THE END

I guess whenever you write anything for public consumption, you can't help but think about who's actually reading it. Or, for that matter, if anyone's reading it. And while I suppose this thought also passes through the minds of print journalists (at least it did mine whenever I, you know, had a job), I think it's even more present in the minds of Web writers, you know, those narcissistic freaks called bloggers.

Speaking of, remember that party I organized in my honor? Well, people actually showed up! My ego is f*cking off the charts! Well, it was off the charts. After dealing with the day-after, which involved watching a few reruns of the A-Team, eating an entire pizza (it wasn't delivery, it was DiGiorno!) and imbibing copious amounts of Mountain Dew, my ego is a bit deflated. My thighs, on the other hand, have never been bigger...

But, sincerely, I want to thank everyone who could make it out on Wednesday for The Anti DC send-off, which I officially dubbed "I'll See You in Hell, DC." Not only did you sufficiently abet my narcissistic tendencies, but you allowed me to finally put a face to many of your names. And, my oh my, what a menagerie of faces there were!

Who knew bitching about DC would unite so many? Republicans, democrats, white-collar, blue-collar, no-collar, black, white, brown, blonds, brunettes, men, women, bloggers, non-bloggers. The only thing that was missing was another horse to keep my helper horse Sven company. Although, he was only there the first five minutes. He had to get to the casino. Something about a slot-machine tournament...

But seriously, I was impressed by the diversity in my, what I suppose I can even call, "readership." Truly, I guess my this blog touched a universal nerve among those possessing a keen wit. (And yes, I can feel my thighs shrinking and my ego getting bigger with that sentence because it takes one to know one.) In fact, it's too bad I waited until I was leaving DC to host one of these soirees because I'm pretty sure I could be real-life friends with everyone who showed up. Trust me, it helped that everyone seemed to enjoy my jean shorts, or as I prefer to call them my "jorts."

Also on the jorts tip, I learned my "audience" (Oh boy! My ego just spilled out of my right ear!) also possesses one other universal quality: They're an honest group. Not one but two people told me straight-up to stop reenacting the above video.

"Hey! Look what I can do in these awesome jorts!" I said as I took on an incredibly wide stance.

"Uh, you showed me that already."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Like twice."

"Really?!"

"Yeah."

*silence*

As I turn to the next person, "Hey, check out what I can do in these sweet jorts!"

Someone probably should've thrown a drink in my face.

But really, thanks for putting up with me. Thanks for the memories over on this here blog. And thanks to those of you who find something in my writing that will make you want to read my new stuff even if I'm not bitching about something DC-specific.

By the way, someone asked me what my favorite Anti DC post of all time was. I gotta say it's a toss-up between the one in which I realize I'm making $2.37 an hour at the sex shop and the one where I compare DC to asbestos. I really get a kick out of science humor.

And on that note, I'll proceed to officially retire The Anti DC (and I mean it this time) with this most entertaining and offensive montage I like to call "When Photos of Awkward Science Kids Meet Photoshop." Enjoy!

But remember, you can always find me at Marissa's Big Adventure. Have fun in DC, suckers! :)

so, will this blog ever really end?

I mean, enough is enough, right? I'm dragging this out longer than a Congressional hearing...

But I have good reason. I think.

I need to remind you one last time that tonight is the night! Let the awkward shambles begin!

It's the Come Punch The Anti DC in the Throat Gala! It starts around 8 p.m. at Chief Ike's (1725 Columbia Rd. in Adams Morgan) and ends down the street at McDonalds when I order a McGangBang. (Assuming I'm conscious, that is.)

Anyway, hope to see you there!

Oh yeah, because, um, promoting this new blog is a complete afterthought...I updated Marissa's Big Adventure again. This time I tell you that I'm terrified of Jimmy Fallon's stand-up routine among other things...

reminder!

I’ve been reminded to remind you that my e-send off (read: your time to come slap me in the face in person) is all set to go down this Wednesday, Sept. 23, upstairs at Chief Ike’s around 8 p.m. We shall indulge in caloric-laden alcoholic beverages after which I will probably go to McDonalds and get a McGangBang.

And speaking of a McGangBang, over at my new e-home Marissa's Big Adventure (bookmark that sh*t) I wrote a 1,000-word treatise on why I'll never be fat. I'll give you a hint: it's because I love delicious, delicious human meat.

F*CK.

Just when I'm leaving town and closing up shop over here, I finally find a logo for Shambles P.I.:


Meet "Shambo," a name apparently this woman, a contestant on Survivor: Samoa, has held since 1986 "because she wears the same bandana as Rambo."

If she doesn't win, her mullet better.

party over here.

Get ready to party like it's 2005:



Because I think I'm throwing a party. For people! For real-life people! This is so unlike me because, you know, I hate people.

But anyway, at this point I'm thinking I might as well throw an awkward shindig that will gather a bunch of people who don't know each other together for no other reason than to celebrate the fact this level of awkwardness may never be reached again. Although I plan to be awkward forever.

Anyway, here are the details:

WHEN: Wednesday, Sept. 23 at 8 p.m. until whenever you leave.

WHERE: (And this is where you must open your mind a bit.) Upstairs at Chief Ike's on Columbia Road in Adams Morgan. Yeah, I realize no one's probably ever been there and probably definitely may have even laughed at the thought of going there. Moreover, the guy who offered the upstairs venue who works there may have even called it "gnarly," but he also said this: "We serve cheap hipster-approved cans of PBR and Natty Bo (!!) (the pride of B-More) for the cost-conscious." He also said I could blast my iPod over the sound system. So, yeah, just deal with the gnarliness.

I don't believe there's a need to RSVP because I'll show up even if no one else does as I've been promised free booze. If need be, I'll drown my sorrows. Yes, if nothing else, at least I always have a Plan B (and I'm not just talking about the abortion pill).

Also, I managed to write a blog yesterday over at the new home, Marissa's Big Adventure, that is pretty much 800 words all about pants. Sadly, this wasn't my first treatise on the issue. In fact, a similar essay actually got me into a "top liberal arts college" back in *gasp* 1997. Apparently, nothin' caught the attention of admissions agents in the nineties better than turning a story about buying a pair of ratty slacks in a Minnesota thrift store into a philosophy-drenched allegory about finding the right path in life. And that, my friends, is why I'm unemployed. Anyway, you can read that by clicking here if you're so inclined. (Please be inclined.)

See you a next week? Anyone?

i got a venue? and maybe a straightjacket!

Remember when I said I was going to start a new blog and it would have sort of a freer range of topics? Well, I was serious. The Anti DC was written by a bitchy but well-dressed robot. My new Web log is written by an actual person with blood, bones, a wondrous gastrointestinal tract and *gasp!* feelings. Although, she might, indeed, be f*cking nuts...

Check it out at Marissa's Big Adventure!

Oh, and as far as a "get-together" -- I've been offered a venue by a reader for a week from Wednesday in Adams Morgan. They serve cans of Natty Bo and PBR. Let me know if that night works for anyone. And, apparently, there's a DJ set-up if anyone feels like making this legit. Perhaps even 2 Legit 2 Quit. Hey! Hey!

fire sale!

For those of you who missed yesterday's very predictable announcement regarding my retirement as The Anti DC, I'll fill you in real quick: I quit.

But that's because I got a new gig over at marissapayne.wordpress.com.

Click over there, bookmark it, put it in some sort of reader or feed and more importantly, peep my latest vlog. It's called "Fire Sale!" and its about exactly what it's called. Well, except for the fire part.

In the meantime, I'm going to throw this out there. It seems like there are actual real-life people (as in more than one) who want to buy me libations before I switch hemispheres. That is 1) fantastic, but also 2) it gives me an idea. I'm thinking if you read this blog, you probably have a certain sense of humor and philosophy on life. Which means, perhaps various readers may want to meet each other. Is this theory true? Would anyone be interested in perhaps setting up a group rendezvous during which not only can I get sh*t-faced for free, but all of you could maybe meet each other too. That way when you meet me and realize I'm really not all that interesting, I won't feel as awkward when you say, "Yeah, so...I'm just gonna go over there now..."

Let me know!

But first, buy my furniture and stuff!

adios! and hola...

A funny thing happened to me this weekend. I was sitting Saturday afternoon in the park on 16th right in front of the White House when a group of squirrels approached me, apparently, trying to love my nuts. We all looked at each other and had a moment not unlike this one: Those stupid, morbidly obese and Johnny-Depp-like squirrels made me realize something. I think maybe I will miss DC. Or at least it's magical film reenacting wildlife. Which brings me to the big announcement I've been hinting at lately -- I'm leaving DC. In fact, this is probably my last post as The Anti DC. (I say "probably" because, really, who ever knows anything for sure.) Which brings me to my other big announcement: I've started a new blog! While it'll be different from The Anti DC in several respects, my writing, occasional vlogging and this narcissistic personality of mine will remain consistent. This isn't a break-up; this is actually taking things to the next level. So, if you're willing, please e-join me over at Marissa's Big Adventure, "like Pee-Wee's, but dumber" Especially if you care to find out why I'm leaving DC, where I plan to go and what I plan to do. (Ahh, I know that's a cheap ploy to get people to click over to my new e-home, but, hey, by this point if you expect me to do anything with class, we might as well just e-part ways now...) Before you go, though, I want to get serious for a second. (Just a second, I swear) I want to thank you. Thanks for reading, commenting and laughing with me about DC's numerous, yet often hilarious shortcomings over the past almost two years. Perhaps pathetically, your e-friendship have sometimes been the only thing to keep me sane in this hot mess of a city. So, again, thank you, from the bottom of the spot where my heart should be. OK, that was longer than a second, but, hey, at least I didn't cry. Oh...God...I spoke too soon! But before we jump to conclusions about The Anti DC having emotions, I'll tell you that I'm really crying because I'm not leaving until October. Which means if you have a moment and want to buy me a farewell drink this month, either get on my Facebook and message me or E-mail me at theantidc@gmail.com. (While I won't be tending to this blog so often anymore, I will still check my mail.) And by "buy me a farewell drink," I mean "and also buy me a meal of food." Just kidding! I don't eat. At this point, I'm just curious to meet some of the people who have made this blogging experience more than just a hobby, but a very strange and important part of my real life. Wow. I don't think I've ever felt more like a dork (read: myself). Seriously, don't make me miss you. Come over to marissapayne.wordpress.com! Love, Marissa

dear wsc...

I love you. No, I mean it this time. I really, really love you.

I love your treadmills, your ellipticals, your recumbent stationary bikes, your air-conditioning. Oh yes, Washington Sports Club, I love being inside of you.

Whoa. Slow down...

Well, that almost took a turn for the worst. But you know what? I can't help it. After spending years scoffing at the idea of a gym, I learned in this past two weeks thanks to a $20 trial deal, just how lovely the gym is. Especially in DC, where save for the last few days, the summer humidity makes it nearly impossible to be physically active out of doors.

But even if the weather is fantastical, like it's been this week, I still would go to the gym. In fact, I wish it were a can of beans so I can eat it up and have it inside of me, well, at least for a day or so until my awesome and now more physically fit digestive tract took care of business.

And although I really do think going to the gym (and actually working out) 14 days in a row has done incredible things to my physique (I've somehow dropped almost 7 pounds and feel like I could beat Usain Bolt in a road race), I think the real reason I fell so hard, so fast for the gym is because it doesn't feel like DC -- it's the physical manifestation of The Anti DC.

The gym is a place where you won't see a suit and tie. There are no hidden agendas. The gym serves a blatant purpose -- to challenge its patrons; to push them to their limits; to tear their muscle tissue only for it to grow back stronger, fitter, happier; to quote Radiohead lyrics together. Or maybe that last one is just me...

Regardless of that, though, the gym is a place where people get down and dirty, or at least get limber and sweaty. It's a place to go when you need a reminder that we're all just human beings doing what we can to get by. That jag-bag with the "important job"? He's just a middle-aged guy trying to get rid of his middle-aged paunch so he can justify being such a creep. That waitress at Marvin who's a total bitch? She's trying to get hot so she can justify being such a wretched wench. Me? I just get a sick high when I run so hard that feel like I'm going to puke afterward. I also need reason to justify being such a wretched wench-creep.

But alas, my two-week trial period is over and today is the first day I will not be setting foot in the bright open space that has become my morning and sometimes afternoon spot in which to watch cable. And almost puke.

Why don't I just join, you ask? Well, for one, like I mentioned above, the weather has taken an unusual turn for the lovely so I can start bicycling longer distances and running around like a lunatic outside again. As for the weights, I'll go with the obvious choice of strapping cans of beans around my ankles.

But there's also another reason I'm not joining -- I can't get down with a one-year contract. (<--- OMG! A clue to the cliffhanger I alluded to Wednesday!)

So, in the meantime while I weep, I'll be listening to Steve Winwood on my iPod.



Indeed, "Higher Love" is a classic.

i've bean busy

I apologize for using the same pun twice in a row. But see, I just can't help myself. Despite being so unemployed, for some reason, I haven't had much time to think of any new fresh ways to play on the word bean and the rest of the English language. What has become of me? Well, you'll all soon find out. OMG! CLIFFHANGER! I'm just like the last episode of Season 1 of The Wire. What's Omar gonna do?! But don't tell me. I just started Season 2 the other day. Which, at another time, may explain why I haven't had the time to create new bean puns. But no. In fact, I've only had the time to watch one episode. It's sad, really. But despite my lack of time to wordsmith and watch TV, I've still been able to scope out a few things on the Interweb. While in the past I've usually chosen a different language to present this Web regurgitation, today I'll be sticking to English. And instead of presenting five links, I've only got three. (Hey, I had to give myself time to sneak in at least that one episode...) And so without further, stupid ado, let's get down to business. One! DC really gets my goat. For those of you who don't live here, some controversy is brewing regarding the city's decision to remove a "Ghost Bike" memorial to a cyclist who was struck and killed by a garbage truck last year while riding within the law. My expert opinion: That's f*cked up. However, not everyone feels this way. There's some interesting discussion over at the Prince of Petworth. Two! After a heated discussion of whether men prefer butts or boobs, or as I like to say buttflaps to breasticles, the parties involved were forced to turn to the Internet. And we found this. Apparently, I was right and, also, there's a show on the air called Manswers. I don't know about you, but I feel like I want nothing more right now than to tune into Lifetime Television for women and watch a couple episodes of the Golden Girls. Three! "I'm just a prom night dumpster baby!" Because teen pregnancy/murder is hilarious, somehow?

it's bean real

I went to the Georgetown Waterfront for the first time yesterday and I gotta say, surprisingly, I didn't hate it. Of course, I was there around 4 p.m., which, if you know anything about DC, you know is far from the "Douching Hour."

What's the Douching Hour, you ask? Well, it's that time of day, or night, rather, during which the dudes with popped collars and the girls who have yet to learn how to walk in their 4-inch heels come out to swap STDs. In addition, there is often a lot of hair product involved. On the men.

Getting back to what's important here though, ahem, my experience, I will tell you that it was enhanced by a scoop of pistachio ice cream and the fantastically unseasonable weather global warming may or may not have provided us yesterday.

As I sat and stared out at the sun shining so brilliantly over the river two things happened: 1) I almost went blind because, duh, it's not healthy to stare at the sun, and 2) I made some pretty major life-changing decisions. As I gingerly slurped my delightful dessert and blinked furiously having just looked at the sun, I realized pistachio really wasn't the flavor I was craving. I was craving beans. It was then and there that I decided to open a trendy new dessert shop in which every sweet has at least one type of bean as an ingredient. Bean doughnuts, bean scones, bean pies, bean cupcakes, bean cakes, bean pudding, bean brullé, beanklava, chocolate-covered frozen beananas, and several other bean-based sweets. (I told you this was life-changing.)

Let me know if you want to invest. It will be called Good Fiberations.

I'd invest myself, but unfortunately it looks like my government-supported unemployed checks are about to end. So it's either I keep my beansicle recipes to myself or I rely on your collective millions to make sure America's digestive tracts are healthier after dessert. It's up to you.

Speaking of you, a very bizarre but kind of awesome incident happened last week. A reader recognized me on the street. And I do mean that literally. We were both on our respective bicycles on the street when someone called out, "Hey! It's Marissa and Baguette!"

Although in my mind I'm just about as famous as a Michael Jackson impersonator, in reality I know that mostly no one cares about what I do on a day-to-day basis or even what I write about here. So, clearly, this caused a bit of shock. But then, before I could say anything cool, maybe a rape joke, the light changed and my mysterious e-friend was gone.

Looking back, I'm now not sure if I imagined it or not. Maybe my helper horse Sven had slipped some sort of hallucinogen into that morning's beantini. Perhaps I'll never know. Perhaps it's better that way.

Anyway, that might be the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me in DC. While riding my bike. Last week. During the afternoon. Between 2:30 and 3.

Clearly the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me was thinking up the idea for Good Fiberations. Seriously, who's in?

to beaver or not to beaver

For anyone who lives in DC, I'm sure you're familiar with how sh*tty customer service generally is here. For instance, just the other day I stood in line at Blockbuster (yes, sometimes I'm old school) just tryin' to rent Harold & Maude (I told you I was old school) while two employees did absolutely nothing and one tried rather fruitlessly to work the brainless technology required to take $3.99 from customers and give them their chosen merchandise in return.

It really shouldn't be that hard. (That's what she said. Actually, no she probably didn't say that.)

I mean, take my four dollars. In fact, keep the change. I'm in a generous mood.

Just let me go watch this:



Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because I had a very strange experience yesterday during which a customer service provider went above and beyond what I requested. I won't beat around the bush here (you'll get that pun in a short second), but let's just say I had a certain kind of grooming done that went a little too far. And now it's bald!


And now I feel like a pedophile every time I change my pantaloons. On the non-plucked turkey side, however, the woman who made me feel young in an incredibly creepy way again did a very good job -- so good that I had no idea that that's what she was doing. I'd give you the name and place where she works, but I almost feel embarrassed to in case one day she Googles herself and comes across this post. Because, well, let's be honest, it's pretty messed up that I didn't realize to what extent she was, well, we'll just say "Googling" me. But seriously, everything happened so fast that by the time I realized what exactly was going on it was already half gone.


By the way, you're welcome for all this wonderful imagery. I hope your next Thanksgiving is fantastic.

Hmm...

And so it's come to this. After 457 posts, who knew my 458th would end up being such a heartwarming tale of DC's excellent cuntomer service. But I guess if there's one service DC excels at, it might as well be this. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go register myself under Megan's law.

i'm so vain...

In the wake of yet another Kennedy leaving the mortal world this month, I'm left with few words. Actually, that's a lie. I have a lot of words, just not very much time to write them down today. I'll be trekking out to Pentagon City to continue Sports-Brassiere Quest '09 then hittin' the gym.



Which means while I'm getting vascular (because I'm sure two reps of five with three pound weights and a yoga class will do that to a person), I'm going to direct you to another blog. And because I'm pretty sure I have an acute case of narcissistic personality disorder, I'll be linking to a piece that I wrote.

And if that's not enough to entice you (I don't blame you), maybe this will do it: There are MP3s involved, including one by Phil Collins.


And with that, I invite you to click on over to The Vinyl District to join in on "Twitstock," which invites TVD's Twitter friends to reveal five songs they can't live without. Being as I only love myself, I listed five songs that make sitting at home alone in the dark a whole lot better.

E-see you tomorrow!

getting a job

As much as I Love (and please do emphasize the capital "L") being [f]unemployed, sometimes it gets a little rough. And by rough I mean, poor. As in, I'm getting pretty f*cking poor. Which means until my helper horse Sven wins big playing the ponies himself, uh, or something, I find myself perusing the want ads.

My first stop was Craigslist, which yielded me a lovely job at the sex shop not too long ago. So just imagine my excitement when I saw a company named Bezoom was hiring! Maybe I could finally get that sports bra I've been looking for and maybe even at a discount!

Unfortunately, after Sven placed his pince-nez on his muzzle and began to read the content of the ad to me, I immediately found myself in a fit of rage. Contrary to what American slang has taught me over the years, "Bezoom" in this case does not mean "boobie," but instead it's some sort of crappy video editing company. Or something. I stopped paying attention.

My next stop was JournalismJobs.com, where I learned that The Raw Story is hiring. And since everybody knows I like it raw (that is, my Town Hall meetings and Ol' Dirty Bastard songs), I became immediately interested. Until once again, Sven started reading, this time placing after affixing his monocle over his left eye:

"Popular politics site with five hundred thousand unique visitors is seeking an intrepid political reporter to cover the vagaries of politics in Washington, including the Obama Administration and Congress. We're looking for someone with reporting experience -– political preferred -- who is fast, self-driven, independent and hot for politics and muckraking journalism."

Intrepid? Fast? Hot for politics? Uh. Not to mention I would have to "cover the vagaries of politics in Washington." That sounds like work...next!

MediaBistro has gotten people jobs, right? I turned to that Web site next. Unfortunately, what I found there didn't really fit my criteria, mainly because apparently they now allow job listings for machines. Al Jazeera is looking for a DC-based "Teleprompter." Now, I'm no genius (clearly), but from what I know from my short foray at journalism school (dumbest mistake of my life), a teleprompter is a machine that allows broadcast journalists to have the easiest job in the world. It does not involve a person. Or a Bezoom. Or a terrorist! (Really? I thought that was a good one. Al Jazeera? COME ON!)

Well, I guess there's only one thing for me to do now -- open up a frozen yogurt shop. Or a cupcake shop. Or a pie shop. Or whatever other fad desert DC seems to be into these days.

raw!

I used to taut Columbia Heights as the greatest neighborhood in DC. Actually, wait. No. I never said that. And not because there's some other magical neighborhood in DC because, really, they're all on the same level of sucking, just for different reasons.

Columbia Heights, though, wasn't supposed to suck when it comes to shopping for basic clothing goods, such as undergarments. I mean, we have a Target and a Marshalls. If between those, you can't purchase your basic cotton drawers, well, Houston, we have a problem. Or more appropriate, I suppose, Ass Cheeks, we have a problem. This has happened to me before.

Which is why I probably shouldn't have been surprised yesterday when the need for a decent sports bras came up and I couldn't find one. Instead, I found myself at the gym holding my rather meager chestical region and crying. Even the bitsiest breasticles can suffer under high impact cardio.

That's right, for the next two weeks I traded my usual sweat-drenched outdoor cycling regimen for the air-conditioned surroundings of the Washington Sports Club. There's nothing like paying to suffer in a temperature-controlled environment while watching CNN "Town Hall Raw." Because apparently the health care bill is as hardcore as a WWE wrestling match.

But really, where can a girl find a decent sports brassiere in Columbia Heights besides on the Internet? I darest say this is an impossible mission. Unless I get this random super-pissed citizen on my side. This is RAW!



By the way, is it too much to ask that amid the Target, Marshals and Ruby Tuesdays that Columbia Heights also get a movie theater? After all, every suburb has one...

experiment!

Remember that game seven minutes in heaven where awkward kids demand that other awkward kids spend seven awkward minutes in a closet talking about how they don't want to make out with each other?

Or maybe that happens only in the movies.

Anyway, this is The Anti DC's seven minutes in heaven, in which my computer and I get together in the seven minutes I have of Internet access to see what we can do. I wanted to lick the screen, but the computer said no...ahhh...

So here we are. I've already wasted two minutes writing those paragraphs so I better make these last five good because there are no edits here. If I blow this chance, I will never have another. Until tomorrow when I have regular access to the Internet again. Then I suppose I have all the time I want.

I'm a bit nervous. This wasn't planned.

I guess I'll just blog my observations. I'm in New York and there are lots of people around me. I know, that's a horrible image. I shouldn't be let out in public unsupervised. Not to mention, people are gross.

The thing is, these people are so much more interesting to watch than most of those in DC. Mainly because I haven't seen one ill-fitting suit and tie. What I do see is a man in bright purple argyle socks, a teenage boy in short shorts and a baby with a top hat.

OK, that last one I made up. I'm hoping my computer will like me more if I lie to it.

It doesn't.

Wait, no. Actually, there goes a baby in a top hat. Goddamn, I love New York.

And now, I've been told I only have a minute remaining. I will use that minute to post this photo of David Hasselhoff in black panties:

Time's up. My computer is no longer speaking to me.

not really breaking news...but...

Crowned "King Douche" not long ago by this very blog, conservative columnist and road hazard Bob Novak died this morning.

Although not to be confused with the Grand Duke of Doucheville and Lil' Lord Doucheington, Novak really fulfilled the duties of his role well. He provided us with endless entertainment and more than a few scandal-sparking articles, ahem, Valerie Plame. (I'm sure she will miss him.) And while I must admit I feel much better about riding my bicycle on the streets now, this is truly is a sad occasion.

Yet as we mourn this loss (and, honestly, as much of an asshole as I can be I admit this really is a loss whether you think he's a conservative crackpot or a genius), I can't help but wonder, who will become the next King Douche?

If we can learn anything from the great Stewie Griffin, it's that douches of such great magnitude are not easily replaced...



RIP.

i learn new things every day

It’s that time of year, month, week again when I opt to leave to DC for greener pastures. Or, in fact, in this case a big-ass lake (again, not to be confused with big ass-lake) and a boat. Life is rough when you’re fun employed...

No, really. Life is rough. In order to maintain my jet-setting ways at a reasonable price, I have to take flights that make me get up at 5 in the morning. As expected, considering my brain is already functioning at levels on par with those of the “intellectually disabled,” I thought I’d limit my blogging today to simple observations at BWI.

What I see: Lots of fat kids eating McDonalds; a Kate Gosslyn dead animal haircut on a 20-something (this greatly upsets me); and a probable homosexual in European-looking pointy-toed loafers.

So far, this last observation is my favorite and not just because of his Eurotrash footwear. He’s also having what might be the most salacious conversation I’ve had the pleasure of rudely eavesdropping on in years. It’s even better because I can only hear one half of it since the other party is only represented to me by the bedazzled Bluetooth this scandalous man has attached to his right ear.

“I have a bruise on my arm.”

Pause.

“Oh just from being thrown.”

Pause.

“Of course it was fun!”

Pause.

“A hundred bucks.”

I told you it was salacious! Oh my…!

Anyway, have a great weekend and most of next week. Once again, the blogging will be spotty because, well, like I said, I'M ON A BOAT!

i am capable of wrong, too...i think...

Just as I've been growing increasingly ambivalent toward the inexhaustible goblet that is DC, I've also lost my will to dress myself creatively.

Seriously, this ensemble, which I wore yesterday, is objectively pretty boring, especially compared to such glorious get-ups as this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this and, of course, um, this. Weirdly, though, a strange thing happened yesterday. While my objectively awesome outfits of yore rarely garnered an iota of positive feedback, the yawn-worthy dirty laundry that I threw on haphazardly yesterday made me feel like I was ready to attend fashion week. 

Inexplicably, people loved my shoes, my shorts, my shirt, my bra straps! Well, maybe not that last one, but you get the idea. I must admit though, I'm not sure if I should be flattered. I mean, it's laughably boring and, for Bali's sake, my bra strap's were showing! After returning home from my quest to procure a $5 $6 footlong I looked in the mirror and just started laughing at myself. DC was totally f*cking with me!

Not only is this get-up boring, but the shirt makes me look like a pear, the shorts truncate my legs and the coordination is horrible -- I failed to fully incorporate the color palette of gray-brown-black with appropriate accessories. A black scarf would be perfect, but in heat like this I'd step outside and probably tie it in a noose. In short, I looked a bit of a hot mess, which may explain why the woman who most fervently admired my ensemble was wearing flip-flops, sweatpants and looked entirely too much like Grimace. It doesn't take much to impress Grimace.

But Ronald-McDonaldland evil-milkshake-stealer-turned-lovable-anthropomorphic-sidekick or not, at least this woman appreciated my non-efforts. 

However, not everyone felt the same way. One woman went out of her way to tell me so. But to my surprise, instead of focusing on the menagerie of things I described above, this woman insulted my shoes, which are, in my opinion, the only aspect of this faulty ensemble that actually works. 

Alas, I guess one woman's sandal-booties, are another woman's Crocs...

Misplaced shoe scurrility aside though, the fact that so many other people (and by that I mean four, including Grimace) really liked my lackluster outfit, made me wonder, "What the hell?"

 

Honestly, I'm not quite sure what this all says about DC. Am I that stellar of a dresser that I can grab whatever's closest to me at the time and still out-style the common DC woman? Although wait...hold on...what's that on my leg? 

In the course of my grainy pseudo-photog skills I had forgotten about the second-degree leg burn I incurred the other day while defending my visage. My helper horse Sven threw a flaming bag of his own poo at me after a heated (literally) argument over the electricity bill. Thankfully, my roundhouse kicking skills are top-notch and I was able to protect my face from the flaming doo-doo. My poor leg, however...ouch. 

And while the picture doesn't really do justice to the giant red, bubbly charred swatches of epidermis on my calf right now, I'm pretty sure I now understand why almost everyone was so complimentary. They were just trying to make a burn victim feel better.

Thank you, Grimace, but a milkshake would've been better...

refresher

So, I went away for a while and I must admit I'm having a hard time getting back into my usual hateful state of mind. But not because I've somehow magically come around to loving DC. Hell no. I still barely tolerate this place. The real reason I'm having Anti DC writer's block is because I've grown increasingly indifferent to this sh*thole we call home. Or maybe this sh*thole I call home if you're reading this and lucky enough to dwell somewhere a bit more sensational like San Francisco, Chicago or Ashgabat, which we all know is the capital of Turkmenistan. 

Ahh, does that really look like the former face of a totalitarian dictator? Or was Turkmenbashi simply a benevolent old man who wanted to spice up the calendar? I think the portrait on wheels explains it all.

Now, if you're an e-friend of mine on Facebook or Twitter, you'll already know where I was. And no, unfortunately it wasn't Ashgabat. 

I was on the West Coast enjoying such wonderful things as the Pacific Ocean, giant trees and, most of all, copious amounts of wine. And with little else to say at the moment, but with a lot more daydreaming to do, I present to you here a few photos from my escapade that make me feel like a deep sea fish with a transparent head and tubular eyes. Or a running robot. Or an octopus squeezing itself through a hole the size of a quarter. In other words, I hope you like them, too!

oh media, please just stop trying...

My mother forwarded me an, um, forward today that featured a parakeet dry-humping a cat. Or maybe they were just good-naturedly playing. Whatever. The point is, I think I've failed to make some things clear here.

Mainly, I don't like cats.

In fact, I'm terrified of cats. That's why I have a helper horse named Sven and not a helper cat named Begemot. Don't ask me to explain my irrational fear, just know that if you ever send me a forward that involves a cat in any way, shape or form (save for big cats like lions and tigers and bears, oh my!) I will react by cursing you, projectile vomiting and dancing around in circles screaming, "Kittens belong in hell!"

My other irrational fear is mummies, which extends to pyramids, which, if you think about it makes sense because a pyramid is really just a giant grave and to break into one is really nothing more than grave digging. Yes, along with my increasingly shrinking brain, some things are better left alone.

And speaking of being left alone, may I please ask Time magazine to stop mocking this city so blatantly? Clearly, since it was printed in Time, it's not worth reading the whole article, but I'll tell you it's supposed to be a guide to a 24-hour visit to the Capital of the Free World. I'll summarize the parts that made me laugh the hardest:

"But of all the places I have lived, none has the accidental loveliness of D.C." LOL!

That is actually the only part that made me laugh. The rest of it just made me bored and/or depressed.

Surprise! The author, Amanda Ripley (believe it or not!) suggests you stop by such unheard-of must-sees as the U.S. Capitol, the Smithsonians (except for the Native American one, which Ripley says is unfortunately not a casino reminiscent of "something designed by a committee"), the Holocaust Museum, the Cathedral, the Vietnam Memorial, the zoo and (drum roll please) Ben's F*cking Chili Bowl.

Oh, that's depressing. You have 24 hours in DC and the best you can think of is grab a greasy bowl of chili...

What the hell? Is fast food really that much of a reason to come to DC? Look, I dined there once. I didn't hate it. But then again, I was also 1 trillion sheets to the wind, so I probably would've been happy eating mokh-mokh, a Dagestani delicacy which roughly translates into English as "sheep's anus." Perhaps I simply don't appreciate cheaply mass-produced food enough, but, Jesus Christ, if one more media outlet jizzes in their pants over this, I swear to God I'll...I'll...pet a cat! This is truly unacceptable. Not only that, but Ripley goes on to note this about the neighborhood in which Ben's F*cking Chili Bowl exists:

"At night, you have three main choices in D.C.: Georgetown, where the tourists and frat boys go to party; Adams Morgan, where the frat boys go once they've graduated; and U Street, where you won't find any of the above."

Has Ripley even been to U Street? That sh*t is chock full of frat boys and tourists. Mostly because of Ben's F*cking Chili Bowl. And Marvin, which I think is an overrated sh*t hole. But according to the author, it's "good" and "upscale."

Um...first of all, the adjectives "good" and "upscale" are clearly misused. Had Ripley actually set foot in Marvin, I'm sure she would've described it as "sub-par" and "douchey." Seriously, if there's a place on U Street that represents the neighborhood's transition to "the new Adams Morgan," it's Marvin.

And don't try to argue with me because you know I'm right. These are facts.

while you were stepping on that used condom...

Oh, wait. I mean, while I was stepping on that used condom (is it just me who sees soggy prophylactics strewn about DC on a semi-regular basis?), Marion Barry was enjoying a night in New York City watching himself on the big screen.

And you, my non-used-rubber-attracting e-friends, can watch him tonight, apparently, on HBO. That's right! His life of shambles has been turned into a documentary!

"After a youth of extreme poverty (which included picking cotton) in Itta Bena, Miss. — “dirt, dirt, dirt poor” he says in the documentary -- Mr. Barry became an Eagle Scout and earned a master’s degree in chemistry at Fisk University in Nashville. But his head was turned by the civil rights movement after he got involved in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and he quit a doctoral program in chemistry at the University of Tennessee. In 1965 he moved to Washington and commenced an enduring affair with a city that was then a ward of the federal government."

Wow. So before a bitch set him up, he was legit. But then, of course, he became the Marion Barry that we all know today. My favorite part was the slogan he used in his 1994 bid to get re-elected to the City Council: "He may not be perfect, but he’s perfect for D.C."

Now, not often does the Anti DC get angry. We (meaning my helper horse Sven, our bean stash and I) usually tend to treat most things in life with a great deal of devil-may-care nonchalance. In fact, save for Putin's glorious moobs, there is nary a news item that elicits any sort of emotion from our collective cold, dark, heartless souls. But the fact that someone could actually run on a slogan like that, implying that a crack addict is "perfect for DC" and actually win, makes our beans boil.

"How is a CRACKHEAD the PERFECT representation of DC?" Sven will neigh as he stomps his hoof.

But then I point out the used condom that's gently attached to his horseshoe and he understands. This town is full of messy slobs with little respect for the city or themselves.

I am angry. Sven is angry. My bean stash is angry. This is a battle we cannot win. This city is lost. This city is dead to me.

Well, except for my best friend's barbecue grill. That is alive and well.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take my first ice bath of the day. And then go disinfect Sven's shoe. Who knows what kind of syphilis he's tracking into the hobo lair...

Sigh.

If only people in DC would watch this informative Indian video about the proper usage and disposal of the "nirodh," we wouldn't have this problem.

here in body, clearly not in mind...

There's nothing worse than being insulted because of your appearance, well, besides, say, terminal illness, famine, war, murder, injustice, or having to sit directly in front of a crying kid who keeps kicking your seat on a plane...that's about to crash. Also, see: poverty, stupidity, living in Washington, DC, and irregular bowel movements. And, of course, being evicted, being dumped and being caught, which brings me back to my original point -- being insulted because of your appearance blows. But being caught and insulted for your appearance doubly blows.

The Post wrote a couple days back: "Montgomery County police released surveillance photos Tuesday of a broad-shouldered shoplifting suspect who they said left Saks Fifth Avenue with a $2,000 Chanel dress and could have been a man masquerading as a woman."

BURN!


Seriously, for this possible woman's sake, I really hope she is a man. I can't imagine that does anything for the self-esteem to be an actual woman who's mistaken for a man...even in a $2,000 Chanel dress...

Alleged cross-dressing crime aside, though, there's a larger point to this blog's nonsense. What's worse than being caught and insulted for your appearance is reading in the Post about a "woman" who apparently stole a piece of overpriced cloth (sorry, I'm not much of a Chanel fan) from a store in the suburbs. I mean, is this the most important news the Metro desk could come up with? It really makes you wonder when a local blog run by someone who has a fulltime job that isn't "reporter" can come up with more legitimate news items than one of the nation's best newspapers.

And sure, you can argue, "But Marissa, what have you done?"

The answer is nothing. I simply act as the city-wide ombudsman (and village idiot), whose job it is to complain and point out flaws while doing little to nothing to fix them. Not to mention, when you've been reenacting scenes from Sideways for the past week, it's hard to keep up with what's been happening in DC, let alone care.

But, yes, I'm back from my grand West Coast escapade. Let's hope I can come up with some better material tomorrow...

However, in an effort to save what is objectively probably one of my worst posts, I will leave with a little taste of what my helper horse Sven did while I wasn't drinking Merlot in California.

Sven, The Anti DC Official Helper Horse with Vladimir Putin and his Impressive Man Boobs.

Sven says he's never washing his muzzle again. Once you go Putin you never go back.

happy birthday, self!

Don't worry. I'm replacing the second slice of cake with another bottle of wine.

that's not funny

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

???

In place of writing anything legitimate (although whether I do that ever is pretty questionable), I'm going to steal an idea from fellow DC blogger Lemmonex and offer a Q&A post. That is, if you have questions, I have answers. Well, let me clarify. I have retarded answers.

So, let's get to it. Let's get to know each other better. Ask me anything, you know, if you care.

Maybe you want to know what the official Anti DC view on "sexting" is? Or maybe you want to know how many feedbags of oats my helper horse Sven goes through in a week? Tips on how to build a crawlspace/panic room, perhaps? How to make a living as an ironic hobo? How would I solve the healthcare crisis?

Really, anything goes here.

In return, also like Lemmonex did, I will ask you a question, which I've been thinking about since yesterday. Which image is more disturbing: David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing or David Hasselhoff lounging at a strange angle with puppies on his gens?


I really want to settle this debate. But if nothing else, have a lovely weekend!

simple acts of strangers doing me favors

After watching this video, which made me want to projectile vomit all over humanity or maybe just jerky cyclists who give us all a horrible name by hitting pedestrians in the face with U-locks, I crawled into my crawlspace. (It's actually a panic room. My helper horse Sven constructed it some time ago after getting into quite a bit of gambling debt at the track.) Anyway, while in my crawlspace/panic room's dark confines I rocked back and forth like a scared infant and let my tears fall as freely as David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing. Days later, I came to. For one, I was really thirsty. (Sven does not keep the crawlspace/panic room's mini-fridge properly stocked.) And secondly, I had the overwhelming urge to self-publish a non-sensical simile about my tears and David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing. So, I crawled out. But believe me, I was scared. When I exited my crawlspace/panic room, not only did I now fear getting bashed in the face with a heavy-metal object (and I'm not talking about a Pantera album), but I also feared running into David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing. Wait. No. I actually was looking forward to that. Unfortunately, that only happens in Australia. (Note to self: Go to Australia.) But luckily, to make up for DC's total lack of opportunities to run into David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing, fate still managed to restore a bit of my faith in humanity by setting up a few run-ins with people who didn't want to bash my teeth out with a bike lock. In fact, not only did I not get beat up, but people actually did me favors (non-sexual). And for nothing in return but gratitude! In the DC area! PEOPLE WERE ACTUALLY NICE AND HELPFUL! This is a big deal. As big a deal as David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing. The first incident occurred Monday when I traveled to Virginia for a doctor's appointment. Seeing as I don't drive often and when I do I have about as much directional sense as a spinning top, I get lost easily. Usually it doesn't matter because not a lot of people care where I am at any given time, but in this case, things were different. If I didn't arrive on time, I'd have to reschedule. And with a schedule as busy as mine, that would be nearly impossible. (Hey, it's not easy finding pictures of David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing.) Moreover, let's just say I couldn't put this procedure off. (Abortion.) Just kidding! Anyway, long story slightly shorter, I'll tell you that to have this procedure that wasn't an abortion, I was forced to park illegally. However, when I begged the receptionist to let me go move my car after I checked in she flatly said, "No. Not if you still want to see the doctor." It's as if she didn't appreciate how much I appreciated David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing. But to my utter surprise, a nice man eavesdropping on my conversation with the receptionist felt pity on me and offered to move my car. Not only that, but he didn't even steal it! He moved it, found a prime parking spot and then brought the keys back! (Or card rather. It was a Zipcar.) If I had his contact info, I'd send him a lifesize poster of David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing to properly thank him. Instead, all I did was say thank you. And if that wasn't enough to turn my scowl of disdain into a scowl of slight content, yesterday morning while biking past the DC2NY bus leaving from 14th and H, the man collecting the tickets and handing out complimentary bottles of water to the lucky few heading to New York gave me a bottle of water even though I wasn't getting on the bus! Now, it may sound like I tricked him, say, by distracting him by holding up the picture I keep in my wallet of David Hasselhoff having an orgasm on a tire swing, but no! He saw no photo! He knew I wasn't getting on the bus! Instead, he said he just thought I could use some hydration on the road because it was getting hot out. Wow! What a truly lovely couple of days! I felt like a nude David Hasselhoff strategically covered in puppies. Thank you, DC. Thank you.

a proverbial e-bone to pick

I read this post on a blog named after the 42 bus this morning and it made me extremely depressed for two reasons. The first is because it poses the hipness of a neighborhood rests on how locally owned the coffee shop is:

"Nothing says you are are a bonafide, made-it, DC neighborhood than a locally owned coffee shop. These indie establishments give a sense of place to an area, some ownership to the residents-customers and provide a gathering place where neighbors can at least look at, if not interact with each other."

Maybe I don't get this because I don't drink coffee. Or maybe my standards are just wildly high. But one goddamn "locally owned" coffee shop does not a decent neighborhood make. Sure, it might make it slightly more pleasant if you're into that sort of thing, but I hardly believe they give a "sense of place to the area." Whatever that even means...

The writer goes on to give Dos Gringos as an example of this, which, as far as I can tell goes speaks little of the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood, where it's located. If anything, a trip to Dos Gringos makes you feel like you're NOT in the neighborhood. First, only, um, gringos go there. You can probably blame that on the name or the food, which is mostly vegetarian. The real locals, the people who plan to reside in the neighborhood longer than it takes them to buffer their law school applications or whatever, eat at the Peruvian chicken place across the street. Or Burritos Fast. Or, my personal favorite, Don Juan's. Those places give "a sense of place to the area." Maybe. I still can't figure out what that phrase means...

The other reason why this blog post upset me is because of its total misread of Marion Barry's career:

"For a civil rights worker, the mayor who initiated a teen summer work program and helped jump start U Street's revival, Marion Barry has seemingly thrown away second chance after second chance. He trumped critics by winning the mayorship and then a council seat after being declared politically dead, but Barry has come into some more trouble as of late. In 2009 he's been maligned for his anti gay marriage views, public sex life episodes and job hiring oddities. In the eye of his supporters, he still on top. Considering that, I think should quit while he's ahead; i.e. retire after his current term is over."

Not that I'm pro-Marion Barry in any shape or form, but how the f*ck does that last sentence even make sense? If he's "still on top" according to his actual constituents, you know, the people who vote for him, then why the hell would he quit now? He's proven that he can probably rape a sheep inside a locally owned coffee shop and still win by a landslide. He's not the problem. His supporters are for electing him. And, by the way, a little more research would show that his stance against gay marriage was largely supported by his constituents, who, lest we ignore this fact again, are the people who elect him. And we wonder why Congress is reluctant to bestow upon DC legitimate voting rights...

Now, I really don't mean to be mean, er, that mean as I have nothing against the author of The 42. I just completely disagree with his or her analysis on these topics. Then again, I also bike rather than ride the bus, so maybe I just see this town differently. To each his or her own, I suppose. I would, however, welcome a rebuttal from the author or anybody who could possibly defend the above ideas. Although the chance is slim, perhaps I misunderstood something. At the very least, please explain what "a sense of place to the area" is. If there's anything I like more than complaining, it's learning. (Hard to believe, but I'm serious.)

i want the president to stay in the white house

That is, I don't really want to see him everywhere I go. And not because I hate him. Because I don't. President Obama seems like a fine, likeable guy with a likeable family and a likeable dog. The thing is, I'd rather he remain in the White House doing his job (which is not a normal nine-to-five government job), than be out gallivanting around DC eating half-smokes and getting stuck in traffic.

Is that wrong?

I mean, a dinner or two is fine, I suppose. Although if you live in the dang White House, why not just order in? You have a cook. I'm sure your friends would not decline an invite. In fact, if I had the choice to meet President Obama at Five Guys or have Five Guys delivered to us in the White House, well, the choice is easy -- serve me.

Speaking of serving, even if I'm not one of the lucky few to garner an invite to the President's home, I would rather never meet him at all and know that he's in the Oval Office solving some international crisis than shake his hand at the ballpark. Especially if he's going to go to the ballpark looking like this:



He looks like he's smuggling a half-dozen pairs of Depends in those.

But anydumpinthepresidentspants, the reason I bring this up is because of an article I spotted yesterday in the Washington Post. It chronicles the President's semi-frequent jaunts about town to enjoy the "local culture," which, according to the evidence presented in the article, seems to begin and end with artery-clogging foods. Murdering people and further corrupting the local government -- two activities that I've always considered prime examples of Washington DC's "local culture" -- were conspicuously absent.

Now, maybe I'm an idiot (keyword: maybe), but why is any of this important? Does anyone truly think the President grabbing a hotdog will improve the city in any tangible way? All he's really doing is mucking up traffic, making the lines at Ben's Chili Bowl longer and providing easy blog fodder for me. And as I demonstrate here almost every single weekday, none of those things are good for the city. Especially that last one...

Not to mention, every minute Obama spends weaving in and out of DC's retarded traffic patterns (Did you know the only street to have timed traffic lights is 15th?) is one less minute he's spending making sure he earns his $400,000 worth per year.

And since I've discovered that it's apparently street legal to earn $2.37 per hour in DC, this means I should be able to expect the President of the United States to work about 168,776.4 hours per year. Or 3,245.7 hours per week. Or 463.7 hours per day.

Yep, that seems reasonable.

There'll be time to "live life" and "spend time with your wife" and "pay attention to your kids" later. Better yet, employ them. Two birds, one stone, right? Michelle can make sure you leave the house in pants not made for a middle-aged woman and the kids can solve the economic crisis. Make them earn their allowance.

shambles p.i.: khaki love

Despite my general lack of emotion due to running on an operating system largely composed of circuitry, wires and a couple cans of pinto beans, I love love. In fact, I love love so much that I hope not only that everyone finds it one day, but is able to maintain it. (For a post on this subject written by someone with feelings, see here.)

That is, I want us all and our respective significant others (hopefully not all of whom are imaginary) to grow old and gray and khaki together. Like these two, spotted by a reader, holding hands and strolling around what looks to be Logan Circle.


Hot damn! That is A LOT of khaki. But perhaps that's what keeps the love alive, at least that's what the Olde English® (not to be confused with Old English) poet and playwright William Shamblespeare wrote:

Khaki, o khaki!
'Tis thine bland beauty that shalt save the world!
Though thou art a curious chroma,
Thou art also a manila miracle!
A shambly sensation!
Whence wrought by an ecru idol ere time commenced!
But durst I cloth mein mortal parts in neck-to-toe khaki?
And prithee to follow suit to ensure love everlast?
Aye! Aye! O, e'erlasting aye!
For thine bland appearance dost allow us to see thine soul, thine heart, thine true, sanguine guts of love!

Now if that's not pure poetry, then khaki isn't really the true key to finding and maintaining everlasting love. Hmm, methinks I may invest mein shillings in Gap stock.