decidedly crazy

DC is chock full of crazy sons of bitches. And I'm not talking about bumbling hobo, "Where-are-your-pants?" and "Who let you out of the home?" crazy. No, I'm talking about put-together, secret psychopath serial killer crazy. On the outside these people look completely normal, even ordinary. But then they open their mouths. And that's when you know. These people will say things only clearly mentally unstable people would ever say.

Take, for instance, the other night. My friend, The Cap'n, rolled into town to visit friends and celebrate being shipped off to Iraq. Whoops! Did I type celebrate? I meant he came to visit friends and commiserate with them through heavy drinking because he was being shipped off to Iraq. Clearly, it made the perfect premise for a party...

The only problem was this party took place at Local 16, a spot on U Street that would be completely awesome (seriously, their patio is tight) if a portion of its clientele wasn't so stealthily nuts...and, quite frankly, tasteless...and blind...and probably functionally retarded.

I say this not because some non-descript jagbags tried to shiv me, The Cap'n or anyone else with a sharpened spork or anything, but because some non-descript jagbags f*cked up the outfit I helped create for my and The Cap'n's good friend, Canada, who you may remember from blogs past. Seriously, Canada was lookin' good...


And despite not resembling Putin with Flock of Seagulls hair in real life, Canada was working it out, that is, until some stupid, insane girls who looked, well, stupid and insane (there is such a thing as too many sequins...) harangued him for 30 minutes mocking his -- and, by association, my -- sartorial sensibilities. Come to think of it, it was probably just a ridiculous ploy to get him to pop his shirt off. Although, if it was, I have a hard time believing he wouldn't oblige. After all, like Dennis Reynolds of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia fame, Canada also believes there is nary a problem that popping his shirt off cannot solve. He's wonderfully entertaining. (And he's single, ladies!)

But back to the matter at hand. Now, truly, what on douche-free Earth is there to mock about Canada? Well, not so much about Canada as just his outfit (zing!). That ensemble is objectively good. In fact, it's more than good. That. Sh*t. Is. Tight. And if I hadn't been too busy trying to start a rave with the LED light attached to my bike-lock key on Local 16's pseudo-dancefloor and had actually heard these she-'chebags mocking dear Canada just for lookin' fine as hell (or, perhaps, simply wearing clothing on his upper body), I'd have been forced to go ahead and Chuck Norris-style roundhouse kick them in their collective teeth. Or at least ask them why they were being such bitches.

Now, I understand that accusing others of being bitches for mocking someone's outfit may sound is definitional of hypocritical coming from one who "Shambles P.I.'s" this city like it's her job, but trust me (and the craftsmanship of Hugo Boss) -- if you'd seen that jacket Canada's wearing in person, you'd have also been forced to Chuck Norris roundhouse kick these bitches in the teeth for mocking it. Seriously, that jacket is battery-and-assault-charge worthy and you're batsh*t insane if you don't agree with me. End of story.

But speaking of batsh*t insane (that wordsmithing will become totally awesome in exactly 30 words), remember my mentioning of "bumbling hobo, 'Where-are-your-pants?' and 'Who-let-you-out-of-the-home?' crazy?" Well, um, I don't know quite how to explain this, but...


I swear to you -- I was wearing pants! Just really short pants. And thankfully, you can even sorta see them in this sweet photo of me metaphorically roundhouse kicking that ball in its proverbial teeth as if it just insulted my sweatervest. Kind of. Moreover, my doorman let me out of my home, which I suppose by default, excludes me from the hobo category. But, yowza, I looked effing nuts showing up to bat in this get-up. In all fairness, though, I had no idea I would end up in the bowels of Arlington at the batting cages yesterday. In fact, I had no idea I would end up in the bowels of Arlington at the batting cages ever, but, then again, I also never thought I'd see the day when a jacket, a sweatervest, a tie and a button-down would be considered ocularly offensive to wear out on a Saturday night, especially in DC, the magical fairyland of the button-down. But mein Gott, was I wrong. This town is truly a sick and twisted beast that I will never understand.

On the other hand, the only words said about my objectively wacky batting cage ensemble were, "You're pretty good, despite those shoes," by an old man with an epic mustache. Although, I suppose to talk sh*t to the crazy-looking chic seemingly without pants, who just picked up a bat and started wildly swinging, one would need to be even more certifiably nuts than the crazy-looking chic seemingly without pants, who just picked up a bat and started wildly swinging. Fortunately for all involved, not everyone's as insane as those tasteless -- and clearly near-sighted -- bitches at Local 16.

I kid, though. I'd never go classic mafia on anyone's ass with a baseball bat, no matter how offensively idiotic a person is. I only hit balls. And, for once, any double entendre is not intended.