canned!

What's wickedly offensive, mildly retarded and gets you fired from your job?

THIS BLOG!

It's funny because it's true. Actually, it might be more accurate to describe this blog as mildly offensive and wickedly retarded, but regardless of which adverb goes where, the entire notion of said action is completely absurd. I mean, I can think of at least 100, nay, one million more valid reasons they could've canned me for, but my blog? Really?? Don't get me wrong, I can see firing someone for keeping a blog about something truly controversial, such as "The Pro Jihad" or something, but this is "The Anti DC." I mock Crocs here. And while it may be all retardulous all the time, it's hardly controversial. In fact, it's definitional of benign, in my opinion, which makes this first drama of '09 so dang absurd. But, really, isn't that what makes life worth living? The ridiculously absurd? It certainly makes it more entertaining, especially when you're retardulously benign!

Weirdly, however, while jet-setting in the Third World the other week (a.k.a., possibly my last paid vacation ever) I had decided to more or less quit this blog on account that in the past few months, as I have hinted at now and again, e-barfing all over this space has become more of a stress than a joy. But now, after finding out that, indeed, a part of Washington, DC, still can't take a joke and truly hates laughter ("If you ever want to work in this town again, you better shut that bog* down!"), I think fate decided to punch me in the face on this one. Let's just say this is probably the proverbial kick in the tight pants that I needed to get out of not only a blogging rut (which really doesn't matter), but the rut that has become a life of routine (which does matter, at least to me).

As you may have guessed, I've never been a big fan of "stability," as it were. But shambling, on the other hand...well, hello lover!

And now that I know this little endeavor is apparently not as benign as I had originally thought (although it is certainly as retardulous) and important enough to warrant a good old-fashioned pink-slipping, I am newly reinvigorated to reclaim the shambles-ridden, unstable, hobo lifestyle I was meant to have, as well as to rediscover the joy of no-holds-barred blogging (which would be totally badass, except it's, um, blogging, so it's really just dorky). Oh, and maybe get paid for something I'm possibly talented at (and I'm not referring to hooking). But we'll get to that in a bit.

What's really important here is that this almost unbelievable situation I find myself in is the ultimate validation of this blog's very existence; it proves every single one of my theories about DC correct. Mainly, Washington needs to learn how to take a joke, loosen up, laugh at itself, and at the very least understand the concept of satire. And after having several discussions with people in cities all over the globe regarding my fun Friday afternoon, I've come to the conclusion that this situation is uniquely DC, as most people living and working outside of this tooltastic, uptight world of Washington have reacted with just about as much incredulity as I did ("But you blog about Crocs!"), while my friends in DC have noted, "I could see that. It's symptomatic of DC's douche culture, which requires you to present yourself as a two-dimensional douche-bot whose sole priority is to network with other two-dimensional douche-bots to get ahead. And you're a three-dimensional asshole and a poor thespian, so...yeah. Makes sense in this warped world that something as seemingly silly as a blog that mocks Crocs could matter."

Of course it was other three-dimensional assholes (although better thespians) who told me this, which isn't surprising because it seems 3D-assholes often have the most realistic outlooks on life. It comes down to this -- many of us here (or at least a handful) are all just people, not workaholic douche-bots. The difference between me and, say, a person (read: 3D asshole) who succeeds in and can actually enjoy typical DC is probably just our interests, which doesn't make me better or worse than a legitimately content DC employee, but simply different. I'm just not that into DC. I can't stand bureaucracy, I fail at "networking" and I have an extremely low threshold for self-imposed stress. Moreover, I can't pretend to enjoy something or someone that I feel indifferent toward -- a skill that I never found necessary to excel at until I moved here. (But maybe I've just been lucky?)

Whatever it is, this incident has confirmed my suspicion that DC's douche culture looks down upon those of us who dare to publicly espouse our opinions on life that may not be politically correct, which probably explains why bloggers who are evidently more intelligent than I have made sure to remain anonymous.

So why didn't I? Well, not to toot my own horn rape whistle, but I'm proud of the essays I've accumulated on this blog (or at least not completely ashamed of them). As an aspiring writer with few connections in the business, this isn't just a hobby to me, but a gigantic resume (hence my decision to attach my name and visage to this project). It's also somewhat of a running time capsule of my life and, perhaps most importantly, a means to keep me sane in a community I feel largely alien in. And as long as I'm here (although for how long that will be is currently very much up in the proverbial air), I plan on bringing my patented brand of retardulosity to the e-table, unsensored. Think of me as the Thinking Man's Asshole. Hmm. That sounded better in my head...anyway...

Now, I don't expect most Washingtonians to take it (and definitely not to embrace it), but I'll be damned to an eternal life of wearing badly tailored discount polyester suits before I quit this due to someone telling me it's a "bad career move." In my world, which I won't expect anyone outside my head to understand, this is the best career move I could make. This sh*t is just too legit (at least in my twisted, tiny mind), ergo, I shan't quit.

It also helps now that I have 40 more hours a week to make sure whatever I do decide to post here is worth your time to read and, more importantly in the narcissistic world of blogging, worth my time to write.

But I confess, I won't be spending the entirety of those 40 additional hours each week blogging. And not just because that would be extremely pathetic. I also need to make some money (for booze), which is why I'll be starting my word hustle, hard. See, I'd like to get paid to craft words together that don't have to do with things like "the government," "Congress," or some acronym I'll never memorize. Not that I can't, it's just that I'd rather use my hippocampus to memorize more relevant things, such as all the words to Hall & Oates' "Private Eyes" so I can attack that in future karaoke endeavors, which, incidentally, I now have more than enough free time to actually attend!

And speaking of finding other sources of income, I'll pretty much write for food (and booze) at the moment, so if you read this still benign (and retardulous), but apparently rather controversial e-rag on the daily (I'm talking to you Washington Post and Washingtonian, at least according to my brilliant StatCounter) and need someone to wordsmith an article or two together for you, feel more than free to write to me at theantidc@gmail.com. We can discuss potential projects over a can of hobo beans that I will cook over a garbage-can fire that I light just outside of the double-wide cardboard box that will surely be my home in a couple of months. It'll be like a Parisian sidewalk cafe, except, you know, in the dumpster.

Yet while the economy blows and the chances of me gaining fulltime employment that actually means something to me are slim in the near-term (as is the prospect of me being able to get sick and afford to go to the doctor now), my spirit is surprisingly and rather disturbingly high. It's because I'm still in shock free now. Poor, perhaps, but free from the constraints of a secondhand, neutral-colored cubicle writing about things I have absolutely no passion for and "networking" with people who find me "bitter and frustrated" because I don't fit their description of "serious DC professional." But honestly, if publicly sharing your sense of humor, penchant for creative writing and an opinion outside of the workplace precludes one from that category, then I'll probably never be a serious DC professional. Perhaps, I'll never even work in this town again. Like two ships passing in the night (one outfitted with pleated khaki sails and the other tricked out in Norm Coleman paraphernalia, which is probably even easier to find now considering he was also canned recently -- serendipitous, n'est-ce pas?), I just don't think it was ever really meant to be. And I'm OK with that. In fact, I'm more than OK with that. I'll jump on the Norm Coleman-clad ship, pop on a copy of Christopher Cross's Sailing and keep it Yacht Rock smooth. After all, I already own a pair of Topsiders.

But where the S.S. Norm Coleman will eventually end up is as mysterious as to why not everyone sees the value of having on the payroll an employee whose main talent is cracking rape jokes. However, perhaps the former mystery is better left unsolved because if I did know exactly where the S.S. Norm Coleman would dock, coasting aimlessly through this metaphorical sea of life wouldn't be nearly as exciting. Or as shambley, and we all know how I feel about life's little shambles. (♥♥♥♥♥)

But eff it. Let it be known that this will be the most personal entry I will ever type into this space, meaning anyone who doubted my claims to be composed entirely out of circuitry and wires was right. To my great dismay, I am a real person. A very strange person with a, perhaps, very peculiar set of professional and life goals, but a homo sapien nonetheless. Indeed, I am so homo. But this endeavor was never meant to be a vehicle for this kind of personal discussion, so allow me to continue to do what I apparently do most effectively and alienate humanity.

In fact, to kick off this new era of exciting unknowns and my newly recognized ability to offend to the point of necessary firing, allow me to break open a cheap bottle of e-champagne on the sail-ready dingy that is this blog by serving up my very special brand of humor to my most beloved District of Columbia. I'm sure you'll all just love it.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

9/11.

9/11 who?

*Insert awesomely long pause while I morph the expression on my visage into a warped look of horror, or as my buddy Socrates Johnson dubbed it last week, "gang-bang face."*



But you said you'd never forget!

LOL!

What? Not funny, you say? Hmm...

Watch list for what was that again?

Oh...

Well, then maybe my company, oops, former company was right. Having an employee on a terrorist watch list probably really is a liability. Well, I'll be damned...

P.S. -- God bless the USA. Take that, terrorist watch list! WHAAAAAT!

*And yes, during the course of my canning, it really was called a "bog." More than once. And that's not hatin', that's appreciatin'. While I certainly won't miss the work, I will definitely miss my coworkers. And the free lunches on Fridays.