, I must say, while the Fish Pen may be convenient, the detachable reel and all the tackle and worms that you'll probably need to, you know, fish with it, pretty much negates the marketing message. You can't put worms in your pocket! However, how awesome would it be to feel like you could go fishing anytime, anywhere? Better yet, combine the fish pen with the Hawaii Chair and fish for goldfish in your office while getting a "workout" or, at the very least, while looking like an asshole. That's pretty awesome.

Rule 3. Give something meaningful.

There's nothing better than giving gifts that show you actually care. Like, when your relatives give you a rape whistle to ensure your safety when you travel to foreign lands like Nicaragua (Dec. 30-Jan. 7!), where not only rapin', but muggin', kidnappin' and gettin' framed for murder are all other tangible dangers. But thanks to my family, I'll whistle my way out of all those dangers. They clearly care.

But rape whistles aren't the only meaningful gifts people can give to each other (I know! This news surprised me too!); people can also give the Facial Flex. Nothing says you care more than giving a gift that says, "You need to start working out. Your face." Without words, you can say, "Your face is so meaningful to me, I can't possibly bear to let you go on without tightening up those jowls of yours." You care.

May I also suggest giving someone the Easy Toothbrush. It shows you care about that person's dental hygiene, while noting that you also care about his or her safety. Your regular old Oral B may look benign, but watch out! Apparently, you could hurt yourself. If you're an idiot. But the ability to not harm yourself through the use of a tool that kids as young as probably three use safely aside, giving the Easy Toothbrush shows you care so much that you're willing to seek out a toothbrush with a built-in equivalent to a rape whistle for your loved one. It's like saying, "Your Oral B will never hurt you again! Not on my watch! Moron."

'Tis the season! May all your (tight gifting) dreams come true! Like this one! It's a major award!

breaking through e-dimensions

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose and sometimes you call an entire city an asshole whilst looking slightly pregnant in a shiny dress, which is really just all in a day's e-work for anyone who authors a blog called The Anti DC. Yet, for some reason, a magazine named after this asshole cornucopia of a city decided to give me another virtual platform on which to complain, or as I prefer to say, to school. Not only that, but they sent a photographer, whose schedule combined with my own, allowed us only to meet yesterday at 4:30 p.m. to capture the concrete shambles that is Van Ness. Oh, and the shambles that is me looking terribly awkward on the street. Thank Kodak moments for talented photographers, though. Contrary to how I actually felt, I do look quite awake in this photo!

And thank Strunk & White (or, as one I-66 once called them, Crunk & Tight) for talented editors. Opposed to my usual offensive, abrasive and quite obnoxious self that I present here each day, I come off as kind of endearing over there. Or at least not crazy. Or drunk. Or both. OK, maybe a little drunk...and a little crazy...and offensive...and abrasive...and quite obnoxious...

But despite the flurry of words I donated to Washingtonian.com, I'm most proud of that outfit I'm wearing. Not only did I color coordinate my tights with my trusty bicycle, but I dressed for the holidays. Nightmare Before Christmas, anyone?

Dang, even Jack Skellington is less awkward than I am...

But before I allow you to spread your own demented holiday cheer (or whatever type of holiday cheer you prefer) I want to spread a little more of my own. Or at least a bit of my family's. I opened up the first Christmas present of the year yesterday and was more than delighted to find a rape whistle keychain from my aunt and uncle. It will surely be the gift that keeps on giving. Or rather, the gift that keeps others from giving. You come here for the caustic attitude and stay for the rape jokes, right?! Zing!

Happy Holidays!

Oh shoot. One last thing. I just got e-word that a piece I penned for RUSSIA! magazine's "War and Fashion Issue" hit the news stands last week. (Do those still exist?) But for real, my article is currently not available online, at least according to Russian President Dmitry Medvedev:


So if you just can't wait to get my take on Russian first lady fashion from the year 882 AD to present day, then I suggest you head to these mythical news stands I speak of and pick up a hard copy today! Consider that my gift to you. Er, well, my gift to you that you actually bought yourself. Or something. But it's the thought that counts right? Da!

Outfit details: Dress--H&M (procured for $8 in San Francisco); Cardigan--Forever 21; Tights--Filene's Basement; Glovelets--NYC's Union Square street market; Ankle boots--Steve Madden.

master of karaoke...for everyone

Much like the voodoo that is Dayman of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia fame, I'm a master of karate and friendship for everyone. OK, I lied. I'm not actually a master of karate. Or friendship for everyone. But I am a master of karaoke, which is nothing to scoff at. Plus, the twisted logic in my mind notes that being a master of karaoke, in turn, aligns me at least an iota closer to mastering friendship for everyone and, actually, maybe even karate. (I've got some sweet moves.)

And, no joke, if you can master friendship in a town like DC where people seem to fear all strangers, then something must be right. Which brings me to my karaoke-master skills -- they make me friends.

Karaoke and I go way back. I used to sing along to the likes of Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," which was on the first tape I owned when I was eight and continued to be my go-to sing-a-long song until I was probably 10 when Soul II Soul's "Back to Life" took over, naturally. Of course, I sang along to those precious tapes only in the privacy of my own home.

I broke onto the public scene a few years later when I joined my junior high school's choir, which proved detrimental as it nearly killed my love for singing badly and loudly. But I guess, singing "Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog" in a falsetto soprano will do that to an impressionable 13-year-old. It will also make you want to murder people, which, it seems, is not the best way to go around mastering friendship for everyone. Or karaoke. Indeed, Jeremiah was no friend of mine. (HIYO!) Although, with all that bullfroggy violence on my mind, I suppose that experience could have been a good way to master karate. But the sad fact is, that experience simply made me want to master getting the hell away from everyone else in choir and, instead, concentrate solely on perfecting my Running Man and Roger Rabbit sweet dance moves to Technotronic's "Move This."

This dark period, as it were, lasted for several years (read: Technotronic stayed on my playlist through high school) and turned me off from singing so much that I put a moratorium on inserting any discernible pitch changes into my voice until 2002 (or was it 2003?) when I was invited to join a band in Moscow, Russia, where I quickly perfected my penchant for mastering the ability to make an ass out of myself and not care.

It was then that an amateur karaoke star was born...and, as the old saying goes, an angel got his balls. Wait, that's every time a bell falls. My bad. Thank you for schooling me, official Steven Colbert Christmas ornament.


But now that you know way too much about my past and angel anatomy, let's return to present time, or better yet, last Friday when I made my first trip to a DC karaoke bar -- Cafe Japone.

In short, I killed it. I sang both "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" by Rupert Holmes and Bon Jovi's "Livin' On a Prayer," both karaoke classics. And when I say "killed it," I mean I murdered it, like how a disgruntled soprano in a junior high school choir wants to murder a bullfrog named Jeremiah. And not only did I earn my own accolades (which, believe it or not, are actually very hard to earn under my strict self-flagellating point system), but I earned strangers' accolades, as well, which are even harder to earn in DC, a town scared of its own metaphorical shadow.

Not that I should be surprised that my karaoke skills earned me some fast friends (I mean, they are stellar, if I had not mentioned that), but why should karaoke be the catalyst to get strangers to interact with each other more so than, say, a "Holy sh*t, I just tripped down the Metro escalator, I'm bleeding and I think something might be broken, but why won't anyone stop to help me or at least call 911?" moment. By the way, that latter incident is a true story, which luckily didn't happen so much to me as it did to a friend of mine, meaning I guess it wasn't so lucky after all, but extremely sucky. And no, no one ever helped her, so she hobbled on, bleeding profusely until she found a more convenient spot (i.e., where people wouldn't step on her face) to help herself.

So, what's with that? You're with me in the good times, DC, but when push comes to shove (literally, down a Metro escalator), you abandon me, or at least my friend, at our time of need? What kind of city does that? DC is kind of an asshole. DC is not Dayman. No, DC, in fact, is Nightman; that is, a possible rapist.

Or maybe karaoke just attracts a cool crowd. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go practice my high kicks, which I vow to do next time I sing karaoke. And if high kicks can't help me become a master of karate and friendship for everyone, then nothing can.

dreams do come true

Statcounter is truly a beautiful thing, especially the part that tells me where people come from to get here. For instance, most people either just type in the Web address or Google a few pervy terms, but once in a while I'll notice a large contingent of visitors find my little metaphorical crack baby of a blog via someone else's blog or Web site. This is the best news a blogger can get because it usually means something I wrote truly touched someone's heart in profound way. Or at least slapped someone's ass in a harassing manner. And if I had a heart, my touching of their hearts would then touch my own. Instead, the black hole that exists in its place gets slightly warmer. Likewise, my slapping of their asses would, in turn, lead to me slapping my own. Wait. What? Hmm. Maybe we'll just stick to the touching of the heart metaphor. The thing is, nothing touched my black hole of a heart (or ass, old metaphors die hard) so dearly as when I learned this morning that some soul over at "http://www.speedofantasy.com" posted a link to this blog under the title, "Speedos in Unusual Places." I feel special, in the retarded way, so thank you. It's a truly tight way (pun intended, naturally) to start off the week.

But as tight as getting a little linkage on Speedo Fantasy Dot Com, the "Speedo Fantasy Board Messages Hot Gay Male Speedo Free Message Board" (their words, not mine) for having once blogged about old Russian men wearing Speedos at Brighton Beach (which, I would think anyone who posts to Speedo Fantasy Dot Com, would know isn't really an "unusual place" to see a Speedo, but, in fact, quite usual, if not expected), it's still not as tight as the Ghostland Observatory show I saw on Saturday at The 9:30 Club.

I danced so much I feel confident that I could now pull off a Speedo to make my new friends over at Speedo Fantasy Dot Com want to link directly to my spandex-clad ass. Or at least make me want to take to the streets of Boston to run in the annual Santa Speedo Run. Of course, however, while the people of Boston streaked through the streets probably to an actual quad, the crowd in DC on Saturday kept all their clothes on and largely stood still. But much like Speedos on Russian octogenarians in Brighton Beach, a rather dull and douchey crowd is to be expected at the 9:30. Luckily, Ghostland Observatory's show is filled with so many beautiful distractions, that the mannequin-like DC crowd easily faded into the background. Why?

1) Thomas Ross Turner's cape. It takes a real man to pull off this look.

2) Laser light show. Yes, LASER LIGHT SHOW! My retinas loved it. My sh*tty cell phone camera, however, didn't do so well at representing that love, which is why the photo below is from the LA Times and not from my Samsung (which snapped the grainy image above). You're welcome.

3) Aaron Behrens' loins. This guy is nothing short of ridiculously awesome. I don't know how he does it! I mean, how can one vibrate so damn much, but still keep perfect pitch? Answer: His sh*t is tighter than a Speedo!

The algebra of tightness: Spandex + Old Russian man flab <>

*** UPDATE! ***

For legit photos that, indeed, won't quit, click on over to Brightest Young Things. I'm jealous.

in which i use the word phantasmagoria

While DC's weather was being menopausal this week, I was catching up on the infinite phantasmagoria that is the Webrary. And mon Dieu is there some sick sh*t out there. Two words: midget porn. But that's neither here nor there. Well, I take that back. It's there, it's just thankfully not here. Anyway, I don't want to talk about midget porn anymore.

Anynotmidgetporn, there were several less disturbing items online this past week that won't give you nightmares. Instead, however, they will make you daydream and if not that, then at least procrastinate. But it's Friday, so that's what workdays are for, right?

And keeping true to form, today I'm going to regurgitate my Web selections by sounding off in Japanese, thanks to a little hip-hop song I've got on repeat right now. Domo arigato, Genki Japan! Here we go!

Ichi! One of my favorite local cycling blogs, Freewheeling Spirit, serves up some justice on an e-platter cast from the most logical of e-materials -- HTML code. Check out the JPGs he posted! Then print them out, fold them up and carry them around with you at all times so you can serve up a little justice of your own to any asshole who tries to regulate on you for biking within the law. Boo-yah! Or as they say in Japan, Boo-yah! Or maybe they don't say that. It's just a guess.

Ni! Why can't people just leave the gays alone? Or more apropos, leave straight men who play gay men in movies alone. I thought "Brokeback Mountain" had demystified the homosexual lip-lock. So did the Washington Post's Hank Stuever, who pontificated in an excellently written article about why people are so fixated on straight male actors acting as gay characters. Stuever writes, "There's a whiff of discomfort of the Seinfeldian, 'not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-it' variety. It's a post-ironic, post-homophobic homophobia, the kind seen most weeks in 'Saturday Night Live' sketches or in any Judd Apatow movie." Really, it's just kind of lame.

San! In other intellectual e-news, during my hiatus from life last week I read two very interesting New Yorker articles. One, by John Seabrook, ruminated on the mental condition known as psychopathy. Did you know politics is one of the professions that attracts the most psychopaths? Does that surprise you? No? Me neither. The other, by Malcolm Gladwell, gave me hope. He writes that genius sometimes needs time to develop. Could I be the Cézanne of writers bloggers? We'll find out when I'm 90.

Shi! In non-news, I bought myself an early Christmas present via a sweet sale on Cyber Monday -- a pair of patent leather military-inspired boots. I had them mailed to my place of work where I proceeded to try them on while eating a couple of cocoa-covered almonds, the remnants of which stuck ever-so-Fascistly on my upper lip, which led, of course, to me doing a little Hitler impersonation in the office. Hitler spoke only in Rammstein lyrics, right? And he pranced? Yes? Then my impression was spot on. Like Charlie Chaplin's.

Go! Finally, in honor of The Lonely Island crew finally breaking into the mainstream by jizzing in their pants (what is this, my third mention of this video this week???), I present to you a retrospective of their earlier work, which I fell in love with quite a while ago when writing an article in j-school (the most useless school on Earth) about LA's Channel 101 and NYC's Channel 102 (now also known as Channel 101).

Just 2 Guyz


Stork Patrol


Ka-Blamo!

the root of dc's problems is dirty

Underneath all the pleats, Blackberry holsters and bad tailoring, the true root of why The Anti DC is so anti-DC rests in the dark underbelly of this city's economy -- lobbyists. If ever there was a larger contingent of soulless assholes, that place must indeed be actual hell.

Really, being a lobbyist is kind of like being a professional liar. Or at least a professional truth bender. And, although, we all bend the truth to fit our own personal needs (as I clearly just did because I'm pretty sure not all lobbyists are soulless assholes), when lobbyists test the physics of facts, it actually affects the way of the world. When I test the physics of facts, I just sound like bitch, which means nothing is radically different from the norm.

I'll admit, I've always had a deep distrust of all things wealthy and powerful, as well as all things poor and weak, but this morning when I found a link in my Inbox that led to a Web site sponsored by the American Coalition for Clean Coal Electricity (which is a joke because "clean" coal is pretty much just as big of a pollutant as regular, dirty coal in its CO2 emissions, as well as its environmentally devastating harvesting, which involves REMOVING MOUNTAIN TOPS), my amygdala lit up causing me to tumble over in pain from feeling so sick to my stomach.

The link in question: http://www.americaspower.org/Carolers

Someone probably got paid a six-figure salary to come up with this. For whom? For children? I mean, who else gets a kick out of dressing up seven pieces of cartoon coal and making them sing bastardized carols to what looks to be some gigantic waspy family?

OK, I got a slight kick out of it, but only because the coal pieces look legitimately retarded (I think it's the crossed, googly eyes). Overwhelmingly, though, this just made my regular snarl of disdain even snarlier. The audacity and egocentricy of the coal lobby is truly astounding. Don't believe me? Please to peep this group's version of Adeste Fideles, better known as "O Come, All Ye Faithful" to those of us who speak English.

Abundant, affordable, fueling our country;
Clean coal is the source we depend on for power.
Technology's making clean coal even better;
And we can count on clean coal,
And we can count on clean coal,
And we can count on clean coal,
For years to come!

Compare that to its church-going equivalent:

O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,
O come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem.
Come and behold Him, born the King of angels;
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
O come, let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord!

Clearly, the "clean" coal lobby is going straight to hell. But that's not even what I find most offensive, since I'm not all that actively religious. I can forgive substituting the word "power" for "Bethlehem." What I can't forgive, however, is what these pollution loving assholes did to Frosty the Snowman, my favorite Christmas carol of all goddamn time!

Frosty the Coalman is a jolly happy soul;
He's abundant here in America and he helps our economy roll;
Frosty the Coalman is getting cleaner every day;
He's affordable and adorable and his workers keep their pay;
There have must be some magic in clean coal technology,
For when they looked for pollutants there were nearly none to see;
O Frosty the Coalman is a jolly happy soul;
He's abundant here in America and he helps our economy roll;
Thumpity-thump-thump-thumpity-thump, look at Frosty go;
Thumpity-thump-thump-thumpity-thump, towards energy independence we will go!

Not only is that far inferior to the original, which talks about Frosty the Snowman who dresses like a straight pimp (Old silk hat? Check. Pipe? Check. Bitch-slapping broomstick? Check.), but it's also chock full of lies. Frosty the Coalman probably has the black-lung; he's definitely dirty as all goddamn hell; and, moreever this magical "clean" coal technology they talk up doesn't really even exist.

The world clean in "clean" coal refers to the way it is burned, not the way it is mined, meaning it still degrades the environment in the same way as old-school dirty coal. And speaking of dirty, coal mining isn't even the biggest problem -- it's the burning of it and, surprise, to harness energy from "clean" coal, you gotta burn it, which releases the same pollutants (mainly CO2, the biggest contributor to global warming) as regular coal. The difference, or the "magic" as the "clean" coal lobby loosely deems it, is in how it's burned. "Clean" coal burning methods don't get rid of most of the pollution, they simply move it to a different type of waste stream, one that still gets into our environment. Moreover, these mythical technologies don't even really exist yet. They're still in the lab, meaning it will take probably billions of taxpayer dollars and tens of years to even make it slightly viable. Maybe it's just me, but perhaps those billions of dollars could be spent elsewhere looking for truly clean technologies. (As to what? Don't look at me for that. I'm here solely to point out problems, not provide solutions. Duh.)

More importantly, the "clean" coal lobby needs to stop raping Frosty the Snowman through song. He's been favorable to you. He has coal for eyes, for power's sake! But using him to spread your lies is dirtier than his corneas. And for that, American Coalition for Clean Coal Electricity, you get The Anti DC's highest seal of shame -- Jean-Claude the Sexy Traffic Cone judging you.

BURN! (Pun definitely intended.)

o! horror of all horrors!

Imagine my excitement when I read earlier today this sentence on The Huffington Post: "The Twin Cities Pioneer Press reports that a probe has been launched into Minnesota Sen. Norm Coleman." A probe?!?!?! How exciting!

However, imagine my disappointment when I realized that that wasn't actually a full sentence, but simply a fragment and the full sentence really read, "The Twin Cities Pioneer Press reports that a probe has been launched into Minnesota Sen. Norm Coleman's ties to businessman Nasser Kazeminy."

GODDAMMIT.

Despite my off-the-shoulder love for you, Mr. Coleman, I don't know if I can help you out of this pickle. According to the story, "Federal investigators are looking into allegations that a longtime friend and benefactor tried to steer money to U.S. Sen. Norm Coleman..."

WTF?! Norm used to be the delicious cherry on my cupcake...literally!

This is seriously on my office wall. Jealous?!?!?

Apparently, this Nasser Kazeminy tried to shove $100,000 in Norm's pockets via his stupid bitch's wife's Minneapolis employer.

That explains it. If Norm was married to me this never would've happened. I guess all that's left to do is poor a little water out of the office water cooler for him because this certainly won't help his already tight (and not in a good way) campaign.

But larger question: Are politicians a lot stupider than the used to be (ahem, Rod Blagojevich and Jesse Jackson, Jr.) or is the FBI just really on its game lately?

a written descent into madness

As none of you know, I've spent the last few months reading The Stuff of Thought (hey, it's hard to get through a book when you're functionally retarded) by my word idol, Steven Pinker. He's a very cunning linguist! (Just admit, much like songs about sporadically jizzing in your pants, that "cunning linguist" bit never gets old. Uh, or something.)

Oh snap! Two lewd references in the introductory paragraph?! What am I? A DC teen, speaking unnecessarily loudly on the Metro about inappropriate activities said teens are much too young to engage in?!

Although my sense of humor may lead one to believe I'm 14, I'm actually pretty thankful I'm not. Mainly because I was even stupider back then. But seriously, when did the concept of inside voices go out of style? Especially when you're a kid talking about sh*t I really, really don't want to hear spewing from anyone's mouth. I just don't get it. But, honestly, considering I'm not the most eloquent of assholes (a concept I demonstrate daily), I at first thought the loudness offended me more than the language. I mean, after all, this year's holiday e-card to my friends and family is going to be this:

F
*C
KF*
CKF*
CKF*C
KF*CKF
*CKF*CK
U

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

Which means I'm probably not one to talk about what's appropriate to say when and to whom. Or am I?

Dr. Pinker is making me rethink what I thought I knew, which means maybe I'm not actually smarter than my 14-year-old self...

Although I curse at a frequency that rivals how many times a Hill staffer checks her BlackBerry in an hour, I still don't cuss in front of my mom. Or at least I try not to. Moreover, even on this sick bitch of a blog, I self-censor four-letter words using asterisks. And now, after reading chapter 7 of The Stuff of Thought, "The Seven Words You Can't Say On Television" (a title Pinker borrowed from an infamous George Carlin bit), I'm beginning to think maybe it wasn't just the decibel level of the conversation (if you can call it that) that bothered me, but the crude language. Pinker writes:

The persecution of swearers has a long history. The third commandment and Leviticus 24:16 spells out the consequences: "He that blasphemeth the name of the Lord shall be put to death." To be sure, the past century has expanded the arenas in which people can swear. As early as 1934, Cole Porter could pen the lyric "Good authors, too, who once knew better words / Now only use four-letter words / Writing prose. Anything goes." Most of the celebrity swearers of the twentieth century prevailed (if only posthumously), and many recent entertainers, such as Richard Pryor, Eve Ensler, and the cast of South Park, have cussed with impunity. Yet it's still not the case that anything goes. In 2006 George W. Bush signed into law the Broadcast Decency Enforcement Act, which increased the fines for indecent language tenfold and threatened repeat offenders with the loss of their license.

Taboo language, then, enters into a startling array of human concerns from capital crimes in the Bible to the future of electronic media. It stakes out the frontier of free speech in liberal democracies, not only in government control of the media but in debates over hate speech, fighting words, and sexual harassment. And of course it figures in our everyday judgments of people's character and intentions.

Interesting. Would I hate DC's obnoxious teenagers just as much for shouting about, say, rainbows and unicorns on the Metro, opposed to repeatedly dropping such biting words as what Pinker describes as a "gynecological-flagellative term for uxorial dominance"? (The man's seriously a word genius).

More importantly, though, in the megalomaniac world that is The Anti DC, does my decision to insert an asterisk into such words as "sh*t" and "f*ck," two of the seven words you can't say on television (the others are piss, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits -- really?), mean I'm engaging in some kind of self-imposed judgment as to how decent of a human being I am? Would I be less of a writer to simply type "shit" and "fuck"? More poignantly, would I be worse person for it?

Considering I'm already hovering at the bottom of the proverbial asshole barrel, I have a hard time thinking my decision to, in essence, censor myself reflects on my value as a person. After all, it's just a vowel. But why do I do that? In my mind, I suppose, it takes the edge off of the word; it makes it less serious, perhaps, even less emotional, which is exactly why, according to Pinker, dirty words are so taboo in the first place.

The ubiquity and power of swearing suggest that taboo words may tap into deep and ancient parts of the emotional brain. We saw in chapter 1 that words have not just a denotation but a connotation: an emotional coloring distinct from what the world literally refers to, as in "principled" versus "stubborn" and "slender" versus "scrawny." The difference is reminiscent of the way that taboo words and their synonyms differ, such as "shit" and "feces," "cunt" and "vagina," or "fucking" and "making love." Long ago psycholinguists identified the three main ways in which words' connotations vary: good versus bad, weak versus strong, and active versus passive. "Hero," for example, is good, strong and active; "coward" is bad, weak and passive; and "traitor" is bad, weak and active. Taboo words cluster at the very bad and very strong edges of the space, though there are surely other dimensions to the connotation as well.

Perhaps more intriguing, Pinker describes how dirty words light up a part of our brain -- the amygdala -- that neutral words do not. According to so-called "science," the amygdala helps to meld emotion and memory and produces the involuntary shudder that occurs when we see or hear something we're not supposed to see or hear.

The involuntary shudder set off by hearing or reading a taboo word comes from a basic feature of the language system: understanding the meaning of a word is automatic. It's not just that we don't have earlids to shut out unwanted sounds, but that once a word is seen or heard we are incapable of reacting to it as a squiggle or noise but reflexively look it up in memory and respond to its meaning, including its connotation. The classic demonstration is the Stroop effect, found in every introductory psychology textbook and the topic of more than four thousand scientific papers.

And now the topic of one very unscientific blog. So, let's test this theory. Let's Stroop (Stroop ba-doop, Stroop ba-doop, Stroop ba-doop ba-doop ba-doop -- thank you, growing up in the '90s)!

1) Say aquamarine, lavender or burnt sienna (or blue, purple or orange, if you prefer, simpleton) for each item in turn from left to write:

WORD WORD WORD WORD WORD WORD

2) Now, do it again.

ORANGE PURPLE BLUE PURPLE ORANGE BLUE

3) And again.*

CUNT SHIT FUCK TITS PISS ASSHOLE

If you're a live human being, the task should get progressively harder with each set of words, according to Pinker.

The psychologist Don MacKay has done the experiment, and found that people are indeed slowed down by an involuntary boggle as soon as the eyes alight on each word. The upshot is that a speaker or writer can use a taboo word to evoke an emotional response in an audience quite against their wishes.

I, on the other hand, found the second one the hardest, which only validates that, apparently, I am indeed a robot who can't feel emotions. But wait a second! Let's turn back to homo sapiens again. Did Pinker just say a taboo word can evoke an emotional response in an audience quite against their wishes?! Does that then OK my response to want to muzzle all teenagers throughout the land? Wait. That's not against my wishes because, honestly, I would've gotten smacked in the face several times by adults if I had acted like such a buffoon in public when I was that age. Or this age, which is why I don't suddenly have a voluntary case of Tourette's in public places! Take note, teenagers! You sound like you have a serious disability BY CHOICE. You. Are. Idiots.

But again, more importantly, what does this mean for the megalomaniac e-land that is this blog? Would I make you all cringe even more if I remove the asterisks from my go-to blasphemies?

SHIT!

Did you involuntarily shudder? No?

What? You're just waiting for this gigantic leaping of the shark pseudo-attempt to wax intellectual to be over, you say?

Fuck.

*For the record, or so I can feel like a slightly more decent asshole, these are the words Pinker uses in his example.

i like the color orange, but...

Holy hell! Where the devil did I just vanish to for a week?! It's as if I was stuck in a silly little elf Matrix land dancing the Charleston with a little elfin Keanu Reeves and that poor dog he drop kicked in Point Break (fast forward to 5:07 in that last link for the puppy-kicking retardulousness).

Was it all just a wonderful dream, if, of course, by "wonderful dream," I mean "horrific nightmare"? Seriously, I'd sooner have Patrick Swayze in a Ronald Reagan mask hurling a pitbull at me (which I would decidedly not dropkick) than be caught dead in those horribly ugly Matrix sunglasses... Suffice it to say, I am extremely relieved to be back to reality. Seriously, elfin Keanu Reeves' virtual reality is not all it's cracked up to be. And, of course, by "elfin Keanu Reeves' virtual reality," I really mean "prison."

Just kidding!

I wasn't really in prison. I was just stranded in the wilderness (in my mind) and, unfortunately, I couldn't get back until one of the bears I was living amongst (in my mind) learned how to ride a moped so he could drive me back to civilization. I tried to get him to don a Ronald Reagan mask and rob a bank with me (I'd be wearing the Nixon mask, clearly), but apparently that son of a bitch had some toilet paper to pedal. Whatever. Sellout.

Anyway, so here I am. Here you are. Here we are e-together again. Unfortunately, since I've been rotting in prison some mysterious woods somewhere (in my mind) with magical cartoon bears who can drive, I haven't gained much DC-related fodder to mock. So instead, I'll turn to the one mock-worthy subject that always provides me topics to e-kibbitz about -- myself.

But, oh sh*t! I can't even mock myself right now because, clearly, anyone who spends a week avoiding any contact with civilization in favor of hanging out with imaginary bears can't bear any more ridicule. (But she can still make cringe-worthy puns!).

So in place of my go-to Plan B, we're moving on to Plan C -- questionable eBay items. Or, in this case, one questionable eBay item:


Now, this questionable eBay item isn't questionable solely because it's the most retarded-looking mascot of all time (Seriously, what is it? A fluorescent orange ant? Please see this, in comparison, to realize many-a-mascot dream.); it's questionable because of how the seller titled it: "New adult size orange sex Mascot Costume Christmas Free."

First brought to my attention by one Mr. Socrates Johnson, we wondered immediately why the word "sex" was included in this item's description. I mean, this little ensemble screams "sex" just about as much as a traffic cone. Actually, I take that back. A traffic cone is much sexier.


Damn, that is a fine scarf. But that orange bug-like thing above? It doesn't have a scarf! It doesn't have mysterious sunglasses; or a cigar for effect; it's not even French (Jean-Claude the sexy traffic cone posing above clearly parle le français). So how is that oversized fluorescent orange entomological mascot an oversized fluorescent orange entomological sex mascot?

Much like the enigmatic activity that occurred (in my mind) this past week (with all of its Keanus, dropkicked dogs, dead president masks, moped-riding bears, toilet paper endorsements, stint in the state pen, and general shambles), perhaps it will never make sense. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a tear to tattoo under my eye. Oh, and this NSFW, but surprisingly safe for network television, item to forward around my office:



See? The world can't be that horrible of a place if a major network is allowing the boys from The Lonely Island to take total control of Saturday Night Live! Or at least take total control of two minutes and 40 seconds of it. Hey, it's a start.

what the mothereffing elf is this?!

I am so glad I don't drive that often because if I did, I'd clearly be really effing poor. See, I apparently possess the luck of an idiot criminal, who can't escape the laws of the road and their expensive consequences no matter how hard I try. And by "try," I clearly mean "ignore." That is, I often ignore traffic laws and not because I'm particularly ignorant. At least I'd like to think... But unlike the usual idiot criminal, I strategically break the law. Or, at least my foot does. But if I know an area is a hotspot for cops and other traffic law enforcers, I can reign in said foot (let's call him Mr. Pickles for effect) before he (or would my foot automatically be a she, too?) can get me into any trouble.

However, according to WTOP, this method of selective law-abiding is getting increasingly harder to succeed at in this sick bitch of a town. And no clearer have I learned the truthiness in that than the other day when I received an E-mail from Zipcar informing me that the person (or foot, rather) regulating the gas pedal at 5:08 p.m. on Nov. 1 in a sh*tty little Scion with license plate number CU0877 was apparently doing 41 in a 30 mph zone at the 5400 block of 16th Street.

DAMN YOU, PICKLES!

Although, really, I can't blame my own foot. It's not conducive to my policy of blaming solely others for my own problems. So, since my foot is technically part of me, Mr. Pickles is not to blame. Instead I blame this city and its clever ludicrous technological traffic traps.

DAMN YOU, TECHNOLOGY!

See? That's more like it. It's not me. (It never is.) It's goddamn technology, which, aside from costing me $50, is actually pretty amazing. It somehow got the image of this sh*tty Scion thrice times over, including a close-up of the goddamn license plate. If only it caught me sporting my Michael Jackson hat, which I was wearing from the night before when I went to Baltimore for Halloween.

Or did it?! Was I the unwitting victim of racism? Was I mistaken for a black man (because that clearly happens a lot) and ticketed solely because of my skin color? Did I look so much like Michael Jackson in that sh*tty Scion that I was singled out for this ticket for Driving While Black? Or, you know, Driving While White Dressed Up Like a Black Man Who's Possibly Paler Than Me? This is some goddamn injustice, I say!

Or maybe I was just speeding. Because quite honestly, despite my best efforts, I really looked nothing like Michael Jackson. In fact, save for the hat, the rest of the costume was shoved in my overnight bag and instead I was dressed like my normal self (i.e., an asshole). So if anything is unscrupulous here, I was ticketed for Driving While Dressed Like An Asshole in that hat, a flannel, tight white pants and Topsiders.

Hmm...is it strange that I occasionally can't remember what year it is -- yesterday I dated a check for "2009" -- but I never forget an outfit? Yes. Yes it is, which means I guess I really was ticketed for being an idiot -- an idiot criminal.

Sh*t. Well, I'll be damned. Look at that. This blog post just officially completed a (really offensive) circle, or more likely proved that my life (both on-the-road and on-the-Web) is officially in a downward spiral. While I came back to the phrase "idiot criminal," I accidentally proved that I am one, instead of not being one. That's just perfect. But not as perfect as this!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

When the going gets tough retarded, the retarded get going. Wait. Dammit. I f*cked that one up, too. What I meant to say, is that when sh*t becomes untight (uh, ew...), dancing the disco with Norm Coleman and Putin with Flock of Seagulls hair will surely cheer a girl up. But it may highly disturb you. Unlike DC traffic enforcers and their silly cameras, I will give you a head's up...