give me pancakes or give me death! or at least give me something else equally as high-brow

Whoops. I meant to blog yesterday, but I was too busy trying to find a retail outlet in the actual city of Washington, DC, that could sell me a legitimate sleeping bag (I'm talking compression sack, 20-degree North Face sh*t, not some bulky crap from Target). Turns out there isn't one! HOW IS THIS A REAL CITY?!?! What's next? They'll stop carrying Parmesan cheese at Harris Teeter?! Oh wait! According to a reliable source, that store's done that! Although, actually, apparently the Teet had the cheese in its possession; the employees just refused to cut it and hand it to the paying customer.

Now, I don't have a business degree (hell, I'm barely literate), but that just doesn't seem like a good business plan to me...at least in the First World.

It's sad. Sometimes I have flashbacks to the former Soviet bloc living here, except in these flashbacks, I miss out on the best parts of the Soviet bloc, namely foodstuffs from Georgia (the country, not the state).

But speaking of the state, why isn't there a Waffle House here? Those things are delicious. But that's probably too much to ask considering the IHOP per capita is just one in 591,833 (plus one helper horse named Sven).

F*ck this place.

Wait a second. What's this... Did I f*ck this place too soon? Mayhaps because, according to that DCist link, IHOP is in negotiations with my neighborhood suburban-like shopping complex to unleash its delicious caloric goodness on Columbia Heights!

This delights me. Nay, this tickles me. What's better than all you can eat pancakes starting at $4.99?!

Right. Maybe some neighborhood charm...

But charm shmarm! We're talking about Columbia Heights here! I'll head to Mt. Pleasant if I want charm (Burritos Fast is quite charming). Plus, I love pancakes, those buttermilk golden discs of wonder smothered in maple syrup served hot (or in IHOP's case, lukewarm) off the griddle...mmm...

Unfortunately, it looks like I'm rather alone in my intense love of mass-produced hotcakes, at least according to 14th and U, whose author did the dirty (read: dull) job of sifting through all the reactions on DCist, many of which seem to hate pancakes and, ergo, freedom, but somehow buy into the notion that Columbia Heights should remain free of such low-class chains. (Sidenote: I'm willing to bet these are the same people that go to Starbucks on the daily and hit up Target at least once a week to buy whatever mass-produced items made by children in Taiwan that they "need.")

"Kill me now."

"That is terrible news!"

"Ghetto…"

"IHOP has no business being in CH."

"if IHOP is uprooting Ellwoods, that would be a public health and urban planning disaster."

"There goes the neighborhood again!!! Just when we were coming up in the world!"

"IHOP is low brow in my opinion. It appeals to a wide range of people, including the lowest common denominator of consumer."

Um, all you haters can suck my syrup?


And, apparently, you can suck 14th and U's syrup as well. (Actually, I'd suggest you ask first...unsolicited syrup sucking doesn't sound street legal...) That blog makes a very good point:

It's really that last comment I want to focus on, because it was prefaced by this:

"For renters, (IHOP) increases the amenities for the hood. For the homeowners, I would think it decreases the trajectory a bit."

Translation: Homebuyers didn't pay $500,000 for a 2 bedroom luxury condo to live above a chain pancake shop, and they didn't pay that to have "the lowest common denominator" running around their neighborhood. (Although I'm willing to bet that if you took IHOP's menu and plastered it under the logo of some independent non-chain establishment with a name like "Syrup" and charged $4 more per item, the idea would go over like, um, hotcakes.)

First off, I enjoyed that hotcake pun, so kudos, e-friend. Second off, 14th and U's analysis is spot on. So spot on, in fact, that I'm going to rehash it here but with less analysis and more insults. People are stuck up bitches. May I also add, they're often quite hypocritical. Like I said above, I would bet my entire low-brow minimum wage that the people who complained of the "ghetto-ness" of said venture are the same people who help keep Target in business so they can buy bottled water in bulk, pack it up nicely in plastic bags and drive it home in their Prius (hitting a cyclist or two along the way) to their cookie-cutter condos where they lament about the environment. And pancakes.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like the idea of mom and pop ventures (Double shout out to Burritos Fast!), but Columbia Heights is not exactly that kind of neighborhood. In fact, it's arguable if Columbia Heights -- at least the part that hosts the DCUSA complex -- is even a neighborhood at all. To me, it looks more like a retail park one would find out in Fredricksburg, Va.

Look, the DCUSA complex is exactly that -- a complex. Complexes are not neighborhood-y; they're not high-brow. And like 14th & U pointed out, DCUSA already houses mom and pop haters like Target, Marshalls, Payless, Lane Bryant, Office Depot, Radio Shack, and a slew of other chains...so what would be the big deal if IHOP moved in? I mean, for processed food's sake, RUBY TUESDAYS is already ACROSS THE STREET. I've been to Ruby Tuesdays. While it might be the most exclusive joint in Russellville, Ark. (seriously, due to it being located in a dry county, they had to turn it into a "private club," which means you need a membership card to get it, and in case you're wondering, of course, I have the card because I'm cool...in Russellville, Ark.).

But the exclusivity of rural Ruby Tuesdays aside, the bottom line is this: Columbia Heights is already well on its way to suburban sprawl hell, despite that it's situated in the middle of a major city. Perhaps it shouldn't be this way. Perhaps it would be nicer to be able to go to some less "ghetto" independent diner to get your delicious pancake fix, but you know what? Beggars can't be choosers. Columbia Heights is already ruined. Would the installation of an IHOP really make it any less neighborhood-y? No. But what it will do is make it tastier.

Now, if only an effing REI would move into DCUSA...

the atmosphere also hates dc

It's no riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma (big up to Winston Churchill!) that DC blows. I've unscientifically proven that here, here and here. I could list more, but I'll let the title of this blog speak for itself.

However, after perusing some of the past 400 (yes, FOUR HUNDRED) posts I've somehow managed to conjure up, I've found a pattern in my complaints. Not everything seems to suck in DC. In fact, most things about DC that I've come to hate have to do with things people have control over. That is, the reasons why DC blows has nothing to do with the city necessarily, but instead with the people and policies (which are imposed on us by people) that run this inexhaustible goblet we call home.

For example, ever since I started working for $2.37 an hour down in Georgetown, I've come to realize that Georgetown, the physical neighborhood, is one of the most scenic parts of DC. The thing is, it's hard to notice the legitimate beauty of the ante- and post-bellum architecture when it's swarmed by roving grists of jagbags. Not only do all the mismatched colors in their patchy madras have the same effect on me as the Department of Homeland Security's "Puke Saber" technology, but between all the high-fives and shouts of "brah!" my senses on M Street are about as acute as Helen Keller's.

But imagine this: Imagine a world in which Georgetown was the quaint seaport neighborhood it was meant to be. Instead of tip-toeing around piles of puke left behind not from the Puke Saber but from drunk douches, you'd be tip-toeing around parades of baby ducks taking a break from swimming around the C&O Canal. The federal and classical revival structures would be in full view and you'd be enjoying a lovely grape and lime flavored sno-cone, at least in my post-apocalyptic Georgetown fantasy. I love sno-cones.

Indeed, Georgetown would be lovely without people.

Moving north, my neighborhood, Mt. Pleasant, would be a much more, uh, pleasant place if the people who manage this city cared about its residents more than vehicle commuters. Although perhaps it was ultimately my fault for choosing an apartment that overlooks 16th Street, I find it ridiculous that any city street in a residential neighborhood would ever be five lanes wide. That's wider than several major highways and freeways. Sure, this may make it easier for the suburban jagbags to get into the city (perhaps, to pollute the simple beauty of Georgetown), but what does this do for the residents, the people DC lawmakers are supposedly elected to serve? It does nothing but wake us up at 6:30 am when the morning commute starts. This makes us angry. And tired. But heaven forbid this city's lawmakers make any move to encourage alternative methods of commuting (train/bus/bike) and improve the lives of its denizens by installing a tree-lined center island to decrease traffic or, at the very least, prevent people from barrelling through at 50+ miles per hour.

Oh, Washington, DC: The Little City That Could.

I-think-it-can. I-think-it-can. I-think-it...wait. Why am I sweating?

Oh, BECAUSE IT'S 90 EFFING DEGREES. IN APRIL.

What the hell is this? Just when I think DC, itself, could be cool and it was just the people and policies that ensure this city remains a pock on America's freedom-loving face, something beyond human control comes along and proves me wrong. DC blows because of the weather.

Or maybe this isn't simply atmospheric whim. Maybe the atmosphere hates DC more than I do. I mean, why is it that Spring refuses to even visit? Could reducing traffic help us? Maybe banning madras on anyone over the age of 10? Would that help? Tell me, Spring, what do I need to do to make you comfortable here? I'll put my Puke Saber away so it won't accidentally hurt you! I need you, if only for a week or so! I love layering too much! I have so many spring-themed outfits in mind! But without you, nary a layer I can even wear!

Also, I want to cycle around town (dodging traffic, of course) without sweating through my shorts! I want to make the most out of underemployment by finding a shady spot in Meridian Hill Park to read my book! (By the way, I highly recommend The Russian Debutante's Handbook.) I want to busk by setting up my Dildo Street Puppet Theater in Dupont Circle!

Yet here I am. Indoors. Plans thwarted.

Or are they? Spring have you heard my cry? Science is telling me it's going to be 70, 63 and 73 degrees, respectively, on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Is that true? If so, Spring, you can stay longer if you want.

DC, don't f*ck this up.

thrift store shorts, "needy ho's" and the artist you've been waiting for

A funny thing happened while I was trying to take a self-portrait of my outfit last night. I captured myself tripping over a wayward sneaker.


Clearly, I need to do two things: 1) Get a camera that has a self-timer that doesn't operate in another space-time continuum (that was not 10 seconds); and 2) Get my helper horse Sven to do a better job of cleaning up after myself.

Or, I suppose, I could just watch where I step, but then where would the joke be in that?

Anyway, balance issues or not, this is what I wore yesterday. In the rain. In the hail. In the cold.

Let's just say it wasn't necessarily the smartest choice a girl could make, but at least I looked cool, right?

Or maybe just poor, as most of the items I'm wearing are from thrift stores. The rest of the ensemble comes from discount bins in various already-discount stores like Target and H&M. Really, the only item that should've cost me money is the Argentine leather jacket, which I found several years ago marked down from about $400 to $100 in Bloomingdale's Soho location.

But despite the frugality of the above ensemble, I think it worked out well, you know, as long as I stayed indoors. My doorman certainly thought so...which is actually a little more creepy than it is complimentary now that I think about it.

What was complimentary, though, was when my favorite coworker at the sex shop (he's fabulous!), called me a fashion guru.

But as nice as it was to hear a sincere non-sexual, strictly fashion-related compliment on my chosen ensemble, I know in my heart I am no fashion guru. Nope. I'm just a girl who coordinates well. The only true fashion guru in this world is Russian pop sensation Vitas. Not Karl Lagerfeld. Not Marc Jacobs, whose last few collections I actually despise. And certainly not Gordon Smith (R-Ore.), who consistently ranks at the top of what is probably the dumbest category ("Best Dressed") in the dumbest survey ("Best & Worst of Congress") I've ever heard of existing. Seriously, turning Congress into a high school popularity contest does not make it any more appealing. But back to business, fashion business, nay, Vitas business. Behold!


Not only is Vitas's outfit ions more fashion-forward than mine, but it's also more weather-appropriate. In fact, look at him there. He's telling that large piece of steaming hail that he'll see it in hell!

And speaking of hell -- hella awesome, that is! -- get a load of Vitas's skills. He's not just all sequins and platform shoes, he's also the self-proclaimed "Artist You've Been Waiting For." And by artist, I mostly me he's, um, a totally competent dancer with, uh, the voice of an angel?



Dreams, indeed, Vitas. Dreams, indeed.

So, while flannel and a pair of DIY cutoffs may count as guru-level in this town, I think it's only fitting I deflate my overinflated ego by reminding myself about what Europe, well, Eurasia was doing seven years ago. Thank you, Vitas. More importantly, thank you to your outfit that looks like its about to Little Shop of Horrors your ass.


Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make like a DC cop and go join the Make It Rain On Them Ho's Foundation, whose mission is as serious about making it rain on "needy ho's" (or hoes, rather, although not to be confused with the garden tool) as mine is about spreading the gospel of Vitas.

All too often, at strip clubs and bars or just on the streets, ho’s go without getting rained on. But who cares it not your ho. Why should you care? Because it is a ho, and she needs you. When you join the make it rain on them ho’s foundation, you’ll know she has a strip club to go to. You’ll know she has a bar to dance at so she won’t die like thousands of ho’s did last night. Not your ho? Once you start getting to know each other that will change. All you have to do is step up and say I’m going to make it rain on them ho’s, because you can and because she needs you. Do an extraordinary thing and call and ask us to send you a picture of a "Ho" that needs you. For one dollar a day, you can put a smile on a Ho’s face and bring hope to her future days. We’ve done our part, have you?

In fact, I haven't done my part. But is making it rain on needy hoes truly my duty? I mean, in the outfit I was wearing yesterday in the inclement weather, I pretty much looked like a needy ho, so, really, someone should be doing something for me. Why then wasn't I rained upon by anything other than precipitation? Once again, the DC cops have failed me.

What say you, Vitas?



Yeah, you're gonna want to watch that until the very end when he hits the elusive brown note. Seriously, you're going to sh*t in your pants. Or if you're a ho, into your G-string. Or if you're a needy ho (like myself, apparently), into your thrift store shorts. Or if you're lucky enough to be Vitas, into your metallic shroud. I can't wait to don one of those and take to the streets, you know, for when I start busking by covering Vitas songs. Godspeed, DC, godspeed.

***

Outfit details: Jacket -- doma from Bloomingdale's Soho; tank -- H&M; flannel -- Jone's New York from Goodwill; shorts -- Abercrombie DIY cut-offs from some Iowa thrift shop; knee-high soccer socks -- Champion from Target; rain boots -- Target.

in which i get all meta

What's worse than blogging about blogging? Blogging about blogging over at another blog!

Of course, it's a little less repugnant when you take into account why I blogged about blogging on another blog. I've come to hate Why I Hate DC, a site that used to make me laugh, sometimes even think (although not often). Most importantly, it's a site that I help upkeep, a term I use loosely as I think I've only blogged about five times over there.

So why would I bite this proverbial hand that doesn't feed me? (I don't get any compensation.) This photo lifted from Sucka Pants via BikeSnobNYC sums it up:


To read the rest, CLICK HERE. It's sort of a letter of resignation, my Jay-Z style retirement from that site, if you will.

But speaking of Jay-Z, this video is a bit dated, but it's still effing cool:

something's rotten in my unemployment welfare check

It occurred to me last night due to a little fremeny of mine I like to call math that, for lack of a more accurate term, sh*t is all f*cked up. See, imagine this, or rather just read it:

For putting in nearly two years of hobnobbing with some of DC's finest douches (ahem, Norm Coleman) and then getting fired for what is thankfully not considered "gross misconduct," I am eligible to receive $384 a week in unemployment insurance (welfare) from the District.

Now, consider this scenario:

After a while, being the intrepid rogue blogger that I am, I decide to get a part-time job at the sex shop, one of the only joints in town hiring, for minimum wage (that's $6.94 after taxes). I put in 21 hours per week, which equals a rather pathetic $145.74 after taxes.

Still with me? Read on because that's not even the sad part:

DC does not allow a person who finds $384 per week barely livable to simply get a part-time job to cover expenses without consequences. Instead, DC recalculates a person's unemployment welfare using the following formula: Add $20 to your welfare amount (in my case, that equates to $404) then subtract 80 percent of monies earned that week working part-time (in my case, that's $116.54). Now, subtract the latter number from the former, rounding up any remainder cents to the nearest dollar and that will be the week's recalculated welfare earnings. If my calculator watch is correct (and it always is), that makes $288.

And here's where math really decided to teach me a lesson:

Now, if you add the original amount of money I earn from busting my ass 21 hours per week at the sex shop (pun always intended) and the revised welfare amount, you'll see I take home a total of $433.74 a week. Not bad at first glance. But then you think about it, or, in my case, my helper horse Sven thinks about it, and you/he realize(s) this:

"Hmm. The monetary difference between doing nothing and whittling away 21 hours of your precious time selling butt plugs to a surprising amount of middle-aged women is only $49.74," Sven said.

I stared at Sven in astonishment, like I usually do when I realize I keep a talking horse.

He continued, "That means for all intents and purposes you make just $2.37 per hour!"

Sven got that figure by dividing my recalculated working wage earnings ($49.74) by the 21 hours I spent selling hundreds of dollars worth of vibrating dildos to a suspected Congressman (identity still pending).

"That's f*cking retarded," Sven and I said in unison. "Jinx!" (I owe him a can of pop now.)

After a night of restless sleep due to this revelation and the fact that Sven snores like a horse (har!), I've come to the following conclusions: 1) The system is stupid as there's barely an incentive to actually get up and find work opposed to simply doing nothing and continuing to suck the taxpayer's teet to the max; 2) I'm retarded (and so's Sven) for not figuring this out sooner; and 3) I hate my life.

Of course, now I'm left with a decision. Should I quit the sex shop and simply panhandle for extra cash? I'm pretty sure I can make at least $5 an hour doing that. Or should I quit the sex shop and busk? I figure I can take advantage of my store discount and create the world's first street puppet theater in which all the puppets are derived from different dildos.

"Stick 'em up!" "Where!?"

If I don't make at least $10 per hour with street dildo puppet theater, even if it's money made simply from people telling me to stop, then I don't deserve to make more than $2.37 per hour. Seriously, coming to a cardboard box near you. I said coming to. pervs.

Or, I can make a quick $100, apparently, by pimping what appears to be the DMV's MySpace page.


Help Me Design My MySpace Page (DMV)

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-04-19, 8:33PM EDT

Need someone to help me design my Myspace page asap. You won't get rich but i'll pay

Location: DMV
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: $100

REALLY?! My welfare is being reallocated to fund activities such as pimping the DMV's MySpace page? Firstly, why in all hell does the DMV need a MySpace page? It just doesn't make sense. Hmm. Could DMV possibly stand for something else? Give me a minute to Google-ize this sh*t.

...

Phew. DMV also stands for DC-Maryland-Virgina. However, knowing this does not redeem the inate idiocy in this advert. I mean, is setting up a MySpace page really a "skill" that necessitates payment? I haven't used MySpace in quite sometime, but from what I understand even a legitimate moron could make a page, which makes me wonder how this asshole scored $100 in disposable income to give to (hopefully) me to pimp his MySpace page (of course, I applied). Shouldn't people like that guy be of the ilk that makes $2.37 an hour? Seriously. All I know is that when it comes to setting up a MySpace account for street dildo puppet theater, my dildo puppets and I will do it ourselves. Wow. For once a phrase sounded sicker than I planned it...

party in the eastern bloc!

Not to be forgotten in the wake of Western Jesus's resurrection, it turns out that, thanks to the "Old Calendar," it's Eastern Jesus's day to zombie-up today. That's right, it's Russian Orthodox Easter! I hope you saved some Peeps for Putin...

С Пасхой!

i hate everybody in the discotheque

Oh...DC...what to do with you? Just when I thought I was starting to like you, you go and pull the shambles you pulled last night...

DC, you kind of ruined Stereo Total for me.

For those of you who aren't privy to their greatness yet, Stereo Total is a French/German electro duo who make fun songs to hop around to while hanging out with your friends. In fact, leading the hop-around/dance fun is frontman Brezel Goering, a lanky German with a forelock. Likewise, frontwoman Françoise Cactus maintains a similar vibe, although she's a bit pudgier (it must be all the baguettes). She also doesn't have a forelock.

But forelock or not, both members of this group know how to get a party started.

Unless, of course, they're playing in DC...where all parties apparently go to die.

I fear I'm a bit biased, however, as the only other times I've seen Stereo Total were in Moscow, Russia. And comparing a show there to a show here is pretty much like comparing apples to oranges, or more accurately, chess genius Gary Kasparov to Billy Bob Thornton's mentally retarded character in Sling Blade.

One is clearly superior.

For one, people dance in Moscow. In DC, it seems people prefer to stand still, which I suppose, I already knew. Even after Goering and Cactus invited the first few rows of people on stage, people just kind of stood around staring at each other. Even the kids on stage just stared at each other. Once in a while, one of them twitched their arm or something, although I suspect that was involuntary.

Moscow crowds also don't fear having a good time. Now, I guess I can't say for sure that nearly everyone last night was having a sh*tty time, but judging from the lack of movement and various grimaces I spotted around the crowd, I don't think it's a false deduction to reason this crowd just wasn't having that much fun. But maybe that was just the people in the back...

Nope. When I moved my way to the front, people looked even more bored. Hard to believe, there was even less dancing. At least in the back, there was one guy who was legitimately awesome...or at least legitimately drunk. Whichever.

But the last proverbial straw, came in the form of a mic in several people's faces when Cactus attempted to get some audience members to help belt out the chorus of Moviestar. I honestly don't know how to phrase what I saw humorously, as I've never seen anything so pathetic in my life. She tried about five times and all five kids mumbled under their breath into the mic. I'm sorry, but if someone sticks a mic in your face during a Stereo Total concert you f*cking shout in it. And so when it came to be my turn, that's exactly what I did. And you know what happened?

People cheered.

Now, I'd like to say people applauded my efforts because of my stellar singing voice, but I'm not that delusional (yet). People cheered because I tried. I wasn't embarrassed about what others would think of my pitchy voice. I wasn't a self-conscious douche taking up a prime spot only to stand there and text message my friends. I also wasn't dressed in Arden B from head to toe, but that's another story.

The bottomline is this: At a Moscow Stereo Total show, the entire audience would've been having a good time.

Is that...dancing?!?!?! Whoa!

And not just any good time, but an eye-patch dangling around your exposed bare chest good time...

You can't fake this passion.

But DC? Well, it looked something like this.


In closing, I'll leave you with one of my favorite Stereo Total songs that effectively sums up my feelings for this town -- Everybody in the Discotheque (I Hate). Enjoy!

the joy of the sex shop

Sometimes it's hard to find joy when you're working for $7.55/hour. However, when you're surrounded by the raunchy awesomeness that exists in a Georgetown "adult novelty" shop, you eventually find yourself getting joy out of snapping low-quality camera-phone pics of yourself wearing a pair of trashy stripper heals. (Apparently the recession is starting to affect people's freak status because there were maybe a dozen customers the entire night. In other words, NARY A BUTT PLUS WAS SOLD!)


Unfortunately you can't tell from the photo, but these stripper heels go impeccably well with my outfit. They're black pleather (naturally), but have maroon piping outlining them, which matches near perfectly with my sweet DIY sweatshirt.

Speaking of, let's take a closer look at that. It's a recent acquisition that deserves, at the very least, a sh*tty e-homage on this blog.


That's right, e-friends, I'm wearing the f*cking eye of the tiger. Or eyes, rather. And I guess that's actually a leopard. But whatever. What's important is that it's awesome. In fact, it's boss.

However, this boss sweatshirt with its lovely iron-on applique wasn't always so suitable to wear to work at the sex shop. Nope, in fact, it used to be worn weekly by my grandmother (RIP) to her bridge club. But not one to defile my family's legacy by wearing this sweatshirt as is to the sex shop, I got out the scissors. That way I could defile my family's legacy by wearing a modified version of this boss sweatshirt to the sex shop. So, with a few snips at the neck and sleeves, I managed to turn something wholesome into something mildy slutty!

(My family is ashamed of me.)

And speaking of slutty, let's return to the stripper shoes. How in hell do the strippers do it?! I could barely walk from the rectal pleasures section to the penis pump stand in those shoes, let alone coordinate a dance while taking off clothing items. However, I guess if you're swinging around a pole, your feet really don't touch the ground anyway...so, wait. I suppose it all makes sense. Well, unless you're this guy. That makes no sense.

And you know what else doesn't make sense? The fact that the minimum wage is only $7.55! It's kind of messed up that I make more by being unemployed (unemployment welfare is $384/week) than by being employed, say, fulltime at the sex shop ($302/week). Although I could probably treble those funds each week if I actually went ahead and bought those shoes and became an real-life stripper. I probably wouldn't strip off more than a sock or two (OK, and my tear-away pants), but I'm pretty sure it'd be worth a few (hundred) bills just to see me continuously fall on my face, twist my ankle and eventually poke my eye out -- that heel is no joke.

(According to my family, I'm the joke.)

And speaking of jokes, I highly recommend this article by David Sedaris, which includes this gem: "What did the leper say to the prostitute? 'Keep the tip.'" LOL! Hey, if it's good enough for the New Yorker it's good enough for the The Anti DC.

Along those same lines, the New Yorker appropriated this inappropriate clip from the usually very appropriate news station MSNBC by challenging, "See how many 'teabagging' jokes you can spot in David Shuster's hilarious MSNBC preview of [yesterday's] right-wing 'Tea Parties.'"



I'm happy to report the New Yorker and I both counted 13.

(My family no longer wishes to associate with me.)

But Anderson Cooper does! That silver fox knows what I'm talking about!



Actually, he might know a little bit more about that than me...ZING! Now if only he'd stop by the shop...

*Outfit details: Jeans -- Habitual; Sweatshirt -- Vintage; Tank -- Calvin Klein; Shoes: Whatever brand they sell at the sex shop.

time managment

I don't have a lot of time to write a legitimate essay of discontent today, as I have very important things to do (like go see Adventureland then proceed to some daytime drinking before work...), but in honor of Tax Day, I felt I had to do something.

So, please to allow me to present to you the official Tax Day Anti DC Original E-Greeting Cards For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate:


Don't forget: FREE ICE CREAM!

why i love dc

Once again, I've taken my brand of profound retardulousness over to Why I Hate DC. In a twist, however, I write about why I love DC, which basically centers on this principle: I hate Virginia more. Except for their gun laws.

Eh. It's all in good fun, especially when the morale of my tale was inspired directly by this clip:



Is there anything Dee and Dennis can't teach us about life?

human interaction in georgetown = FAIL?

Sometimes I feel sorry for dudes. These are always fleeting moments, as men have it much better than women in most cases, but when these moments flutter through my osteoporosis-prone bones, they really bring out some hidden emotions. I mean, while a guy may get paid more for the same work; he may be able to gain weight without being chastised by society; and, most advantageously, any given dude may will not have a uterus that sheds its lining once a month, while totally messing with his mood, men still have feelings. Not only that, but those feelings could be hurt. Even worse, I could be responsible for hurting those feelings.

Such was the case this weekend when my best friend, The Law, and I found ourselves in Georgetown's Barnes & Noble. It was about 3 p.m. on a Sunday. We were a little crunk off of the pitcher of mimosas we had consumed at Alero for $9.99 just minutes before. And, quite frankly we were a little dirty from a combo of vigorous bicycle riding and not showering. (Actually, maybe it was just me who hadn't showered.)

Anyway, there we were killing time before it was time for her to go do something productive and me to go take my daily unemployment nap (those don't stop just because it's the weekend), when two dudes came out of nowhere and started talking.

No. 1: "Hey, uh, are these the bargain books?"

Silence.

No. 2: "Yeah. These are giving out a bargain book vibe."

Silence.

Silence.

No. 1: "Yeah. This sign is totally giving out that vibe."

Silence.

Me: "Um. Because the sign says 'Bargain Books.'"

No. 1: "Oh yeah. So what kinds of books are in the bargain book section?"

The Law: "Are they talking to us?"

Me: "I think so, but I'm not sure."

Those last two lines were said as The Law and I decided to exit what was definitely one of the most confusing interactions between homo sapiens that I've ever participated in. Or, sort of participated in, as it was hard to tell if these two homos (as in "sapiens") were just high and talking to themselves or trying to pull a Mystery and pick a couple of bitches up in a daytime, book store setting.

We assumed it was the latter because when we walked away to go marvel (and shed a single tear) at a newly re-released copy of "Christian the Lion," the touching story of two homos (as in "sapiens" and "sexuals") who reunited with their pet lion one year after realizing YOU CAN'T F*CKING KEEP A LION AS A PET, the two stammering dudes left the bargain section and proceeded up the escalator, presumably to go hit on other people simply trying to snarkily mind their own business.

And normally that would've been the end. But then The Law had to go and say this: "Wow. We're assholes." At first I simply smiled and nodded in avid agreement, but then it hit me and -- if just for a split second -- I felt remorse. What if those guys simply couldn't read? Or what if they were blind?? After all, they only felt a "bargain book" vibe when the sign was clearly on display! Not to mention, it was unclear who they were talking to. The one time I managed to look up to inform them of what the sign said, I wasn't greeted with eye contact, which would've indicated to me they were, indeed, trying to make conversation. Instead I noticed No. 1's eyes trained on The Law's cleavage and No. 2's staring at my legs (my haunches are pretty sweet), or maybe my shorts (which were almost as sweet as my haunches).

Why would two young men focus their attention on a woman's body parts if they were legitimately trying to make conversation? Yep. No one's that much of a creepy douchebag, right?

But then I remembered we were in Georgetown. Not to mention, nary a seeing eye dog (or horse!) was around. So my guess is that those dudes weren't blind. As for being illiterate, however, I guess I'll never know. Either way, I quickly rebounded from having felt bad about being a bit of a bitch. Like I said, the times I feel sorry for dudes are fleeting, especially because I'm pretty sure those dudes will eventually find some singles ready to mingle once they reach the self-help section.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buff that glass ceiling. JUST KIDDING! I don't care about that stuff. Not when it's time for my unemployment nap! Pip-pip, cherio!

an Anti DC e-card for the believers...

In delicious tasty treats!

armageddon -- it's here

I know I said I wouldn't be blogging about my job at the sex shop because I plan on using this material for a different project (don't worry, it's a SFW project), not to mention, I also don't want to get dooced again, but for the good of humanity, I feel compelled to retype a series of text messages sent from the shop last night:

me: Just got asked where we kept the butt plugs again!

mtp: They sure r popular. save one for me

me: Gross!

mtp: Fifty percent off [Editor's note: That's my employee discount.]

me: Someone's getting a purple one.

mtp: I want a brown one. more realistic.

All I have to say is this: MY MOM IS OUT OF CONTROL.*

Seriously, ever since she found out about my new part-time job, she's been fascinated with the, um, novelties I peddle. And although I, indeed, started this message exchange, I never expected it to go where my mom took it.

And in other inappropriate news -- my mom befriended me on Facebook. And, like the trouble I started above, I'm pretty much responsible as I ultimately decided to accept her e-friendship. I did, however, have some reservations about it. I mean, should she really be seeing pictures of me that look like this?


Let me correct that. Should I even be seeing pictures of me that look like that? Because, honestly, I do believe this might be the worst picture of me ever snapped.** So why am I publishing it here? Because I need to make a wider point -- a point that goes beyond my bad angles (correction: really bad angles); a point that goes beyond my mom's decision to join Facebook as a sextogenarian (my God, that is an ill choice of word right now...); a point that goes beyond every previously known definition of "totally f*cked up." See, what I'm about to reveal could change the way of the world.

You see that couple behind me? The one not following my lead in the crunk "USA!" chant that was happening while my brother and his friends sang a moving rendition of "God Bless America" at a Vegas karaoke bar? Well, besides the fact that the couple is obviously a pair of communists, the female freedom-hater looks uncannily like the woman who bought the purple butt plug last night (well, one of the purple butt plugs, as those, unexpectedly, seem to be hot sellers). Even stranger, the woman who bought the purple butt plug and the woman in the picture who looks like the woman who bought the purple butt plug also look to be sextogenarians (interesting...that word is still just as ill a choice as it was a few sentences ago).

Frankly, I'm not so sure this is all a coincidence. In fact, I'm quite sure this is the perfect storm for jumping to ludicrous conclusions, perhaps even a wacky, off-the-wall conspiracy theory type of conclusion.

What I'm saying here is that THERE'S CLEARLY SOME SORT OF SECRET COMMUNIST SECT OF SEXTOGENARIAN WOMEN WHO LIKE PURPLE PROBES IN THEIR REARS! And if my mom didn't make the disturbing distinction that she would prefer any butt plug she owns to look like an actual turd, then I would have half a mind (currently I only have a quarter of a mind) to think that she was a part of this communist sect, as well. OR IS SHE?! PERHAPS THE PROBES DON'T NEED TO BE PURPLE! Plus, I don't remember my mom being a part of my sweet, mind-blowing "USA!" chant either that night! OH. MY. GOD. It's effing Armageddon.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go rock back and forth in the fetal position while my helper horse, Sven, (my helper tortoise, Vladimir, and I continue to feud) readies the bunker. Because, as I've just proven above without a reasonable doubt, the world is clearly about to implode. Take cover.

HAPPY EASTER WEEKEND!***

*Actually, she's just flippin' hilarious, albeit incredibly disconcerting at times.

**By the way, thanks, sister-in-law, for choosing that photo, out of all the photos that could've been chosen, to display of me on your wedding weekend.

***The official Easter Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate is forthcoming.

still homeless

In a very much self-serving effort to expand my ongoing housing search, I have outsourced my skills once again to Why I Hate DC. Not to spoil all the fun, but if you click over there, you're promised an explanation of these two sentences: "If I move in am I allowed to put my butt on a dude's head? Or is that girl's butt going to be placed on my head?"

Also, I stand up for barbeque grills everywhere.

Lastly, I sneak in a link to this classic Chris Farley video:



Go on and give it a click: Why Living In a Yurt May Not Be So Bad.

and i actually wasn't kidding...

I have both delightful and disturbing news to share. And while under most circumstances I would now introduce two distinctly separate conjectures, such as (if I was Maury Povich), "You ARE the father!" (Delightful!) "Of over 100 babies!" (Disturbing!) But as it turns out, one sentence shall suffice to say both in this case: I actually went ahead and got a job at the sex shop. (See? That's both delightful and disturbing!)

This news is delightful because I can now tell you stories that begin with, "Where the anal plugs at?" and also quite disturbing because I can now tell you stories that begin with "Where the anal plugs at?" However, always thinking about my money, I won't be revealing too much about my new job here because 1) I don't want to get fired again, and, more importantly, 2) I can probably get paid for some of these stories. I've been waiting to sell out for YEARS.

But just because I'm not going to go into detail about the who, what and when's of my new employment (I don't really ever want to think too much about the where's and the why's...), doesn't mean this blog will continue to suffer from lack of worthwhile reading material. Or wait...maybe that's exactly what it means. But just think about how awesome my eventual book will be! "The Devil Wears a Strap-On" will surely top the bestseller list.

In the meantime, I've found some things on the Inturbonet that aren't as worthless as this blog currently seems to be, and because I'm a linguistics nerd, we're going to count them down in good old-fashioned Old English. (Ironically, I'm also enjoying an OE malt beverage as we virtually speak. Actually, that's not really so much ironic over here as it is simply expected. And yes, I have yet to put on pants this morning, as well. My helper tortoise Vladimir still hasn't returned, though, so at least I have a good excuse. All those zippers and buttons confuse me.) Uh, anyway...

An! Speaking of idiots, or more accurately people who probably should've just shopped at the sex shop instead of actually had sex, allow me to introduce my favorite new Web site: Why the F*ck Do You Have a Kid? You're welcome.

Twa! Hey, do you work in an office? If so, I'm actually a bit jealous. Why? Because it's always been a dream of mine to unleash my inner T-Pain and collate at the same time. (And a hearty Ic þancie þe -- that's "Thank you" in Old English -- to one of my favorite DC-based blogs, Manufacturing Rarity, for bringing that clip to my attention.)

Thri! In a non-news story that's been floating all about the Web the last couple of days, it seems MTV's prolific-turned-prosaic crack baby, The Real World, may be coming to DC. All I can say, is that I hope rogue Congressman Norm Coleman gets cast as the bad boy with a sensitive side. SHUT UP! JUST LET A GIRL WITH A DYING OBSESSION DREAM!

Feower! Stephen Colbert = Win! Glenn Beck = Lose.

Fif! Well, this article in New Scientist about how your brain peaks in your early 20s explains a lot. And now I don't feel so bad about having gone from "serious reporter" to "dildo peddler" because, according to science, "The peak of your brain's powers comes at around age 22 and lasts for just half a decade. From there it's downhill all the way." Like I said, it explains a lot. Now, if only I had Vladimir around to change my adult diaper. Hey, blame science!

what i do when i put on pants

Sorry about the lack of quality Web logging this week. As I alluded to earlier, my helper tortoise, Vladimir, and I were in a heated dispute about his salary, with him insisting on being paid in legal tender and me pushing leafy greens. Unfortunately, despite the fact that as you're reading this I'm probably interviewing to work at DC's classiest porno establishment just so I could afford to keep him, Vladimir walked out on me yesterday. He's so melodramatic. I wanted to discuss Grey's Anatomy, which he was cool with until he learned I was speaking of the picture box program and not the anatomy text book. So he suggested we discuss Foucault's Pendulum, which I was likewise cool with until I learned he was referring to the book and not the physics experiment. He knows I have a limited literacy level! After a heated argument, he was gone...about three hours later when he finally made it to the door.

Understandably, I was devastated and unable to function. I mean, without him around yesterday, I couldn't even master putting on pants, let alone master enough English to type a whole blog post. (That sentence alone took me over 12 hours to compose!) And while Vladimir isn't dead to me yet (I'm crossing my fingers he'll think better of taking his business to the streets and return), I'm a bit sick of his constant bitching and moaning. Now I know how you must feel about me.

Which is why I'm changing up my lovably annoying schtick today in favor of sharing some happy moments with you. That's right -- I'm not going to complain about anything today because, really, despite being rendered nearly helpless without my helper animal (if Vladimir doesn't come back I'm thinking of hiring a helper horse), I've had a pretty sweet couple of last days, even though I was wearing pants for a few hours.

See, I went to see The Presets at the 9:30 Club on Wednesday night and NOTHING WENT WRONG. I showed up at the EXACT RIGHT TIME, which allowed me to miss the opening band that, according to my friends (yes, apparently I somehow have some non-imaginary ones) who showed up before I did, decidedly sucked ass. Hooray! Moreover, despite my late showing, I secured a sweet spot on the balcony that not only allowed me to dance freely above the smelly masses on the main floor, but to enjoy a clear view of the stage, where I got to witness the glory that I will now share with you using my perfected method of sub-par photography and video. Behold!









And yes, you're welcome for the octet of snapshots of what is basically the same photograph.

Oh, what the hell. Let's make it a nonet with the following grainy video, in which the sound is just about as awesome as when a helper tortoise (very slowly) walks out on you in the middle of the night. Luckily, unlike Vladimir's ill-advised decision to leave, this video doesn't completely blow; it does a little bit of justice to the laser light show that nearly bedazzled me right into a seizure.



Yeah. That sh*t was epically -- or more apropos, I suppose, epileptically -- tight.

But that's not even all! April Fool's Day was pretty much the best day ever even before The Presets took the stage. Not only did I confirm some awesome plans for the fall (more to come on that, perhaps, some day in the future), but I dined out at a new neighborhood Vietnamese restaurant, Pho 14, that recently opened up about a block away from my hobo lair. And if Vladimir wasn't being such a melodramatic ass, I'd have him go pick us up some pho for dinner. And it would've been my treat!

Not so much because I care a lot about Vladimir's well-being (after all, he is the most psychologically abusive helper tortoise I've ever come across), but because Pho 14 is can-of-beans cheap! Basically, my dining partner and I got two meals for the price of one, although that's mostly due to the faulty computation of an apparently dysfunctional cash register. I say "mostly," because when we informed our waiter of the missing charge (yeah, we're flippin' honest), he simply said, "Oh, it's fine. Want a free iced Vietnamese coffee?" Yep. That's what I like to call the best customer service ever. I am so easily wooed by free stuff. (HINT.)

By the way, the iced Vietnamese coffee was delicious and, truly, the perfect sugar'n'caffeine-filled pick-me-up this side of powdered sugar-dusted crack-cocaine.

And for that, Pho 14, located on that hot-messiest block of Park Road about a block north of the Columbia Heights metro stop, gets two talons up from the coveted Very Discerning Anti DC Eagle of Freedom. Congratulations!

He discern you long time.