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!"