my buttpaste brings all the boyz to the yard

It all started with a routine trip to Target in Columbia Heights. It was there that The Law collapsed in laughter and threw a packet of what would ultimately, but unknowingly to me at the time, serve as a makeshift love potion at a Brooklyn bar. And of course, I'm talking about travel sized packages of Butt Paste. Boudreaux's Butt Paste, to be exact!


There's nothing better than marketing a product under the name "Butt Paste." Who wouldn't buy it?! With that kind of instant name cache and our homosexual friend's birthday coming up, we really had no choice but to dole out 99 pennies and buy him a trio of these tiny Butt Paste packets. (Clearly, we're expert gift givers.)

And so I set out, Butt Paste in hand, to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a place known for attracting hipsters, Hasidic Jews and hipster Hasidic Jews, to give my and The Law's main gay his birthday Butt Paste.

Regrettably, I forgot about the gift for hours after disembarking from the worst bus ride of all time (ahem, Megabus mega sucks!). Luckily, though, at some point I remembered I had three packets of Butt Paste burning a hole in the bowels (LOL!) of my bag. And so began a Butt Paste love story.

Minutes after the Butt Paste saw the dim light of the K&M bar, a ridiculously attractive man sauntered into the bar, brushed past me, my gay and my vodka soda and ordered a drink. I looked at my G, mouth agape, and bar-whispered to him, "Holy sh*t. Did you see him?"

And then I stared at this beautiful man. Creepy, indeed.

After he got his beer, he turned around, smiled and went to the other end of the bar to sit with his friends. Again, I turned to my homo, who by now had strategically tucked the Butt Paste packets into his shirt pocket like a beautiful, yellow plastic, Butt-Pastey pocket square and said, "I should go give him some Butt Paste!"

Knowing that wasn't some perverted sexual metaphor, this most intuitive gay grabbed a packet, held it out and said, "Yes! Go!"

But I couldn't. Having lived in DC for over a year, I felt the move was risky. How would he react?
"He's going to think I'm nuts!" I told my homosexual. "He's going to be confused and not want to talk to me! He's going to freak out!"

After 30 minutes of debate about how the ridiculously attractive man might possibly react to receiving Butt Paste as well as several lingering moments of across-the-bar eye contact, my gay had had it. "Bitch, this isn't DC. People aren't all douchey and uptight. He clearly wants to talk to you. Just go give him the goddamn Butt Paste!"

And so I threw back the rest of my drink, slipped the Butt Paste packet into my back pocket and approached this ridiculously attractive man.

"Um. Hi."

He smiled. (Yes, it was gorgeous.)

"I saw you from across the bar and, well, I have this present that I think you should have."

At this point, it had crossed my mind to just slip the Butt Paste into his shirt pocket, but with thoughts of uptight DC in my head, I decided I needed to explain.

"So, I have this gift here. For you. And I don't want you to freak out. But I'm guessing you might not understand why I'm giving this to you. I mean, it's weird. But funny. And you won't expect it. That's for sure. And no one's probably given you this before. But it's funny. It's supposed to be funny. And I think you would think it's funny. Maybe. It might be the best gift ever. It's funny..."
At this point, his less attractive friend interrupted my retarded, paranoid spiel and said, "You're not going to tell him you have a penis are you?"

I laughed. The ridiculously attractive man laughed. His less attractive friend laughed. And that's when I remembered, New York City was different. People there can take a joke, tell a joke and, most importantly, aren't hypersensitive.

I smiled and said, "No, which is kind of unfortunate considering the gift build-up I just did. That would be much funnier." I reached into my back pocket. "Here."

He squinted, looked down at the packet and stammered, "Butt...Paste? Does that say Butt Paste? Did you just give me Butt Paste?"

"Uh-huh."

He chuckled, looked me in the eye and said, "This is the best gift ever. I'm Troy."

Butt Paste was a hit. A tall, shaggy-haired, well-dressed, adorable hit.

---

But would it be in DC? That is the ultimate question. I hesitated to write this post, actually, because I wanted to do an experiment, A Tale of Two Butt Pastes, if you will. I want to go to a bar armed with Butt Paste and give it to boys and note their reactions. Would the majority burst into tears? Punch me in the face? Put me on a terrorist watch list? The world will have to wait. I've been too lazy. And, also, going out in DC sucks. However, it's time I suck it up and get back on this scientific endeavor. I'll let fancy academic journals fight over who wants to publish this study. Bidding starts at $1 million. Science sells, right? Science! Bitch!

Cambridge, Mass., tries its hand at graffiti. Brilliant.

a speedo-y segue

What better way to segue back into NYC Week than by taking a virtual trip to Brooklyn's Brighton Beach. Well, you get to take a virtual trip. I had to take the actual trip...which I'd do again in a hot second! I love Brighton Beach, New York City's answer to some sh*tty street in Russia. It's got several stores selling bootleg CD's and DVDs, all kinds of Russian herbal medicines, a whole slew of Russian grocers selling delicious, delicious pastries and Borjomi -- the best soda water on the planet. [Sidebar: Russia's tanks better not f*ck up those springs...]. Oh, and dollar stores selling hats embroidered with bald eagles wrapped in Old Glories, an image that holds a special place in my tin heart. [Sidebar: And who says U.S.-Russian relations are frigid?! My new hat begs to differ!]

But the crown jewel of Brighton Beach is, well, the beach! It's dirty; it's scummy; it's easy to cut your foot on the broken chunks of beer bottle that are sprinkled ever-so-carelessly atop the cigarette butts sand; but mostly, it's the plethora of old men in Speedos that makes Brighton Beach shine. Check it! (Um, NSFW?)

Banana hammock! Or, po-russki, gamok banany!

You can't see, but the word "fun" is printed all over that suit. Not joking!

But let's say elder dudes in Speedos aren't your thing (by the way, who are you?!), there are still plenty of fascinating sites in good ol' Brighton Beach soak in, just like a wet diaper (which would will probably see washed up on the shore). The highlights:

RASCAL SCOOTERS!

WAYWARD BEACH UMBRELLAS!



AND COUPLES HAVING SEX IN BROAD DAYLIGHT NEXT TO YOU!

[REDACTED.]

So, there you have it. Those are the most fantastic, enticing things I can picture and/or describe to suggest you take a little trip to NYC's Russian enclave. As the ancient aphorism goes, come for the old men in Speedos, stay for the...um...old men in Speedos. Words to live by.

By the way, pictured above is Russian President Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, Michael Phelps, Ricky Martin, Will Ferrell and M.C. Hammer (in his "Pumps in a Bump" phase a.k.a. his best phase ever).

shambles p.i. -- the daisy dukevich edition

I know I dedicated this week to NYC yesterday, but as anyone who's ever known me should realize, my word means nothing. But I don't break promises for just any old reason. Usually I forget, or get bored, or change my mind; that is, usually I am the reason I break my word. Today, however, I take a step back from my promised NYC Week because of reasons beyond my control.

A Moscow-based reader sent me a link to LiveJournal user "eaox" (LiveJournal in Russia is inexplicably huge, by the way), who had the following photo posted under a group called "metro persons" [SIC]. It really just might be the Shambles P.I. of all Shambles P.I.'s, even putting DC's epic fails to shambley shame. Behold! Comrade Daisy Dukevich!


Shto eto?! I have no idea what's going on here. I lived in Moscow for three years and never, ever have I seen someone shamble out with an outfit invention like that pictured above. I mean, it'd be bad enough with just those shoes and socks. Or the gut-exposing half-shirt. Or the junk-hugging denim short shorts. But all three together?! It's like a trifecta of...of...dammit, I don't know what the hell is going on here!

And the briefcase! Let us not forget to mention the briefcase! Is he going to work?! If so, what does he do? Computer programmer? Manager?? Duma deputy???

Under the comments section of the original LiveJournal post, people hypothesize that perhaps this gent lost a bet. Others suggest this was PhotoShopped. And still more postulate that perhaps he's just trying to beat the heat (the Moscow Metro isn't air-conditioned, after all). But the most thought-provoking comments are those comparing him to Hunter S. Thompson. After all, Hunter himself never minded showing a bit of leg.


The difference here is that the photo taken of Thompson was in 1977, in a hotel and he was clearly high on drugs. The photo of Daisy Dukevich was taken yesterday, on the metro, and we can only hope he's high on drugs to wear that very brave, yet incredibly fugtastic ensemble on the street. Fear and No Clothing In Moscow, certainly.

In short, DC has been trumped. Just when I thought there was no place more shambolic on Earth, Daisy Dukevich trumped our fugly city. I don't know whether to be relieved or incredibly sad. Hmm, much like after the Olympics ended, tonight again I might weep a little.

f*ck dc, it's nyc week!

So, after I teared up during the closing montage of the XXVIV Olympiad, I realized two things: 1) My life is truly empty, and 2) I really do miss NYC. Now what do the 2008 Beijing Olympics have to do with my missing New York? I'm not entirely sure, but considering I never cried because a sports event ended before now makes me believe that DC has affected me (read: driven me batsh*t crazy). In New York City, I think (or at least I'd like to) that I'd be too busy doing fun and exciting things to care. In DC, I have nothing else to care about. My life is empty, remember?

But you know what's not empty? My fulfilling memories of my times in Manhattan and Brooklyn a few weekends ago. And so, I dedicate this e-week to those two magical boroughs where the khakis are kept to a minimum and the people can actually stand me. I ♥ NY.

To kick off this week of NYC love, I'll start with something to which DC pales in comparison -- the shopping. There are more stores on one SoHo block that match my aesthetic than there are in the entire District. Actually, let's even throw in Bethesda and all the malls in Northern Virginia, as well. DC and its surrounding environs can keep its Caché, Talbots and Ann Taylor Lofts. In fact, it can even keep its H&M's, Urban Outfitters and Barneys CO-OPs, the stores I find myself most often perusing in the District. Of course I could shop (or stare at longingly in the case of the CO-OP) at those outlets in New York, as well, but I don't have to. Instead, New York offers an array of decently priced wares, and often better made, from stores like Uniqlo and Muji, two Japanese brands whose only North American locations are located in Manhattan.

Both stores balk most trends and instead offer stylized basics, paying great attention to fabric and silhouette. Take for instance these looks from Uniqlo. Notice the absense of both pleated khakis and Crocs (shocking, I know):




And here's a Japanese dance crew wearing Uniqlo and doing my favorite dance and hopefully yours, too -- the Robot. Indeed, much like their style, their sh*t is tight.



Muji keeps it even more simple, opting for mostly neutral colors and 100 percent cotton. My favorite item of clothing in Muji was their crinkley T-shirt, which comes in a vacuum-packed cube about the size of a Rubik's Cube. Although, I'm and idiot and failed to photograph my own purchase in the package, Flicker users Colin and Mitch did:


And even though I bought one of these cubes about three weeks ago now, I didn't open it till this morning after I woke up from a sleepless night of Olympic mourning. Capitalism always makes me feel better.


Capitalism, however, does little for my bird's nest-like hair in the morning. Speaking of bird's nest, I'm now thinking this is my coiffure's inadvertent tribute to Beijing's Bird's Nest Stadium where Usain Bolt won three gold medals and broke the same amount of records. Dammit...I'm tearing up again.

But eulogistic top-knots aside, I invite you to take a closer look at this permanently wrinkled shirt. It is quite phenomenal. (Again, my life is empty.)


Domo arigato, Japanese crinkley shirt!

And xie xie, Chinese Olympic games. *single tear* I'll miss you.

what the hell have i done today?

Honestly, I don't know what the hell I've done today, but somehow it's already nine in the evening. I went to work. I think. Yes. Yes, I did. I spent some time on the great Interweb checking out the wonderous and wonky CQPolitics.com. I can't get enough of those election maps!*

Then I went to lunch. For two hours.

Then I returned and did some manual labor around the office, before settling in for some sweet Olympic games viewing. Hot damn, I love those games...

After that, the day is a bit of a blur. I apparently rode around on my bicycle for a while, did some laundry, cleaned my apartment, made some dinner and currently find myself settled in for some more Olympic games viewing, which, after spending last night at Poste getting introdouched** to the hip downtown lawyers-gone-wild scene, is well deserved. Hey, don't judge me because I reward myself every now and again with a night of sitting on my ass, eating nachos and watching Usain Bolt win more gold medals just by showing up. (That man is miraculous. And so is this ridiculously awesome panoramic view of the Bird's Nest Stadium.)

Anyway, I'll have more retardulous sh*t to write about next week after my current reason to live, the XXVIV Olympiad (it's OK to pity me), goes off-the-air. To whet your e-appetite, though, I'll reveal that I'll be composing a nice little tale about Boudreaux's Butt Paste. Never heard of Butt Paste? Don't worry. I'll 'splain more details later. For now just know it has a pleasant smell and it really came in handy during a recent trip to Brooklyn. Butt (LOL!), would Butt Paste prove just as handy in DC? You and I will just have to await the end of the weekend to find out...

Whoa! I just pulled an R Kelly! Oh, not the peeing on a teenager thing, I'm referring to the Trapped In the Closet "cliffhanger" thing, just in case anyone was wondering. Pervs.

*Sarcasm points!

**Term courtesy of The Law -- she's one sick freak of a genius.

michael phelps is ok...

But Usain Bolt is ridiculously awesome. After all, Phelps had to try to win his gold medals; Bolt simply had to show up. Seriously, this man is a superman. And a super jackass! I mean, how infuriating must it be to the other athletes to not only be beat by the magic that is Bolt, but to be beat by someone who's so good that he doesn't even need to try. I mean, look at him! He looks like he could be lightly jogging through Rock Creek Park.


Hell, he looks like he could be window-shopping...

...FOR WORLD RECORDS!


And I assure you, that is not sweat glistening on Bolt's face. He runs so fast sweat doesn't even have a chance to formulate. Instead, I'm guessing that's probably a new flavor of Vitamin Water (Betacarotene Bolt?) that he splashed on his face in what will end up becoming a multi-million-dollar beverage endorsement. Honestly, who wouldn't want this man to advertise their products? Puma knows what's good.


I sure as hell know what's good.


And Bolt definitely knows what's good -- himself!


Damn, Bolt's sh*t is tight. And in opposite news, apparently, the douchey American teevee "powers" that be (at Lifetime *chuckle*) have settled on quite a suitable (read: retarded) name for that awesome (read: tool-filled) new "reality" show to be based in Georgetown (read: Georgetown) -- Blonde Charity Mafia. Yeah, I might have made up Betacarotene Bolt Vitamin Water, but I did not make up Blonde Charity Mafia (give me some credit...). Welcome to hell!

pc dc is ridiculous

Perhaps it's because no one wants to be labeled as sexist, racist, "lookist" (yes, that apparently exists), weightist, ageist or otherwise insensitive to anyone ever, I've found people in DC and I don't often see eye-to-eye on humor. The Capitol Steps aren't funny. People who find the Capitol Steps funny are probably the same people who find the use of the word "retard" in Tropic Thunder offensive. It's called context, fools. Settle down. Stop acting so retarded. (Zing!)

I'm sure these people or some other "concerned group of citizens" would take offense to one of my patented rape jokes, one of my comic specialties, as well. Rape jokes are funny, as are often jokes that involve the aforementioned subjects (i.e. race, sex, retardation, etc.), especially if the delivery is good. In fact, I'm a firm believer in laughing at everything; it makes life more bearable.

I mean, think about it. Leaving aside obvious LOL-inducing topics like sexism and racism, let's take incurable diseases as an example. Nothing about having cancer is fun. But who's to say nothing about it can't be funny? Why not take something sucky and turn it around for a laugh? I have faith in humanity (and perhaps that will be my downfall) that most people are mature enough to know that an immature, albeit hilarious cancer joke doesn't necessarily mean the person who told it doesn't understand cancer is a big f*cking, sh*tty deal. Cancer sucks. We all know this. Some of us know it more than others, whether you've been unfortunate enough to get it or know someone who had or has it, but all of us can still laugh at it. Why should cancer escape our mocking?

Few people in DC seem to understand this kind of outlook on life, which may be why I have no friends so many people seem so skittish and scared to say anything that doesn't align with whatever politically correct group of douches they've pigeon-holed themselves into. This is all a damn shame because people who aren't afraid to think something that shouldn't be funny is actually funny make life exponentially more enjoyable to live.

Let's take Sarah Silverman, for example. No doubt sometimes this bitch is annoying (her voice), but she tells a fine AIDS joke: "When God gives you AIDS, make lemon-AIDS!" Zing! Can you imagine her at a soiree in Georgetown? Hmm, actually, I can. And it'd be hilarious! People's heads would explode. Better yet, can you imagine her testifying on the Hill? That would be priceless. Congress would collectively sh*t their khakis.

Anyway, the reason I get to this is because of an incident that occurred the other day. To protect those involved in this incredibly sensitive world that is America, I won't tell you who or where this conversation occurred, but I will provide details to the extent that I can without getting sued.

It all happened last week when I was watching the Olympics, of course. The United States had won the 4-by-100-meter swimming relay with a team consisting of the great Michael Phelps (of course, he's magic), Jason Lezak, Garret Webber-Gale and Cullen Jones, the third-ever African-American to make a U.S. Olympic swimming team. This prompted a person who happened to be in the same room as me and some other crackers to say black people are bad swimmers because their muscle tissue is "more dense" and white people are general "more buoyant." Naturally, after hearing someone spout off something so absurd, the other palefaces and I laughed and cracked some jokes to him about being a racist. Turns out, people don't like being called a racist, so he got a bit offended and tried to look up a study online. However, after not being able to find one (hmm, I wonder why?), we all resumed laughing and made additional jokes about him being a racist. It really was good times. For us. Not him, apparently.

The best, however, was the aftermath of me retelling those events in a gchat to my good friend, The Law, who then forwarded my recount to our friend The Cap'n, a black man and a swimmer. His reaction, which he E-mailed back to The Law, who then forwarded it to me (so many hilarious layers to this tale), sums up why I heart my diverse group of friends with our very specific (and offensive) sense of humor:

"So now Marissa is hanging out with racists? Why didn't she just mention me? I can swim, and ski, and sound white over the phone. I also have a job, credit cards, and a mortgage. So there is always an exception to the rule."

Cap'n, you are a comic genius. Unfortunately, he doesn't live in DC.

In summary, the next time someone tells you a joke about a gay Samoan midget having ass cancer, don't get all hot and bothered. Just laugh.

it's hard to look this cool all the time

DC is many things. Fashion-forward is not one of them. While this fact of life has proven itself true several times already, today, it proved itself again as I made my way from the eye doctor to my office in the beautiful, retina-scalding sunny weather.

Yes, after a series of eye drops, vision tests and bright lights, my eyes were left in such a dilated state that the mere thought of a lit-up BlackBerry screen made me wince in pain (although, that's more of a general feeling, actually). Basically, I couldn't look at any light, so the doctor provided me with a lovely and stylish item to dull the pain -- RolLens post-mydriatic sunglasses (retail value $0.34).

Now, if a rolled up piece of tinted plastic isn't the future of fashion, I don't know what the hell is. But save for a few geriatric glaucoma patients, sporting the RolLens in public is unprecedented. Yet there I was, a 20-something female, about to map the uncharted fashion path that is the mainstay of many a post-op octogenarian.

The near-perfect douche-face and retardulous gang sign are indispensable to the busted spectacles-over-RolLens look.

Worn alone, a pair of RolLens shades are fantastic, but paired with a 10-plus-year-old cracked pair of spectacles is simply out of sight! (Get it?! LOL!) Yet, apparently not everyone appreciates my post-mydriatic-inspired style. I recognize that I clearly looked like an asshole, a state of being not abnormal for me, but not even the elderly gentleman in his Rascal scooter gave me a nod of approval. In fact, I seemed to get more confused stares than compliments on my brave, avant-garde choice. However, all of that changed when I got to the office and stopped by to say hello to my boss.

What the hell happened?"

"I went to the eye doctor. I'm thinking about getting laser eye surgery."

"Well, you're looking more Euro-trash than usual."

I admit, I got a little verklempt at that point. My club-kid-on-E-like dilated saucer eyes even teared up a bit behind my RolLens. *sigh* My office knows me so well.

can you write? can you!?

Well, if you can write you'll be in the minority at DC's very own go-to nightlife blog, Brightest Young Things. But wait! They put out the call for contributors today. Could they actually be looking to feature writing that doesn't look like it's been written by a high school kid on MySpace?

Seriously, BYT features some of the worst writing (even for a blog) that I've seen on a site that manages to nab interviews with some of the hottest musicians who pass through DC. The latest in the grammatical and formatical (that's not a word, but when in Rome writing about BYT...) was an interview with We Are Scientists. Since I typed all my constructive criticism in the comments of that blog, I'll keep my critique here short. Simply put, BYT's write-up was unreadable.

This is particularly disheartening because the interview itself wasn't horrible, or so it seemed. The final product, though, was more than wretched -- it was horrendously wretched. (Horrwretched?) Names were misspelled, cities were misidentified, there was no flow and it fell into chaos at the end. In short, it was a gigantic waste of a decent interview, which, as a former music writer, is truly nauseating.

And since I'm unwilling to put in more than a few seconds of research into any endeavor (clearly), I'm going to hope this was this writer's first time formatting an interview, in which case I can relate. My first-ever musician interview was with Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst when I was 19. It was horrwretched to say the least, although, even so, not once did I cut him off mid-answer and then proceed to note that in the first few sentences of my write-up...

And that WAS interview is not the only case of BYT writing gone retarded. The typos alone in nearly every article are enough to make a reasonable mind wonder when spellcheck became passe...

But moving on, I must concede (especially since I link to BYT in the sidebar) that not all of BYT is a total waste of ether. Some writers -- and here I'm thinking particularly of John Foster -- understand basic grammar and voice and flow and everything else that goes into crafting something not just decent, but quite awesome. Unfortunately, those types of wordsmiths are outnumbered by what seem like starstruck college coeds hoping to sound cool (see above). Then again, I'm a child of the 1980s, so perhaps these kinds of stream of consciousness, poorly edited (or unedited?) half-paragraphs are cool to the kids nowadays, although for the sake of literacy (and my own relevance), I hope not.

However, when words are not the main focus, I must give BYT due credit. Their photo contributors are truly talented, especially those who cover live shows. They get high marks from The Anti DC Eagle of Freedom for both their quantity and quality. Two talons up!

But back to business. Do you want to write for them? You won't get paid, but you might score some sweet interviews, which is a pretty good benefit. I'll willingly take my name out of the running though not only because I probably just made a bunch of e-enemies, but because my very own pet project of complaining about nearly everything I encounter takes up too much time to think about volunteering to write full sentences for another Web site (although I guess full sentences aren't required...OH SNAP!). Also, the Olympics are still on. Table tennis!

today i cried all day

I apologize for not posting earlier today and for not coming up with any pithy, cute quips to even type about what I'm about to show you. See, I've been too busy silently weeping in a dark room. The tipping point has arrived. This is not what freedom looks like. WHY?!?!?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must start spending my weekend by looking up real estate prices for compounds in Montana.

all i want is a delicious khachapuri

You'd think with all the embassies, consulates and international tools around, one would be able to find any cuisine he or she wanted in Washington, DC. Unfortunately, however, like so many other idiosyncrasies of this tepid swamp town, logic and reality don't coincide. Let's take Russian cuisine, for example. The Russian Embassy in DC is huge. It employs hundreds. Where the hell do these people find the delicious black breads, blini and pelmeni that make up the national proverbial bricks of Russian cuisine? (Mayonnaise, naturally, is the mortar. Not proverbial.)

There is Russia House, yes, but that place is expensive. I'm sure whatever creations Executive Chef Matthew Cordes comes up with are tasty, but there's something so satisfying about eating a $3 bowl of borscht served up from a giant vat made by a woman with tree-trunk legs named Olga.

What makes me even more perturbed is the lack of other post-Soviet cuisines in this city, especially Georgian. The day after Russia rolled (additional) tanks into Georgia, I was in Brooklyn eating what might be the most underrated cuisine on Earth. Since I'm far from a foodie, I'm not sure how to describe what's so great about Georgian food, but I remember falling in love with it in Moscow for its total lack of mayonnaise, its usage of spices other than salt and the glory that is khachapuri.

Khachapuri is almost other-worldly. It's magical. It is so delicious, that it's hard to believe it's made with human hands. In fact, the recipe is so strangely complicated (at least for someone whose idea of "cooking" is opening a can of chili and heating it up) that I'd rather imagine khachapuri as a product of a magical oven that simply pops these creations out when an attractive waiter named Nikoloz takes your order.

And although it's simply a cheese-filled bread, it tastes as if the cheese was made from the milk of some mythical animal raised especially for this recipe and the dough kneaded by democracy itself. So epically good. In fact, in retrospect, I wish I had focused my Master's thesis on the power of the khach, because if I were Russia, I'd invade Georgia to reclaim that delicious sh*t, too.*

Anyway, I savored every last morsel of delicious khach, lobio, satsivi, bazhe, lamb and pork shashlyk and several other dishes because I knew, coming back to DC, I'd sooner run into a beautiful man wearing a slim-fitting suit, than have a choice in meal that didn't involve India, Ethiopia, El Salvador or Chipotle (people inexplicably seem to love that sh*t around here) -- the four international cuisines that seem to dominate the DC market.

This is something I don't understand. I can get a samosa, I can find injera, I can eat several varieties of papusas, I can get a rather sub-par burrito, but tastebuds forbid I find a good clay pot of kharcho in this city.

And it goes far beyond Georgian cuisine and its many different and delicious walnut-based sauces: I can't for the life of me find a decent fish taco in this area. As far as I'm concerned, this isn't just a want, it's a need -- a basic human right, if you will (and you will...or won't, if you're in DC).

Also, may I add, I love hamburgers just as much as the next carnivore, but please, restaurateurs, with the recent openings of both Hell Burger and Good Stuff Eatery, can we put a moratorium on beef-patty-based bistros? One fish taco stand! That's all I'm asking for! And not a sh*tty fish taco like you'd get at Plaza Azteca or Don Pablos, I'm talking about the kind of taco you'd find at a road-side stand while coming back from scuba-diving with your hot scuba-diving instructor outside of Playa del Carmen. I'm not asking for the instructor here, just the taco. This request is not outrageous!

*sigh*

Life is hard.

*Although in all war-nerd seriousness, the Russia-Georgia issue is incredibly complicated and, unfortunately (but unsurprisingly) the U.S., Russian and Georgian media are dumbing it down exponentially, in my opinion, via their respective retardulous biases. The Russian media blames Georgian oppression of Russian citizens in Georgia's breakaway regions (albeit without acknowledging the only reason these "Russian citizens" have Russian citizenship is because the Kremlin magically declared them all citizens of Russia one day); Georgia blames Russia for keeping them down, while downplaying the long-standing issues that have plagued the breakaway regions for years; and the U.S. is stuck in its own partisan clusterf*ck, caring more about framing the issue in terms of the upcoming presidential election. In reality, everyone's to blame and the U.S. is not helping by seizing this opportunity not to diffuse the situation, but to simply use it for political gain. In other words, thanks to our collective ignorance and the complete failure of politics, we're all going to straight to hell. At least those of you in New York, Chicago, San Diego or any other reasonable city can pack some khach for the road...

mob justice thrice!

Mob justice is so 2008! For the third time in just over a month, a group of DC residents served up some justice on a khaki platter to a possibly retarded criminal. This time, instead of chasing down a gunman or Bob Novak, however, the criminal was an even sicker freak, who sexually assaulted three women within hours of each other downtown.

According to The Examiner, "Police have charged Edwin K. Wright, 23, with two counts each of sex abuse and assault, following a string of incidents that ended when a group of citizens tackled the man at 15th and K streets."

You go, mob!

Seriously, if the DC police aren't going to protect and serve, at least our neighbors will.

Luckily, though, the police decided to do some work and connected Wright's string of crimes together, which means he'll (hopefully) be locked away longer or given the mental help it seems he so desperately needs.

Anyway, Wright began his spree by punching a woman in the back of the head (uh, seriously?) on Pennsylvania Avenue. He then ventured into the Farragut North metro station, where he tried to go to second base with another woman, before moving out to 1500 K Street, where he really demonstrated how much of sick bastard he really was. While normally I'd conjure up a fine rape joke for the purposes of The Anti DC, I'll refrain from doing so because there's really nothing ironic or funny about this. It's just sick and wrong.

For real, DC's mob of justice, thank you for doing good and stopping this nasty, gnarly, sick freak.

shambles p.i. -- the diy edition

It's official -- Crocs kill. And you know what else kills? Whatever the hell is going on here:

OK, it may not kill you literally like a Croc, but looking at this debacle (which I snapped a couple weeks ago at Baltimore's Artscape festival) makes me feel a little dead inside. What we have here is a flip-flop, fashioned into a gladiator sandal with a yellow shoe-string. And while I give this young lady a proverbial tip of the hat for her creativity, I must also include her in this Shambles P.I. due to the sheer fugliness of said creation. As the great Santino Rice of Project Runway fame once stated, "You can't shine a turd." Along those same lines, certainly one cannot de-fug a flip-flop, no matter how ingenious the effort.

But now I must turn my attention to much greater matters -- Olympic ping-pong. That sh*t is tight.

lifetime television for douches

OMG you guyz! That sooper kewl new reality teevee show about the douches ladiez from Late Night Shots haz been picked up by Lifetime televizion! LIKE OMFG!

Yeah, apparently, as much as I don't understand it (or understand what the hell I just typed a sentence ago), re-runs of The Golden Girls weren't enough to keep Lifetime relevant. So, in what seems like a very, very desperate attempt, Lifetime's network execs decided a crop of affluent, 20-something "DC socialites" would turn do the trick. Because I'm sure the 60-somethings who watch that channel on a regular basis are (like, totes) interested in keeping up with who's giving whom herpes on the Georgetown douchebag circuit.

The news broke this morning in The Examiner:

We can now exclusively confirm that Lifetime has picked up the show
and filming begins in September. The half-hour show is slated to air in November and has scored a crucial timeslot: Immediately following Lifetime's popular reality show, "Project Runway" (which will switch from Bravo to the Lifetime network this fall).

Poor Project Runway.

Anyway, so far the current cast members still include just four douches ladiez, Katherine Kennedy, Krista Johnson, Sophie Pyle and Alexa Johnson, all of whom I mocked not long ago, so I'll refrain from doing it again, especially since the Olympics are on. (Who knew men's handball is so damn interesting?!)

Meanwhile, in other goings on in the douche-filled world of Late Night Shots, the current most popular thread topic is -- wait for it-- "Would you marry someone you knew 100% would never be rich?" The body of the message is even more hilariously retarded: "I'm curious to hear if this would even be possible. I'm talking about a guy that is ambitious, but who will never be able to afford anything besides public school for your kids and who will never be able to go skiing or learn how to captain a boat."

Yeah. They are a giant, douchey cliche:

"If a man is ambitious, even in a low-paying industry, they can figure out how to weasle [sic] their way into money through some form of import-export/embezzlement scheme." Because as we all know, crime pays.

"If he's good in bed I would consider it. What job is it where an ambitous guy would make no money? Campaign manager in the world workers party?" 1) She (or he) means Workers World party; 2) Is it 1950? Are Communist jokes still in vogue?

"Can we define what rich is? Are we talking net worth under $5 million? Sub $400k salary? Some guidelines please." Ew! Don't make me imagine a sub-$400k salary! Who is that? The campaign manager in the Workers World party?!

"NO." The only time she's ever said that word. (Scene points for veiled LNS whore joke!)

But, at least they're honest. Um...sure. Alas, however, I hope these are the kinds of very serious topics that get discussed on the LNS reality show. Well, this and such riveting topics as "baby vs. herpes."

@#&*ǽ!β#ж?ڟ8ڣ∆%$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

While watching hours and hours of the Olympic games in the office, my eyes were assaulted with a certain television advertisement from a company that shall remain nameless.



May I just say, @#&*ǽ!β#ж?ڟ8ڣ∆%$≠*^⅝™∞~{^")%#*@(!%&*#@~!:S£#®@=#©¦&~p@#^")%#*@(!%ϧă!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm not sure how to pronouce that expletive, but you can bet it's worse than the standard, "What the f*ckety flippin' mothereffing f*ck is with that advertisement?! I mean, the forced dialogue, the Crocs emphasizing videography, and did this poor child call that sh*t she packs into her footwear jibbits?! (OMG. She did. And, apparently, it's spelled "Jibbitz." The apocolypse is nigh.) That's not a f*cking word.

But if that's not bad enough, let me reiterate the script:

"And the colors feel like magic so people can see you even if you go to outerspace and float around." Um...

"They don't smell and get lots of germs." Um...

"If you don't buy Crocs, I will turn you into a spider." Um...

IS THAT A THREAT?! This is out of control.

Seriously, besides the egregious "footwear" being peddled by a child, it ends this with a threat of forced metamorphosis? Some robot-princess "kid" is going to come turn me into a spider? Honestly, if it's a choice between becoming an arachnid or actually wearing Crocs, I think we know what anyone in his or her right mind would choose. Let me tell you, the the term "World Wide Web" would gain a whole new meaning.

But putting aside all the disturbing qualities of this advertisement with its unveiled threats of reverse hemimetaboly on humans capable of making proper footwear choices, I want to draw attention to the company's catch phrase: "What a Croc!" Honestly, I couldn't have summarized that commercial better myself, save for adding the suffix "of sh*t" at the end.

And speaking of sh*t, while doing the requisite Google search to find the above-posted ad, I found a couple of others, including:

The "Don King, Is This What Your Career Has Degenerated Into?" Edition:


The "We're So Clever We're Going to Use the Cliche of Reverse Psychology But, Really, All These Adds Do Is Prove That Crocs Are, Indeed, F*cking Gnarly" Series:

I'm guessing her favorite jeans look like these.


Yet the company still provides no answer to this man's sensible inquiry...

And the, "I've Given Up on Life, So You Should, Too" Edition:

Yep, he still look like a tool.

The lines have been drawn. It's on, you jibbitz-wearing assholes. It. Is. On.

you're a dick, ma'am.

Despite lacking basic human feelings and emotions, I'm surprisingly a very nice person. I discovered this last week on my way to work when I attempted to tell off a wayward driver who nearly sideswiped my sweet ass on Connecticut Avenue.

The spar started when this bitch started tailing me and honking. I'm not sure what she expected me to do as, unfortunately, my 1980 Peugeot is not a hover-bike (I know, I'm as surprised as you are). After turning quickly and giving her a rather poignant snarl of disdain, she decided to nearly take me out when she proceeded to narrowly swerve around me only to slam on her brakes at the red light causing a near-collision (as I was clearly planning to scofflaw that sh*t and barrel through last minute, because I'm skilled like that). Anyway, not only was I forced to slam on my brakes, but I literally ran into the back of her car, barely escaping major injury to my person and my bike. Understandably, I was a tad irked. And by "a tad irked," I mean "more angry than a pudgy little German boy whose computer games aren't loading fast enough." (OK, maybe not that angry...)

Anyway, while that whole experience may sound overwhelmingly negative (you know, nearly getting killed and all) there is a plus-side to this kind of incident: Cycling allows you free reign to flip the bird, scream expletives at people and generally act like a jackass. It's cathartic and lovely. Think about it, that kind of behavior gets you fired at work. On a bike, it makes you a badass.

Unless you're me, of course, which brings me to my point. I'm too f*cking nice.

What should've happened in this situation is me keying her car. But no. My Midwestern upbringing would not allow it. Instead, after gaining my composure, I simply swerved around to her driver's side door, knocked on her window to get her attention and enunciated with great effort the words, "You're a dick." Now, this would have been slightly awesome if I didn't add one more word to that statement of fact -- "ma'am."

"You're a dick, ma'am."

Yeah. All of my accumulated badassery (even if there wasn't that much to begin with -- thanks Minnesota) vanished at that very moment. In fact, I'm pretty sure the pedestrians, including the children, crossing the street in front of me reacted with shock followed by laughter. "Did she just say 'ma'am'?" I swear one of them asked.

Yes. Yes I did. I said, "You're a dick, ma'am."

What was I thinking?! I mean, seriously, it's like reading a Shakespearean sonnet and adding "or whatever" at the end. It's retarded. I'm retarded.

But more than that, I'm disappointed. If there's any group of people with whom it's not just OK, but almost required to verbally spar and swear at, it's obnoxious drivers -- and that goes not just for cyclist-driver sparring, but for driver-driver and pedestrian-driver, as well.

For some reason, and I think this phenomenon is especially prevalent on the East Coast, it's perfectly acceptable, and sometimes even encouraged, to completely lose your composure on the road. I never really knew of the satisfaction of flipping a really good bird to a driver until I moved out here and started bike-commuting.

Growing up in Minnesota (the last place I used a bicycle on a regular basis), I never had a lot of drivers creepin' up on my sweet ass, honking incessantly, cutting me off and dangerously slamming on their brakes. Then again, I was 14 years old and it's bad form to cuss out a child, unless, of course, that child is a really angry German video game nerd (see link above) or doing "hoodrat stuff with this friends." Then it's fair game.

But drivers -- especially East Coast drivers -- are always fair game, which is why I'm feeling like an epic failure right now. I lost the game. Although I'm pretty sure after several practice sessions, I've perfected my bird-flipping skillz, my verbal assault smack-downs are clearly in need of some work. What's next? I'll see you in hell, sir? Dammit.

just so we understand each other

People ask me from time to time why I live in DC if I despise it so much. "If you're so 'anti' DC, then why don't you just move?" they demand. And while that kind of question generally just indicates I'm dealing with a humorless, close-minded assface, I still generally offer an answer: "I probably will...eventually." But first I must complete my secret mission. What secret mission you ask? Allow me to enlighten you.

I'm a covert operative for the Crocs company. They pay me millions of dollars. See, every time I make fun of them, I'm actually subliminally instructing you to wear them. If you were to take the time to string together the first letter of every word I've ever typed on this blog, you'd see that I'm really composing a multi-chaptered manifesto on the glory of tool couture. Sure, it may look a little bit like this, "Ias oftcc. Setim, ot iasty twt," which you may think is gibberish, but you'd be underestimating my secret Crocs mission. See, that "gibberish" is actually the language of the future, which you will learn when the time is right and you'll know when that is when the heavens open up and instead of droplets of water, tiny little pairs of pleated khakis rain down upon the Earth.

And much like the Rapture, those who haven't been influenced by the true message of The Anti DC will be forced to deal with the Apocalypse led by the four horsemen dressed in ill-fitting seersucker suits. They will torture you eternally through a series of work-related E-mails that you must answer day and night. Oh, and they'll also shoot lasers in your face. Burn. Literally.

But luckily, those of you who have been slowly saving yourselves from the end of days by reading my encoded manifesto regularly, yet unknowingly, and those of you who just naturally come by dressing and acting like a giant douche will instantly be zapped away into a magical fairy land of unkempt assholes wearing stained sweatpants and flip-flops. You'll get the privilege of becoming a member of Late Night Shots and spend your eternity feeling as if you're trapped in Adams Morgan on a Saturday night. But don't worry, while that all sounds like hell now, once the tiny pairs of pleated khakis rain down upon you, you'll instantly become privy to my encoded Crocs manifesto and see the douchetastic light, which will be emanating from a gigantic BlackBerry.

So really, for those of you who don't understand why I write this blog, which quite cleverly and entertainingly dissects the tool bits of DC life, rest assured that I'm secretly supporting your popped-collar cause. In closing, "Srftoy wdutmm, hidoq widsmomt tcat." We are one.

In the meantime, while you ruminate over the e-bomb I just dropped, I'll be in New York City this weekend shoring up some more resources for the Crocs Revolution at our secret Williamsburg headquarters. (And you thought they were just all hipsters! Yeah, you think twice next time you see a dude in tight pants wearing ironic rapist glasses. It's the movement, my e-friends and foes, and you're already a part of it. "Yaa poi!"

i need cable

I also need to stop being poor. Dammit.

Anyway, in return for what I'm hoping might lead to a bit of national exposure, I'm going to pimp a television show that I've never seen on a television channel I have zero chance of ever hoping to watch as long as I remain poor. Again, dammit. But if my little intrepid self-promotion scheme goes as planned, hopefully I'll get a little link luv from the good globetrotters of The Travel Channel in the near future (*wink!*)

So, I received an E-mail from a TC public relations person today informing me of a television program called Passport To Great Weekends and tonight's episode, which airs at 10 p.m., just so happens to focus on this little slice of hell we live in, the District of Columbia:

"Samantha [the host, who apparently has caused a bit of controversy on her blog by hosting the show in short shorts] is spending a weekend in Washington, D.C., but don't expect it to be an average trip to the nation's capital. Sam's not meeting her congress person or visiting any monuments or galleries. She's intent on exposing the colorful, more fun side of the city by eating Ethiopian food, checking out a bohemian poetry event, shopping at the Eastern Market, and braving a drag queen brunch. Most people imagine D.C. to be a conservative and monochromatic place, but Sam will show us a vibrant and dynamic city that's anything but gray."

Let me be the first to say I am skeptical (shocking, I know!), although with a good edit, I'm sure the producers can come up with something beyond hordes of gnarly tourists. Even so though, I have my serious doubts that they can make D.C. look "vibrant" and "dynamic." As much as I'd enjoy it, you can't edit out this city's horrid sense of fashion. If I could (read: if I wasn't poor), I'd turn tonight's show into a drinking contest and take a shot every time I saw Samantha run into some dishabille douche in Crocs. I'd be drunk by 10:05 p.m. and probably dead by 10:30 p.m. -- my liver ain't a magician.

Anyway, I peeped the list of locations The Travel Channel is going to feature and frankly I'm saddened; Samantha's skipping over what is probably the most "vibrant" section of the city -- the H Street corridor. But listen, in the spirit of disgustingly obvious attempts to self-promote, let me make The Travel Channel an offer (that they can unfortunately refuse pretty easily): Take me on as a guest host and I will make sh*t right. I own short shorts.

But seriously, if you're home tonight and you're not poor and can afford cable, you might as well watch this, because really, after So You Think You Can Dance? puts a close to its epic season this evening, you'll need something to take your mind off how depressed you are. Although, I already grieved last week when Mark got booted. Stupid America. He had such major skills! Robert Byrd, restore my faith in this country!

Unfortunately, the exocism on Cheney failed.

Ahh...that's better. USA! USA! USA!

shambles p.i. -- the two-for-one edition

I debated what to entitle this edition of Shambles P.I. for a long time this morning. During this roughly five seconds of strenuous thought, I wondered whether instead of "The Two-for-One Edition" I should have opted for "The Deuce Edition" because of the double entendre involved. I mean, not only did one intrepid local spy, Adam, capture a duo -- or deuce, if you will (and you will!) -- of dishabille delinquents standing together in one fugly metro car last week, but never in my life have I wanted so badly a dog to magically appear and just drop a deuce on someone's foot to force them to swap footwear. I mean, honestly, what the mother-effing eff is going on here?

Only a steaming pile of dog doo-doo could right this wrong.

Listen, I'm the type that usually errs on the side of reason and logic, which is why the sh*t that you see above confounds me. There is no rhyme or reason here. There is no argument to be made. Nothing is logical about this shoe! Even Adam, who saw this in person and miraculously still has his eyesight, couldn't explain. He wrote, "What the f*ck is this? A sandal? A Croc? A rubberized toe-protected flip-flop? And then to wear it with khakis? Just perfect." Truth. It is a near-perfect storm of what-the-f*ckness.

And because this is a two-for-one special Shambles P.I., Adam snapped a photo of this "shoe's" "fashionably autistic" friend standing nearby. She was wearing...well, I'll let Adam explain:

"You know what? Go ahead and wear a giant white leather belt with crazy silver (Navajo? S&M-inspired?) buttons all over it. And why not get crazy and pair it with your favorite blue tablecloth top. Why the f*ck not? At least it’s not boring and plain. Oh, but wait. What’s that attached to your giant studded belt? No it couldn’t possibly be a F*CKING BLACKBERRY HOLDER!!! Oh God, why?"

Mein eyes! They're self-immolating! O, the humanity!

Indeed, I plead not just with God, but with Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Thor, Putin, whomever! Why?! WHY?! That sh*t just ain't right...

I mean, the gingham is excusable. If done right, gingham can look damn fine. But listen, gingham's loud; it's in your face. In other words, if you're going to accessorize, then do it with caution, keeping in mind that a bedazzled, pleather (I'm guessing) belt is not the way to go. But, hey, let's say you completely lose your mind and you do go there, then for the love of homo sapiens everywhere, do not bring more shame upon yourself by accessorizing your accessory with a goddamn BlackBerry holster. For real. Please, spare us from your bad decisions.

Contrary to popular opinion, though, just because you live in DC, doesn't mean you have to look like it. She proves it. She proves it. Some people who don't blog prove it. And, I'll be damned if I'm not trying my hardest to prove it, too. In other words, if I ever dare to wear my BlackBerry on my person, I fully expect someone to take that BlackBerry so prominently displayed on my hip and pistol-whip me with it. Multiple times. Because, clearly, what better way to help someone who's lost her mind than to violently smack some sense into her with her own, visible douchey technology? (That's rhetorical.)

this is dedicated to gov't public affairs people...

And robots.

You know I love you both.




Please don't blow me up! ♡♡♡

freedom personified

On the proverbial tail of my recent infatuation with this sticky hot mess of a town, I chanced upon a rather epic photo this afternoon while trying to find out the latest hullaballoo on the supplemental appropriations bill (and if you have no idea what I'm talking about, then I'm extremely jealous of you and want your job). Not only did this photo nearly single-handedly make me love DC for a brief moment in time, but it made me love freedom ever-so-slightly more. (I didn't even know that was possible!)

Anyway, without further a-doo-doo, I invite you to:

BEHOLD THE GREATNESS!

BEHOLD THE GLORY!!

BEHOLD THE BYRD WITH BIRD!!!

Sen. Robert Byrd (D-W.Va.) started winning me over earlier this year when I witnessed him entering an appropriations mark-up shouting, "Make way for Liber-tay!" instead of the more boring and unpatriotic "Excuse me." Now, his love for the bald eagle (look at them just gazing into each other's America-loving eyes *sigh*) has convinced me -- Byrd is the word! (Or the "wyrd," perhaps?)

He may not be as much of a looker as Norm Coleman and he may not be as nutty (in a delightfully entertaining way) as Ed Markey, but Senator Byrd certainly is No. 1, just like the USA! USA! USA! Seriously, if you don't look at this picture and instantly start chanting, you're probably a terrorist.

van ness is blessed & not just by my presence

All good things happen near the Van Ness metro station. You think I'm exaggerating? I'm not. Don't ever doubt me again. I'm serious.

PROOF!

Twice my bike has broken down and twice some kind folk have taken a break from wherever the hell they were going to get their hands dirty with some vintage Peugeot chain grease and help me fix my sh*t up right (apparently, I'm retarded when it comes to simple bicycle engineering). In the first case, I thought, maybe the men simply came to my aid because they felt really bad for me as I happened to be dripping blood due to my bike's pie plate of shame (it shivved me!). But then I remembered a friend of mine recounting a story about how she completely bit it on the Dupont Circle metro escalator, busted open her knee and lay sprawled out on the ground. She said not one person stopped to even ask her if she was OK, let alone help suture her wounds.

In Van Ness, on the other hand, I'm convinced not only would someone have helped her, but he or she would have waved some sort of magical wand to heal her gashes, handed her a stack of $20 bills for her troubles and provided her with a sock full of nickels so she could go spread justice down in Dupont. And if not that, then some other awesome string of activities would ensue, like, maybe calling 911 of something (of course, that's assuming that 911 would actually pick up...)

And after another two weeks of Van Ness random acts of kindness, I'm convinced that Van Ness is the friendliest neighborhood in DC.

ADDITIONAL PROOF!

The other day I was ridin' dirty janky down Connecticut Ave. outside of the CVS when my bicycle's chain decided it had had enough of my "gear-switching" and "working correctly" so it once again decided to wedge itself between the chain stay and cassette. (Yeah, I still need the bike anatomy map to figure out what the hell I'm talking about too...and LOL, it says "spoke nipple!") And again, after a few fruitless minutes of trying to replace the chain as well as several failed attempts to think of hilarious ways to incorporate the phrase "off the chain" into the current goings-on, a nice man inexplicably holding an ice-pack approached me and took care of business. Um, bike business, that is.

Now, I'm convinced that had I been in Dupont, I would've been complete ignored. In Adam's Morgan, I'd have been shot. On K Street -- straight ran over. But not in Van Ness. In Van Ness, people do simple tasks for you. They help you.

And it even goes beyond basic bike mechanics. In the glorious world of Van Ness, people will even do your manual labor! In the particular instance I experienced, a diminutive female saw my coworker and I struggling to carry back to our office 12 delicious Calvert-Woodley deli sandwiches, two bags of scrumptious potato chips, three 12-packs of refreshing sodas and a box of creamy ice-cream sandwiches. Since I possess the physical strength of an 85-year-old woman with osteoporosis, arthritis and a bad hip, I was able to carry three 12-packs of soda approximately 25 feet before crying out in pain and threatening to "drop this sh*t and have those assholes sitting in the air-conditioned office come lick it off the pavement" discard one of the 12-packs. Luckily, however, that was the exact moment said tiny lady heard my ridiculous threats shrieks of pain and offered to help. She grabbed not one, but two of the 12-packs, leaving my arms free to do absolutely nothing, which is pretty much what they're best at.

At first I thought, "Wow. Bold move, ma'am, to steal my Cherry Coke Zero and Fresca from my spindly, quite useless arms. Bold move, indeed." However, when she started talking to us and saying things like, "Where are you guys going? Oh! I'm going that way, too! Let me help you!" and proceeded to haul our tasty beverages to the office door, I knew this woman was actually just *gasp!* being nice. Naturally, her naivete led my cynical sweet ass to want to take advantage of the situation. I thought about asking her to bring the sodas into the office and figure out a way to chill them in 10 minutes, as well as serve me my sandwich and search the chips for Jesus shapes that I could sell on eBay, but I thought that last request might be pushing my luck so I just told her I'd see her in hell thanked her and did all that myself. (Unfortunately, there were no Jesus' in my chips, although I'm pretty sure I chanced upon a Don Knotts. He was delicious. Gross.)

But seriously, Van Ness is a little slice of the American heartland, my beloved Midwest, right here in DC. That is, people don't just help you do mundane tasks because they think they can get something from you, but they help you because...because...(brace yourselves)...they just want to help! It's insane, I tell ya! Bananas! Walnuts! RAZZY'S!

And thankfully for those of you who find yourselves in Van Ness, I too plan to hop on the proverbial bandwagon of Midwestern kindness and pay this insanity forward. However, since I'm inept at bike-fixing and grocery carrying, I'm going to think of something different to do, such as giving rides to elderly people on the handlebars of my bike. And to make my deeds extra special, I'll surprise them by creeping up behind them, grabbing them at the waist and throwing them on the handlebars. Just look at the good I do! Thank you for inspiring me, Van Ness! Thank you.

sorry, i didn't mean to call you and leave a 15-minute message about that sh*tty movie with morgan freeman and angelina jolie

I am queen of the accidental dial. No, not the drunk dial -- I suck at that. I'm talking about the 100 percent, stone-cold sober, Sunday afternoon, waiting-to-see-The Dark Knight (which effing rules, by the way) dial.

What happens is you shove your phone haphazardly in your bag, forgetting to lock the keypad and, at some point, hit some sort of magic dialing key that leads to you leaving inadvertently long voicemail messages.

Now, most of the time, the voicemails will simply consist of the muffled sounds of your plastic street knife bumping against your plastic street dice in your bag for 15 minutes, but on rare occasions, you'll leave a clear, crisp message on such riveting topics as the new MGM Grand at Foxwoods and/or a complete recap of what sounds like the sh*ttiest movie of all time, Wanted, starring Morgan Freeman and Angelina Jolie. (Seriously, a magic weaving loom produces your hit list? Come on! If you're going to have an ancient machine produce a hit list, at least make sure it's something cool like Heron's "inexhaustible goblet," which strangely enough does not have a Wikipedia page.)

Pre-modern toilets aside, however, it's the aftermath of the accidental dial that can be worrisome. In a best case scenario, you will never know. Someone will start listening to the voicemail, hear the stormy, muffled sounds of the inside of your bag and simply assume you didn't mean to call. In a worst case scenario, you will accidentally rekindle something that should be more dead to you than Wikipedia is to me right now. (Seriously, how in hell does the inexhaustible goblet not have its own goddamn Wikipedia page?!). However, in an amusing case scenario, you will likely learn of your unintentional, oft-retarded phone faux pas as I did this morning, via electronic mail:

"So I come into work today, and I have a voicemail from you. In this voicemail, it starts off talking about Foxwoods/the new MGM Grand. Then this guy starts going off on Morgan Freeman and an elite group of magical assassins. I assume this is some movie, and not The Bucket List."

Luckily, that E-mail didn't come from a government public affairs person or my boss (although, on second thought, that would have been kind of awesome), but instead from one Socrates Johnson of the renowned India Poop Blog. Now, I hope Mr. Johnson reads this because, indeed, the discussion was not about The Bucket List, although perhaps it should've been. (That plot looks much, much better. Although can it get worse than a rogue magic loom? I'm telling you, a rogue inexhaustible goblet would've catapulted that film to the next level.) I'd also like to take the time out to say you're welcome, Mr. Johnson. (The subject of Mr. Johnson's E-mail was, after all, "Best Accidental Dial Ever.")

But, you know, while some of you may fault me for apparently not putting my phone's keypad on lockdown, I fault my technology, and Washington, DC, in particular, for issuing me said technology. The device at fault: my douchey old BlackBerry, of course.

Seriously, I'm tempted to erase every number out of my BlackBerry's memory. This isn't the first time this phone has accidentally dialed. Nope, this stupid phone has accidentally dialed coworkers, strangers and, best of all, dudes whose numbers I should've erased months ago. Awkward! Fun!

In fact, this evil slice of technology has come close to ruining my life on several occasions. Besides the accidental dialings, its failed GPS has gotten me lost in the Soviet-seeming architecture of L'Enfant Plaza; its unfailing connection to my work E-mail has f*cked up a leisurely night or two; and its overall aesthetic just generally makes me look like a giant douche.

Yet despite its plethora of faults, I continue to have this piece of sh*t on my person pretty much at all times. It's not because I'm trying to be a douchebag (does one really need to try in DC?), but it's because my other phone -- my real phone with the sweet retractable antenna (not joking) -- has this lovely habit of shutting itself off and not turning back on at some very inopportune moments. In the words of 50 Cent: Ayo, I'm tired of using technology/ Why don't you sit down on top of me? Wait, uh, scratch that last line.

But speaking of sitting! You know where you can sit? (Man, this is an excellent segue...) In one of the plush seats of the Cleveland Park's Uptown movie theater! Those seats are comfy! In fact, I think I'm going to only see movies at the Uptown from now on. If you haven't been there, you should give it a whirl. It's one of those old-school bi-level theaters with a humongous screen, a nice soundsystem and excellent temperature control. The only aspect of the theater that put a damper on the experience was the other clientele, and one in particular, who sat directly in front of us. Suffice it to say, every time he got up to let someone by, we were confronted with some serious old man ham (read: butt crack) in our faces. Picture that!

(Good morning!)

bro or manziere?

Recalling an older post regarding how people wind up at my little (empty) weed pipe of a blog via the Google, I feel it's only fair that I let you in on my latest e-interaction (enteraction?) with the ol' Goog. This time, however, instead of the search engine, I shall focus on those Google-generated ads featured at the top of your G-mail. (Don't have G-mail and have no idea what I'm talking about? Then you may not find this funny. Oh wait, I take that back, this sh*t is going to be hilarious. Keep reading!)

In the spirit of the late, great Sophia Petrillo, "Picture it..." I was checking my Anti DC account when i notice, sitting at the top of my screen, the words "Man bra." So naturally, I clicked.

And then I was led to this (NSFW? Kinda?) -- the "breast and cleavage enhancing bra for cross-dressing, transgender and transvestites."

Now, there are several possible conclusions to make from this, with the first, of course, being that this "bro" or "manziere," as George Constanza's dad so eloquently put it on Seinfeld, is f*cking magic. That man has more cleavage than most women, including myself. I'm a bit jealous.

The second conclusion, naturally, is that there has been some pretty saucy E-mails trickling into theantidc@gmail.com lately. Which would be totally awesome, but there hasn't been. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy all the E-mails and enteractions I've had, but there has regrettably been no discussion of men in female undergarments. In fact, in the spirit of full disclosure, in no particular order, the last 10 or so E-mails I've received (not counting every annoying Facebook alert or whatever the hell those are) centered on the topics of: Tim Hamilton trousers; Guido Beach; sexual harassment in Russia; how to take concert photos properly; my birthday; RZA; Claire Huxtable (both the band and the Cosby Show varieties); Crocs; Why.I.Hate.DC; my wit and general genius; and Christian the Lion.

Now, how those topics earned me the privilege of learning about this magical bra that gives men such juicy cleavage is beyond me. But I'll take it. And I'll be buying one of those bras bros because that is some flattering boobage, I tell you what.

I'm thinking, however, that maybe these ads are generated randomly, because this afternoon I've also gotten links to:

Organic Yoga Clothing, yet I'm not a hippie;

Luxury DC Condos, yet I'm poor;

Black Dermatologist -- DC, yet I'm Slavic-pale; and

The Newest BlackBerry, yet...forget it. Someone just shoot me. In the face. Now.

But seriously, Google ads, what are you doing? I mean, besides introducing me to fabulous new products? Although nothing will ever beat what is hands-down the greatest invention mankind will ever see -- A SUITCASE FULL OF SAUSAGES!* Enjoy that.

*Discovered via BikeSnobNYC.