morse money, morse problems

Despite the 389 bones I'm now raking in thanks to the $25 per week raise given to me by Obama for literally not doing work, my helper tortoise, Vladimir (who I procured last month as an homage to BikeSnob's helper monkey and, later, first introduced last Friday on Why I Hate DC), tells me that it's high time I try to get a sh*tty job. See, not only does he compensate for my lack of functional literacy by reading articles and then tapping summaries out in Morse code for me, but since I've been unemployed, he's also now in charge of running simple errands, as I refuse to put pants on to leave the house.

Now, if I was Vladimir, I'd just be damn thankful to still be employed, but as of yesterday, he's now demanding a raise. Apparently, allowing him unlimited refrigerator time no longer qualifies as bringing home the bacon, or more apropos, bringing home the dark leafy greens. Nope. Now he's demanding I pay him in legal tender, which, thinking back, shouldn't have come as much of a surprise considering he recently started hanging out at the track. (Clearly, he doesn't race himself -- he's a tortoise! He plays the ponies instead.)

But despite his recent foray into the gambling underworld, I must admit Vladimir pulls more than his share of the weight around here. I mean, just look at him!

(Vladimir refuses to be photographed, insisting instead that strangers from www.quiltermuse.com render his visage and his bookkeeping doings in embroidery.)

So, really, lest I hypocritically force my helper tortoise to give up a hobby I, too, greatly enjoy, or, even worse, he finds higher-paying work (I hear despite the economic downturn the helper tortoise market is quite hot), I need to get my job on.

Naturally, having very few marketable skills, there's very few jobs for which I'm qualified to even apply. Now, couple that with a crappy economy and I'm pretty much forced to do what I swore three years ago never to do again after walking out of Banana Republic for the very last time -- work retail. (Vladimir, I hope you realize how much I love you!)

Luckily, there are a few places still hiring, and thanks to Craigslist (which may or may not be finding me a new, cheaper home...and a hooker!), I've narrowed it down to two.

OPTION 1


Sales Associates (Union Station)

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-03-27, 4:29PM EDT

AMERICA! a local retailer is looking for Sales Associates at their Union Station location.

We are looking for team players who are mature, hardworking and experienced retail associates. Schedule must be flexible, able to work evenings and Sundays.

If you are interested in joining our team, please email resume.

Now, this is not a bad option. I mean, first off, I don't know anyone who loves America more than I do. Not even Vladimir, who's Kazakh by ethnicity but a true American at heart. We often spend our evenings celebrating this great nation together chanting "USA! USA! USA!" repeatedly. And slowly, because while I'm vocalizing a letter, Vladimir is frantically tapping away in Morse code. (Dot dot dash -- U! -- Dot dot dot -- S! -- Dot dash -- A!) Clearly, we like to party.

With that kind of patriotic fervor, though, I seem like a shoe-in. The only possible issues I can foresee that could possibly hinder a quick hire are the requirements to be "a team player," "mature" and, most importantly, "hardworking." I hate people, I'm clearly a 12-year-old boy trapped in a 29-year-old woman's body and you know my feelings about wearing pants. I am, however, available to work evenings and Sundays!

OPTION 2


Experienced P/T Sales Associates Wanted

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-03-27, 11:43AM EDT

Pleasure Place, Washington's Premier Upscale Erotic Boutique, is looking for experienced applicants for part-time sales positions. Must be available evenings and weekends. We close at midnight Wed. thru Sat. so please consider transportation before applying. If you are energetic,professional, pleasant, and LOVE retail, we want to meet you. Please apply in person at our Georgetown store located at 1063 Wisconsin Ave., N.W..

So, this blog just got interesting! (It's about time.) Especially if you did any follow-up research on the kinds of products "Washington's Premier Upscale Erotic Boutique" sells. (NSFW, suckers!) Who knew anal pleasure could be so sophisticated!?

Anyfart, while I can't say I'm more qualified for this job over the one at AMERICA!, considering Vladimir and I do not engage in any activities together having to do with, um, pleasure, I do believe I would be a good, er, fit for the Pleasure Palace. Firstly, I'm energetic. You know, after I muster up the wherewithal to put on pants. Secondly, I'm professional. That is, once again, after I put on pants. Lastly, contrary to everything I portray here, I'm extremely pleasant. Although, unlike the previous two requirements, I'm exceedingly more pleasant without pants on. Which, come to think of it, may be perfect for this job!

In short, e-friends, I've got options. Vladimir, you don't need to leave me to go work as a Congressional aide to Ed Markey! (To my dismay, I've just learned there's an offer on the table.) Yep, this is all going to work out just fine. Stay tuned!

spreading the love

I hate to outsource my own blog, but that's exactly what I'm doing today. Although, in a twist of functional retardedness, I outsourced it to myself...to another blog. What's the point you ask? Cross-pollination. Yes, e-friends, like an ambitious insect helping out a plant with an inability to self-pollinate, I spread my proverbial gametes to Why I Hate DC's metaphorical micropyle in an effort to make our respective meadows a little more lush. (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!)

Um...

Or actually, I came across an article that just seemed a better fit to mock over there.

In either case, I implore you to click your e-butts to WIHDC today, but first, I invite you to watch this riveting documentary about plant sex. Giggity giggity goo!

house me

I hate responsibility, which is probably one of the reasons why I am so good at being unemployed. I'm really good at taking naps. I'm an excellent bad television watcher. And I am exceptionally talented at going to museums and making friends with prehistoric creatures:

Hi, friend!

Doesn't he look like a gentle soul? I met him in New York this weekend. You don't find these kinds of gentle souls while being a reporter on the Hill, I tell you what! Anyway, this giant tortoise skeleton's name is Dewey, which also happens to be the name of my niece. And wouldn't you know it, my niece also happens to be a tortoise! Of course, she's not related to me by blood, as I don't believe any of my kin carries the tortoise gene (to our shame); instead, she's adopted, but I don't think my brother or sister-in-law have told her. Anyway, here she is, doing what most babies (and tortoises) do best -- chewing on random sh*t:

Yum?

And speaking of family, Dewey's parents recently went to Florida where my sister-in-law bought what might be the coolest, or more appropriately (wait 'til you see it), "most boss" item to be found in a Goodwill store in the history of ever:


However, owning a jacket this boss could be tough, as I can only imagine, much like raising a tortoise (and having a fulltime job), wearing this much freedom on your back entails a great deal of responsibility. You can't just pop this on and walk out the door. I imagine to sport this properly, one need also don a trucker hat, a gun holster and a belt buckle large (and boss) enough to depict a trucker in a hat holding a gun. Moreover, I'm pretty sure wearing something as boss as this also requires you sleep each night naked wrapped in an American flag, which means, despite my lack of those other boss accessories, my sleeping habits allow me to be at least boss enough to view such a boss item. That reminds me, it's time I put away my winter flannel flag in exchange for a much more spring-appropriate cotton one. No one likes waking up in a cold sweat. That's not boss.

Unless you're a tortoise. Apparently, they can be stored for months in the fridge. Now, that's boss. And maybe I'd look into adopting my own tortoises to live in the vacant spaces of my refrigerator, but, unfortunately, it looks like I may not have my own fridge for much longer. See, I need to move out of my studio apartment, which shouldn't be that hard considering I will have no tortoises to transport or much bedding to move (just the two flags).

And while eventually I'll type "I need to move" followed by the phrase "out of this hell hole," right now I simply mean I'm looking to move into a cheaper DC abode...with (gasp!) roommates. Which, I suppose, could be boss. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I can't afford my hobo lair anymore, but with big plans coming up this fall, which may or may not involve an around-the-world trek in search of my very own boss Signature Marine Co. windbreaker and finding good homes for wayward tortoises, it's time for me to start tucking away some cash between the folds of my mattress and Old Glory (the cotton one). The $25 stimulus bonus I'm getting each week courtesy of President Obama just isn't cutting it. So now I'm looking for a new spot under $700 starting in May. So, if you know of anyone with a room cheap enough to house an unemployed rogue blogger with dreams of becoming a badass jacket-wearing, tortoise-rescuing bike messenger, drop me a line. That'd be super boss.

In the meantime, I'll be spending my days scouring Craigslist, where I will continue to be disappointed because of all the un-boss ads like this:


$600 ******Beautiful room for rent******* affordable

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-03-26, 11:54AM EDT

Don't spend Inauguration week commuting for hours! I offer a suite on Capitol Hill, FOUR BLOCKS FROM THE CAPITOL BUILDING and Obama's swearing-in ceremony, 4 blocks from the metro, and two blocks from historic Capitol Hill bars!!! No cars, buses, train tickets needed -- just wake up and go to all the events and trendy bars/restaurants at your leisure. This beautiful, fully-furnished 2 br suite at 4th and E. Capitol SE is available...

Let's see here. This ad was put up just before noon today. Now, I never claimed to be the most punctual of people, but I do believe this ad is a good TWO MONTHS TOO LATE. So, yeah. Like I said, if you know of any rooms for rent IN THE PRESENT TIME, I'd greatly appreciate a head's up.

In closing, I would like to add that I was just giving you the business about me not being responsible. I love paying bills on time, paying rent on time and cleaning up after myself. Seriously. I'm boss like that.

i want your package

Well, let me rephrase that. I want to deliver your package. More specifically, I want to deliver your package on a bike. Unfortunately, I'm not all connected in the scene and, therefore, have no idea where to even start looking for this type of work. Plus, an article published a couple weeks ago in City Paper would have me believe that 1) only old men are bike messengers in DC and 2) I look way too "corny" to be a true messenger.

Thumbs up to safety in the slums.

And while the said "corniness" of my attire may be found in several different items of apparel, including the Golden Girls-worthy cardigan that I inherited from my grandma, the corniest item of them all, according to the bike messengers quoted in the CP article, is my sweet helmet.

Now, I'll admit, the helmet is a new addition to my biking wardrobe. I only recently got around to digging it out of the closet after being peer pressured into it via multiple dirty looks from other cyclists one day while tearing up the C&O Canal at nearly 10 miles per hour, helmet-less.

And while many of you safety and common sense advocates (and my mom) may now be exhaling a sigh of relief at seeing one less helmet-less asshole on the streets, I implore you to stop because, really, the safety aspect of me wearing such a helmet is pretty questionable. In fact, in a twist that only a true idiot like myself could induce, it seems I now ride even more recklessly than I did before. (That bus asked to be cut off!) I can only guess that some misguided psychological aspect is at play making me feel some sense of false security. For example, if I get clotheslined by a vehicle now, at least my noggin will remain intact. Right? Anyone? By the way, I like that word noggin. Probably because it sounds like egg nog and I like booze.

And speaking of that last sentence, which clearly indicates I suffer from at least a small amount of mental disability, perhaps I've already accrued brain damage. That would explain a lot. (Although, really, that effing bus was truly asking for it.) But regardless of the reasons behind my scofflaw sensibilities, it would seem that if safety isn't the primary reason I've decided to sport the bike helmet, it must be because I like the way it looks. It's so spacey!

So spacey, in fact, that as I look again at that picture of me in my hobo lair (yes, that is random garbage scattered about in the background), I remind myself a bit of Cakey, everyone's favorite cake from outerspace.



Wait. Cakey doesn't remind me of myself at all. Well, except for that we both have the ability to turn stuffed animals into soy milk by shooting lasers out of our eyes. But that's where the similarities end! I mean, Cakey doesn't wear a helmet. In fact, I don't think Cakey even rides a bike. And, of course, there's also his unnatural attraction toward 13-year-old boys, and truly, even if I was able to travel back to the year 1962 when Norm Coleman was turning 13, that would still never happen. Wow. This blog just got (more) awkward. Hmm. Let's just forget I tried to compare myself to an extraterrestrial, child molesting cake and try to move on.

So how about that weather? Pretty nice, eh? Yeah.

Outfit details: Cardigan -- vintage; T-shirt: bought at a Bright Eyes/Cursive show in Omaha 2000; Tank -- Filene's Basement; Jeans -- Joe's; Boots -- Steven by Steve Madden; Headgear -- Bell.

By the way, please do let me know if you have any contacts in the messengering business: theantidc@gmail.com. Thanks! AND WEAR A HELMET! Corny is cool.

a fall in spring (LOL!)

Do you ever find yourself standing upright one minute, leaning nonchalantly against your bike like James Dean would a wall only to find yourself sprawled out on the floor the next minute, bike and limbs all askew with a couple of scrapes on your ankle? No? Well, I do. Or rather I did. Yesterday to be exact. Some will deduce that I'm just extraordinarily clumsy while not moving (weirdly, I've never fallen off my bike while in motion; in fact I'm quite stealthy on it when it comes to dangerously weaving in and out of traffic). Others (and by others I mean me) will reason that this unfortunate fall (or fortunate if you were the lucky sole observer of this action) was simply a natural reaction of post-traumatic-stress disorder. Or as we fallen soldiers usually call it PTSD.

Not to make light of war, but the revelation that caused my PTSD-like reaction calls for such a dramatic metaphor because what I'm about to say is truly shocking. See, I found something cool in Georgetown. I told you it was heavy. And I'm not even being ironic, sarcastic or otherwise jackass-y. Nope. I'm serious. Dead serious. War serious. I found a legitimately cool spot in the epicenter of douchedom -- CycleLifeUSA.

Located at the very south end of the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal Trail, which I plan to camp on sometime in the middle of next week to see what my hobo lifestyle will really be like when I stop paying rent, the Cycle Life shop is not only a bike shop with some of the nicest and most helpful employees I've ever met in DC (this is a big deal as good customer service here usually means simply not getting punched in the face), but this joint also has a delicious juice bar and a gym inside. And while, clearly, that last part does not interest me as I don't see the point in indoor gyms when you can bike and run outside, the former -- the delicious juice bar -- is pretty damn sweet, especially after riding the trail. My mango-peach-strawberry-pomegranate smoothie was so damn good I was floored. Literally.

Moving on, however, I want to discuss a topic that really put my circuitry and wires on the fritz today -- politicians are now on TMZ. For those of you who live outside the country or for those of you in this country who are simply profoundly retarded, TMZ is a show that brings what paparazzi do to the small screen. Most of the time you get to see Lindsay Lohan sniffing coke, Paris Hilton sniffing coke, or Mel Gibson hating Jews (which he probably does after sniffing coke). Today, however, it's not uncommon to see your local senator or representative simply being a tool. As if we needed further confirmation of this. Oh look! Politicians refuse to say anything definitive or make jokes because they're scared to piss off their constituents! Wowzers. For once, I'm convinced sniffing a little coke would actually make these people less douchey. For example, when jokingly asked by TMZ which mattress politicians would recommend their constituents store their money under, only Rep. Denis Kucinich (D-Ohio) was able to give a definite response. He recommends a Serta. All the other politicians refused to specify because, douche forbid, they say one brand only to anger one or two assholes in their districts that sleep on another. Or who don't own mattresses. Or whatever.

Ugh.

This culture of neutrality, political correctness and not taking a sides (even if it's clearly a joke and has no meaningful ramifications) explains why things suck so hard in DC. The people in charge are scared of their own opinions. They're scared of humor. Most of all, they're scared of what other people may think of them. We're in a culture here where not having any personality is suddenly the most coveted characteristic in a human being. At least publicly. And it's ridiculous. More ridiculous than falling down while standing still.

So far, TMZ, which is known for catching people off guard, has failed to show any politician not acting like a complete douche, which further confirms my opinion that to be a politician one must not only act like a douche, but actually be a douche.

I guess there is a bright side to learning what I'd already suspected and not only because I'm proven right again. Nope. Hopefully, once TMZ learns that there is nary a smidgen of humor in this town they will turn their attention back to Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers. It's about time those kids got caught sniffing coke.

More importantly, the last thing politicians need is to be treated like actual celebrities. Lest we forget, these douchebags are public servants by law. And just because they no longer serve the public as much as they serve themselves (giggity), it's no reason to equate them with the likes of Britney Spears. Although, in all honesty, she's probably just as qualified to hold office as Al Franken (D-Minn.). I will never forgive him for kicking, Norm Coleman, the hottest man to ever grace the legislative branch with his presence, to the curb. Ever.

The only thing that can cheer me up now is a delicious smoothie. A Norm Coleman smoothie!

And so, since it's apparently come to that, I will sign off the e-Web until next week and not solely to cry about the lack of Norm in my life (although that will take up the next 24 hours). In the other 72, I'll be heading to New York City, where, unlike Minneapolis, I probably won't be popping a 40 oz. bottle of Miller High Life and then sipping it out of a champagne glass in a classy restaurant. Instead, I will simply drink it out of a paper bag on the street because New York City is expensive. That's right, if I fall down while standing still again, I'm gonna do it for the right reasons -- public intoxication. Which reminds me of tomorrow, the first day of spring. If ever there was a non-holiday perfect enough for an Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate, this is it. So, please, in lieu of my impending absence, accept this original e-card as a token of how much I will miss both impressing and alienating you tomorrow. Ciao!

i'm getting a bailout bonus!

All this talk about AIG is a little annoying. In fact, it's downright offensive. Why can't we just let those who failed to do their jobs adequately get money from the government? There's nothing wrong with a little welfare. Even if that welfare means getting a bonus for $6.5 million for totally f*cking our economy. So what! As if AIG employees were the first ones to receive money for failing! Just look at me!


What a fine screenshot capture...for a hawk. For those of you without the eyesight of an accipitridae, allow me to retype the "NEWS!" printed in red that popped up from the DC Office of Unemployment on my account summary this morning:

"It is our pleasure to announce that your weekly benefit amount has increased by $25.00 as a result of the Federal Stimulus Package. This increase is effective the week ending 02/28/09 and ends the week ending 07/03/10 and is based upon your continued eligibility for benefits."

While I hate to talk sh*t about money I'm receiving for no good reason (i.e., apparently this blog was just too cool for school, or rather too offensive for the workplace), I can't help but draw a parallel here. In essence, aren't AIG employees and I both getting rewarded for failure? Granted the former's failure affected the entire state of the nation, while mine simply affected the state of my personal finances, but, really, if you warp your brain a bit, drop any modicum of common sense and maybe get a little drunk, you'll see that these situations are simply two sides of the same devalued coin. We're both getting money for doing absolutely nothing!

Why is it OK to give a bunch of unemployed hobos (I can say that because I am one of them) stimulus money while we're seemingly embarking on a modern-day witch hunt of the rich? In fact, to really get all libertarian-crazy on you, I'll take it a step further: The former situation is possibly even more unjust than the latter. After all, the government is not contractually obligated to give me my $25 bonus each week. AIG was. Had AIG not paid those bonuses (or as I prefer to pluralize it, boni), the government would have probably had to spend more on a bailout to settle several thousand lawsuits than it did to simply follow the law (flawed as it may be) and do what modern American capitalism is designed to do in the first place, that is to make the rich richer. Good ol' freedom...

So where does this leave me and my reprehensible welfare? Well, I still have $9,000 more to collect and, considering I possess no true morals, I'll easily be able to ignore everything I just said and continue to happily cash your checks. (Thanks employed taxpayers!)

However, just because I'm raking in a fat $359 a week doesn't mean I'll continue to laze about rationing beans and watching Tyra Banks all day (I only do that from noon-1 p.m.). Oh no, I'm intrepid. I will continue to look for work. In fact, I just applied to work as a bike messenger. Why not? I own a bike. I own a bag. I use both on a daily basis. I might as well cash in on that.

Yet while delivering sh*t in a timely fashion sounds like a good temporary fit, I think my more permanent path might be peddling the SlapChop. And yes, I mentioned the SlapChop yesterday, but fear that not all of you clicked on the link. Even if you did, this clip bears repeating. Firstly, because of Vince, who, unlike derivative traders, is definitely earning every dollar he makes, and secondly, because of the SlapChop. It's not just about chopping sh*t, it's about making your life exciting via tuna salad. Also, it's about listening to what Vince says 55 seconds into the video and then listening to it again 50 more times (100 if you're unemployed).



"YOU'RE GONNA LOVE MY NUTS!"

you're gonna love my nuts

Well, I'm back from my homeland where, don't you know, I managed to pick up my old accent. Oofta! Hot dish!

It's really a beautiful thing. Or at least beautifully irritating. Oh yah.

However, while I wasn't exaggerating my vowel sounds and talking about Jello casseroles, I was exaggerating my vowel sounds and going to some pretty sweet places and learning what I think most of us already knew -- Minneapolis is way more legit than DC, and not just because it hosts the Town Talk Diner, which serves its 40 ounces on ice and its PBR cans in cozies, although that is just about enough to make any city cool. But no, what I'm referring to is the general feel of the city. See, unlike DC, which is a soulless, concrete succubus, Minneapolis actually has an identity that doesn't begin and end in a chili restaurant. (No offense, Ben's Chili Bowl, but one longstanding establishment does not a legitimate city make.)

To illustrate this comparison I've formulated yet another example from my generic knowledge of both Minneapolis and DC: Purple Rain, starring Prince (!), was filmed in Minneapolis. St. Elmo's Fire, starring a bunch of has-been assholes, was filmed in DC. Let's see -- awesome rock star vs. a bunch of brats who need acting lessons. Rock star wins.

But I digress, this comparison is rather pointless as I'm pretty sure I can compare DC to any number of things and DC would always lose. Think about it: National Asbestos Awareness Week -- DC loses; the SlapChop infomercial ("You're gonna love my nuts.") -- DC clearly loses; a rabid raccoon -- DC loses; armed terrorists -- OK, this one is too close to call. But threats to our lives aside, I'm guessing if you're not profoundly retarded (that's the technical term, look it up!), you get what I'm saying. DC sucks. Duh.

More importantly for this post, however, I want to emphasize that Minneapolis pretty much rules. Besides the Town Talk Diner, there's Grumpy's (if you order an appetizer, note that you will not need to order a meal), First Ave. (featured in Purple Rain, mind you!), Pot O' Gold Bingo Hall (although, unfortunately, I missed this establishment this time around), Zantigo, the best little Mexican fast-food dirthole restaurant around, and even the Mall of America, which never fails to give me a headache, but mostly because I have to leave my pistol in the car.


Not having my gun handy became extraordinarily frustrating when I ran into several large Lego® dinosaurs because, naturally, I wanted to shoot them. Luckily, I quickly realized they weren't live big game, so I used my camera to shoot them instead. (Get it? Har har!)






Now that's some Lego® art! And speaking of art, we also made our way down to the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden, where I found this:


They popped the cherry off the spoon! Damn maintenance. But at least my footprint may be forever immortalized (well, until April) in the refreezing ices and snows of the North.


And if that's not enough to convince you of Minneapolis' superiority to DC, entertain this: You can get a 1 bedroom apartment (not a studio, mind you) in one of the coolest areas of town for UNDER $700. Oh yah, just think about that next time you find yourself getting shot while going home to your tiny basement apartment in the ghetto or the "group house" you share with 314 other people. Oofta, indeed.

Oh and lest I forget it's St. Patrick's Day today, please accept this Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate as my welcome home e-gift to you. Greetings!

get out of town!

Finally, the feds did something right. And I'm not just talking about designating the first week in April "National Asbestos Awareness Week," although I'm still left wondering when other silicate minerals will get their respective awareness weeks. TRY AS YOU MIGHT, CONGRESS, BUT YOU CANNOT, NAY, WILL NOT DENY GLAUCOPHANE AND ARFVEDSONITE FOREVER! BASTARDS!


But I digress, double chain inosilicates aside, what I'm typing about here is the $900 million that the U.S. Department of Transportation pledged in order to build the elusive "silver line" to Dulles International Airport. It's the mode of transportation those of us too poor to pay for a SuperShuttle but somehow rich enough to jet-set have been waiting for. Um, and apparently will be waiting for until 2015. Yay.

Regardless of the delays, though, this is exceptional news--righteous even--because, as regular readers should know by now, there's nary an activity this blog supports more than getting the f*ck out of this backwards village we call Washington, DC. In fact, I'm going to go out on a stalactite here and say that if DC were a silicate mineral, it would be grossular for the sole reason that "gross" is embedded in the word. Get it? DC is gross. And I mean "gross" as in "gnarly" not "gross" as in short for "grossularia," which means "gooseberry" in Greek and is what grossular, the actual mineral, is named after. Oofta! That was a mouthful. Of words, that is, and unfortunately not of delicious gooseberries. Too bad.

Well, now that that's cleared up let's move on to more important business. I am, in fact, getting the f*ck outta town, as I so eloquently put it earlier. I won't be leaving from Dulles, but I will be leaving on an aeroplane, which I am spelling that way to be extra pretentious.

And speaking of pretentiousness, my sojourn away from hell means that I (probably) won't be gracing you all with my e-presence for the rest of the week, which I'm sure you'll all weep over. Instead, I'll be spending my time poppin' bottles (or at least unscrewing them) and sipping the Champagne of Beers® out of an actual champagne glass because that's just the kind of class I like to propagate around here.


And, yes, that is a 40 oz. of Miller High Life being chilled on a block of ice as if it were a fine wine. A fistful of montmorillonite* and a personalized Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate® to anyone who can guess where I'm going!

*Clearly, I'm kidding about the fistful of montmorillonite. In tough times like these, I can't just go around giving away so carelessly my rainy-day stash of phyllosilicates that I keep hidden under my mattress. That just wouldn't be prudent. The Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate®, however, I can probably manage.

people are smarter than me

Or perhaps this is simply a sign of the coming apocalypse? Kind of like the plethora of used condoms sprinkled around at least one of DC's public parks? What I'm saying is that times are rough. So rough, in fact, that SOMEONE IS PROPOSING TO EXCHANGE CONCERT TICKETS (and good ones at that!) FOR A JOB!

And because I'm retarded and can't figure out how to post a screen capture that is actually readable, here's what this proposal states:

2 Tickets Modest Mouse - 9:30 Club (Free if...) - $1 (DC)

Reply t0: [deleted]

Hi there,

I'm unable to attend the show that night and would like to give you my tickets (2 total).

My tickets are free to the first person who helps me find a new job.

That's right--free. No joke, I swear.

I'm ready for a career change. I'm a published writer currently working in news. I am open to new and interesting possibilities, thus the job does not have to be journalism-related.

If you have any ideas/tips/contact information that directly help in landing me a new full-time career, the tickets are yours.

But you must hurry, the show is only a week away.

Thanks for your help and consideration.

Um, wow. That's nothing short of brilliant. And desperate. So desperate, in fact, that someone wrote me to ask if I had posted that ad. Now, I can't say I'm not at least slightly flattered. For one, it means this blog has at least one reader. Hooray! More importantly, though, it means someone believes I'm savvy enough to propose a so-harebrained-it-just-might-work scheme like this.

At the same time, however, I must admit I'm a bit disenchanted that this reader thought it was me. This Craigslist poster clearly indicates that he or she is currently employed and any attentive reader of this blog would surely know by now that, save for actually being able to collect my welfare due to a wee dispute, I'm as unemployed as I can possibly get. Also, in no way shape or form do I want to work. That's gross. But despite what seems like an obvious tell that the aforementioned genius is NOT me, I still love this reader just as much as I love my real-life friends. Maybe even more. Because I'm creepy.

And I'm also stupid! Which is why I regret to reveal that I did not post that advert.

Luckily, however, I'm not so stupid that I won't jack this idea if it turns out to actually work. Yep, I'm just creepy enough to do that. Obviously. So, anonymous Craigslist poster, if you're out there and you've stumbled upon the e-glory hole that is this blog, reveal yourself and let me know if this so-crazy-it-can't-not-work idea somehow works. I believe in you. Here's to hoping another Modest Mouse fan does too. Godspeed.

---

And ahhh sh*****t. It seems I've been scooped. Damn you, DCist! Damn you!

i did NOT jizz in my pants

I decided to go for a jog for the first time in a couple of days weeks months OK goddammit, years on Friday, which turned out to be simultaneously one of the most refreshing and disgusting experiences I've had in quite a while. It was refreshing, of course, because it's nice to be able to work off a few bean calories to make room for more moonshine; but disgusting, I say, because when my jog took me down to Meridian Hill Park between Columbia Heights and U Street, I had to alter my straight lines of movement into a cha-cha-like jump when I confronted not one, not two, but COUNTLESS used condoms.

Now many of you may remember one of my very early complaints about DC, which was about the plethora of Band-Aids on the sidewalks around town. That was gross, of course, but it was understandable. People get blisters. People then cover those blisters with Band-Aids. Said Band-Aids cannot withstand the conditions of sweaty feet. Ergo, Band-Aids find their ways onto a sidewalk more often than probably necessary, especially since most of the shoes I see people wearing around here don't seem to warrant sacrificing comfort for aesthetics. SHAMBLES!

But let's not get sidetracked by inappropriate city footwear. Let's return to people apparently having lots of dirty sex in a public park. (Giggity giggity!)

I get it (sorta). I mean, times are tough. Maybe your bank foreclosed on your house. Maybe you couldn't make that car payment. Maybe you're not Eliot Spitzer and couldn't afford to take your hooker to a nice hotel. Maybe you couldn't even afford a room at the HoJo. Like I said, I get it.

But only sorta. See, all of these used prophylactics were found in open spaces, often smack in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to do a jig around the jizz. Now, if it was me gettin' busy in the park, I'd choose a more private locale. Maybe a grassy knoll behind a bush, or at least a non-paved path somewhere in the depths of the park, opposed to the concrete and tar sidewalk on the perimeter. That just can't be pleasant. (Ouch.)

But despite my confusion and disgust, I am somewhat pleased because at least these freaks in the park are being safe. It's called the bright side, e-friends, and I'm trying desperately to look at it right now to suppress my urge to vomit. Although, if I just vomited after imbibing my delicious bean recipes, perhaps I wouldn't have to go jogging in the first place, let alone jogging through random dudes' spunk. What a novel idea!

But joking about serious eating disorders aside, I'm most upset about this sticky situation (har-har!) because I hate litter. In a country full of public garbage cans, littering is highly unnecessary. And clearly, I'm not the first one to say this. Our government has said this for quite sometime! And so dramatically at that!

I, too, just shed a single tear. Now, please, do DC a favor and clean up after your splooge. Thanks.

e-lost and found

For those of you following me on Twitter (by the way, I almost "tweeted" this last night: "I like popcorn."), you may have caught onto the fact that I love the show LOST (and hate The View, but that's another non-story for another place in the space-time continuum). Anyway, LOST is truly a smashing television program because it's not simply just another show to me; it's a work of art. Unlike normal television shows not catered to freaky geeks who love weird science, LOST's complicated plotline finds its base in theoretical physics where time is malleable, magic dudes with a knack for eye-liner application never age and, well, finally I prefer the blond to the brunette when it comes down to who's hotter between two of the main protagonists, Sawyer or Jack. Sawyer, hands dastardly down and shirts heroically off, is WAY hotter than Jack. In fact, every (non-morbidly obese) male character, save for Benjamin Linus, is hotter than Jack because Jack, as it turns out, is a major tool. (As is Benjamin Linus.)

Jack's problem is that he's conventional, boring, an uncreative thinker and, most importantly, way too goddamn serious all the time. Jack is DC. Sawyer, on the other attractive hand, is the antithesis. He's unconventional, entertaining, extremely creative and funny. He's also apparently an avid reader of actual books and not just The Economist on the metro, which makes him representative of some sort of far-off magical island where all of your dreams come true. Wait. No, that's John Locke (not the philosopher, but yet another LOST character). Which means Sawyer is simply other-worldly. He's representative not of some place, either conventional or strange, but simply of himself -- a quality that seems to be becoming increasingly rarer these days and not just in DC.

People no longer follow their dreams or pursue happiness the way that I believe it was intended in this country. And while some modern-day folk may be perfectly content with their lives as they exist (whether it be because they can afford the high-end call girls, have the all-access badge to Congress or something equally as douchey...or maybe they're just genuinely happy...you bastards!), judging from most of my conversations with people (including many in-depth ones with myself...), many of us are not. I'm not. Or at least I wasn't. But I'm working to change that, which is one of the reasons why my blogging has become rather irregular (unlike my bowel movements -- thank you, beans!)

While I was toiling away in a job I felt no real connection to (like so many of us do), blogging was my main creative outlet. I set aside about an hour or two a day to let my mind flow freely and my fingers tap out rape jokes aplenty. However, since I stopped working my day-job, I now have 40+ more hours per week to focus on what I truly want to do, which so happens to be (probably unsurprisingly) creative writing. Weirdly, with these new projects (one of which happens to be a sitcom pilot, so if anyone has any experience/connections/etc. to that business, please feel free to contact me), the blog -- my once-upon-a-time primary creative outlet -- has become almost unreadably secondary.

And for that I apologize. But what can a girl do? I can't waste all of my A-list cancer jokes online. After all, if you give away the milk for free, who's going to buy the cow? (Yes, I'm pretty sure that's exactly how that phrase was intended to be used.)

But I digress. What this all means is that I'm probably not going to be blogging every day anymore. Last month, as you probably noticed, my posts were subpar at best. I am actually even e-ashamed of some of them. So, let's put those duds in the past, shall we? And instead focus on the future, albeit a more sporadic future, but still a future nonetheless. And a bright one at that. Hopefully brighter than that of Timbuk 3, whose one hit is so apropos right now that I can't help but post it in all of its "VH1's Where Are They Now?" glory:



But for reals, thanks for sticking around with me despite that I've become a sh*tty blogger. And, no joke, if anyone knows anything about the sitcom industry or is possibly interested in comedic acting in what may eventually become a DIY pilot (hey, that's how "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" got picked up!), email me here: theantidc@gmail.com. It's time to get legit. Or at least as legit as this:

if i wanted to live in the third world...

I'd move back there. Instead, it seems the Third World has moved to me in the form of my neighborhood Target store, whose shelves are more barren than the empty hole where my heart should be.


That's where the knickers should be! But as you've noticed by now. THERE'S NARY A PAIR OF DRAWERS THERE! Even when I lived in the former U.S.S.R., I never had this much trouble trying to buy things. Especially undergarments, which were so ubiquitously available that I could pick up a couple of pairs on the street next to the neighborhood vodka stand on my way home from doing whatever sketchy activities I had engaged in the night before that may or may not have resulted in me rolling out of a moving vehicle, breaking into a historical cemetery or otherwise losing my unmentionables at the Kremlin (*wink* Putin!). Although, apparently, since Russia is still "developing," as it were, it can still be a bit dangerous when buying said underwear, but the point is, AT LEAST I CAN BUY IT.

Which is more than I can say for my local Target located in the so-called Capital of the Free World. And while I may not fear being pipe-bombed while I'm shopping like I may have in Moscow, my neighborhood Target does not make me want to chant "USA! USA! USA!" which really says something, as those of you who know me personally know that nearly everything makes me want to chant "USA! USA! USA!"

A cheeseburger? "USA! USA! USA!"

A milkshake? "USA! USA! USA!"

A firearm? "USA! USA! USA!"

Roadkill? "USA! USA! USA!"

Train robbery? "USA! USA! USA!"

Obesity epidemic? "USA! USA! USA!"

But the Columbia Heights Target? Hmm...

And the dearth of underoos wasn't the only problem at this establishment. The good salsa was also gone. And don't even get me started on the bean aisle. In fact, THERE WASN'T EVEN A BEAN AISLE! What kind of Communist Target is this?!

It's stupid. That's what.

What's even more stupid? I then went to the neighborhood grocer and found this:


DISCONTINUED?! NOOOOOO! NOT MY NEWMAN'S OWN BALSAMIC MIST SALAD SPRITZER! O! THE HUMANITY! What will my neighborhood strip from me next? Besides my will to live, I mean, because clearly that's already gone.

something's rotten on h street

After missing the awesomeness that is Passion Pit a few weeks ago due to the very worst fact of life (besides, of course, the fact that Tom Hanks is still making movies based on Dan Brown novellas), I made it out to The Rock'n'Roll Hotel on Friday to catch fellow Minnesotans Tapes 'n Tapes for some live music action. If you don't know them, allow me to say they sound like Minnesota's most famous music men Bob Dylan and Prince had one of them been able to become pregnant and give birth to four nerdy'n'dirty looking dudes. NOT!

In reality, they sound nothing like Dylan or Prince. Instead, they sound like four nerdy'n'dirty dudes who have a knack for manipulating rhythm. Even better than how your Uncle Floyd manipulates an at-home stripper pole. (Trust me, that link is worth clicking on.)

In short, the show was smashing!

Well, except for the crowd, the sound and the overall atmosphere. It went from endearing, like your Uncle Floyd working the pole fully clothed (see above link), to very uncomfortable, like your Uncle Floyd and his rapist glasses working the pole in his panties.

Now, I can't confirm 100 percent, but I'm 100 percent 50/50 that I was one of the very few people who had heard any songs off of Tapes 'n Tapes' first album, The Loon (or as I prefer to call it, the good one), which leads me to believe the largely young, unfortunate-looking crowd was not only young and unfortunate-looking, but also retarded. Case in point, a group of drunk girls, one of which was dressed like Dog the Bounty Hunter, seemed to be more interested in snapping photos of my friend's boyfriend rather than watching the actual show. That's even creepier than your Uncle Floyd perfecting his simple aerial routine.

But all of this would have been forgivable (but still retarded) had the concert not sounded and smelled like I was watching it from inside the rectum of a gigantic butt in need of a pretty intense colonic. Honestly, it was about as enjoyable as watching your Uncle Floyd in his Underoos attempting a cross knee release on the family's basement stripper pole. Wait, it's the opposite of that. Your Uncle Floyd is growing on me.

Luckily, the crowd began to thin out about halfway through the show, either because of the intense heat of the venue or because of the rampant farter whose accompanying stench permeated every nook, cranny and can of Sparks within a 50-foot radius. Thankfully, the gas-passer either knocked himself out or left, as well, because when the crowd thinned and I was able to move forward, I was suddenly able to breath without the aid of a makeshift burka fashioned out of my T-shirt pulled up over my face. Seriously.

And because I dislike the majority of the human race, the show drastically improved after most of the people left. In fact, it improved so much that I was even able to enjoy myself. A little. (I refuse to enjoy myself too much as any unheeded emotion tends to short-circuit my motherboard.)

Next step: Program my circuitry and wires to do this (I must watch it one -- or one-hundred -- more times!):



Seriously. I think I want a stripper pole now. Think of the job prospects! Not for that, pervs, but for my new greeting card business!

i suck at the internet

It has come to my attention that I suck at using the Internet. Clearly, the current status of this blog is Exhibit A, but I'm not as concerned with that. I'm more concerned with THIS. Apparently, it would seem that I've missed viewing JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING WORTHWHILE ONLINE, according to this list compiled by one of those mad geniuses behind Clusterfck. And not only that, but some small-time rag called TIME magazine beat me to the proverbial donkey punch. OUCH!

But who punched whom (in the goodies) first is a moot point as Greg Rutter's List of 99 Things You Should Have Already Experienced on the Internet Unless You're a Loser or Old or Something is must-see no matter who says so.

And while I can't say I've made it through the entire list yet (too busy watching television magistrate shows, clearly), I have been able to catch this gem about 1,000 times:



I need a movie!

Speaking of movies, I'm off to the IMAX! Hooray! Not working still rules.