insomnia

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. And not just because my mind refuses to rest until I've watched Michael Jackson's greatest video hits nightly before bed. (R.I.P., King of Pop, you will always be my first crush. Hey, it was 1983 and I was four.)

Nor is it because apparently I'm only the fourth funniest blogger of all time. (Wait, how am I on that list at all? I'm honestly flattered.)

And nor is it because I've recently discovered the best show on television, Dexter, which is physically impossible to stop watching. (A likable sociopath? There's hope for me, after all! Just kidding, like MJ, I will only murder you on the dance floor.)

But speaking of homicide, the reason I can't sleep lately is because DC's murder rates are down. Actually, I suppose that's good news. At least it would seem to be. According to the Post:

"With 2009 half over, the number of homicides reported by police in the District -- 66 -- is 20 percent below last year's figure and is on pace to be the lowest yearly total in decades."

Well, that certainly does sound promising. Tell me more!

"If the homicide rate continued through December, the total for 2009 would be 134. That would be 52 fewer slayings than last year and 47 fewer than in 2007. It would be 35 fewer than in 2006."

Hey, this sounds great actually! I want to learn about more statistics that might make me not hate this city as much as I do now!

"The number of homicides in any given jurisdiction has been linked to so many factors that it is almost impossible to predict the rate in any given month based on the rate in the month before."

Wait, what?

"In addition, criminologists say that the rate of killings often rises during the summer months. Reasons include longer days, which send more people outdoors. Summer's heat also has been linked to an upsurge in violence."

Oh. So, basically, the Post is saying, there will be blood? But without the awesomeness of Daniel Day-Lewis' epic early-twentieth-century mustache?

How am I supposed to fall asleep with that in mind? And not just the mustache part, but the murder part! Dexter needs to move to DC. Just kidding! Murder is wrong. Which is precisely why that show (and book, which I'm almost halfway through) is so damn great. Like Nietzsche, it makes you question your own morality compass and your views on right and wrong.

However, there's nothing questionable about DC. This place is clearly just wrong. Not only do I still need to worry about being murdered this summer, but I'm saddened to know that people in DC are still getting fired for telling jokes online. The latest victim according to the Post, David Le, was canned by the DC Department of Employment Services for his activity on Twitter. This story hits close to e-home for obvious reasons. However, instead of erring on the side of rape jokes a la moi, Le opted to call Anacostia "ghetto." Specifically, he twatted, "In america's ghetto anacostia... If I get scared i will just yell chinese carry out! They will not shoot me."

Hmm. Suddenly I could really go for some Kung Pao Chicken.

Well, turns out Le might be able to fulfill his dream (and my order) by becoming a Chinese deliveryman, after all. Either that, or he'll just waltz over to DC's Office of Unemployment Services and collect $384 a week from the government, meaning little will probably change in his work ethic. Because, according to a June 15 twat, he wasn't doing much at his job anyway: "thank goodness my boss is making things easy, he told me to pretend to do work so he can mark me down for hours."

Come again? Forget about Le not doing his job. It seems it was his boss who told him not to do it in the first place. Big surprise, right? Rampant incompetence in the DC city government apparently extends beyond the little guys. We'd probably even have hard evidence of this if Le's boss had his own Twitter account. Unfortunately, he doesn't. But I doubt that's because he's smart enough to realize that sh*t will get you fired. Instead, I simply imagine he's not smart enough to use a computer.

Moreover, I'm sure Le's boss's boss is also probably watching porn in the office rather than doing his job. Or maybe he's too busy not paying his taxes. Maybe that's why Anacostia is still so damn ghetto! Just sayin'. And I'm looking at you, Marion Barry.

It takes a competent village, people!

Meanwhile, Barry, who inexplicably labeled Le a "racist" (of course), has probably put a hit out on me. Maybe I can yell borscht delivery and he won't shoot...

i'm still tired

I drew this picture this weekend:

Not only does it reveal I have the artistic talent of a 5-year-old, but my frustration at life is also evident in its large swirly lines and chaotic loops. Unfortunately, this e-penned frustration isn't simply metaphorical. Oh no, it's a fairly accurate representation of the route my SuperShuttle driver took to get from Baltimore International Airport to my freaking house, represented in my art as a delicious can of beans, on Friday.

I kid you not, I was in that cherry-scented blue van for THREE HOURS. Of course, I understand SuperShuttle works as a shared taxi, so I would have to wait for the driver to drop off those people whose homes or hotels may logically come before mine on the route. However, that's assuming the route isn't retarded.

And this route was, indeed, exceptionally retarded. I mean, look at it!

The first stop was in Petworth on Georgia Avenue.

The next stop, My Hobo Lair in Columbia Heights, should've been mine. But it wasn't. To my surprise, the driver turned around and went back up toward Maryland -- Silver Spring, Rockville, Bethesda, some other suburban sh*t that all blended together.

Did I mention after a series of delays and cancellations, my flight didn't land until 12:30 a.m., so this ridiculous escapade was all happening in the middle of the night. I was tired. But imagine how excited I was when there was only one couple and me left in the van. Alas! I would get home soon! Until the driver said this:

"Miss! Do you mind if I drop you off last?"

Mind you, while he asked my that he had already turned onto 495 headed toward Virginia.

"Uh. Are we heading to Virginia?"

"Yes. Next stop Dulles."

"Dulles?! Seriously? You do realize I should've been dropped off second when you were in Petworth."

"Yes. I see that now."

"Now," however, was way too late as we headed toward Dulles, where we ended up driving around the long-term lot to find this couple's car (apparently, their flight got diverted into BWI). Finally, at 3:15 a.m. we were back on I-66.

Oh wait, no. That would be too logical. Instead, he went back on 495 into Maryland again. Then decided to take the George Washington Parkway down through Virginia. That's when I started to feel like this SuperShuttle had turned into a SuperRapeVan. This made no sense whatsoever.

Luckily, possibly because I had been traveling since 6 a.m. and smelled of my own BO and had an "I'm not afraid to murder you in self defense" look in my eye, no crimes were committed. Unless, of course, charging me $37 for a three-hour kidnapping is a crime. I'd file charges if I could.

Finally, after the driver/no-longer-potential-rapist ignored my directions to take 15th Street, which is the only street in DC with timed lights, we made it to My Hobo Lair roughly 30 minutes later. It was about 4 in the morning.

He didn't get a tip.

But I'm back! At least long enough for me to plan my next escape. But don't worry, I'll let you all know the travel dates so you can avoid shared van rides and flights those days. Because if you don't, you'll either be stuck in a shady vehicle with a shady and/or simply idiotic driver, or your flight will be canceled repeatedly. Yet still, that might be better than being in DC...

the perfect day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Wait, aren't you supposed to be on hiatus for a week vacationing in some mystery locale far, far away from DC?"

Oh! Hi! Thanks for asking! And yes, indeed, that was the original plan! But as it turns out, DC is so sweet on me it refuses to let me go! Haha!

The day started swimmingly enough! I had already packed so I was able to enjoy a leisurely breakfast before heading off to Reagan National Airport! I love traveling by air these days because I like carrying tiny amounts of liquids and taking my shoes off for little to no scientific reason! Yay!

And that's when the day really got good!

First, when I tried to print my boarding pass at one of the several kiosks, the technology told me my credit card that I used to pay for the ticket wasn't enough information for it to print my pass! Whoops! So, after imputing several other pieces of information, including ticket number, confirmation number and where I was going, I finally reached the end screen, which turns out is kind of like the end of Donkey Kong! It just stops working! How ingenious!

So, I flagged the attendant over for help and she looked at me, scowled and yelled, "I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOU! GO TO THE LINE UPSTAIRS!" Yes, ma'am! ROFL!

So then I went upstairs, bruising my legs along the way with my luggage because the escalator wasn't working! And then when I finally reached the glorious mecca that is the Delta counter, I saw it already had a line stretched halfway down the mile-long corridor!

"Stupendous!" I thought to myself. "I love a good line!"

And, oh boy, was this a line! I got hit on by a 15-year-old boy! (He liked my hat.) I got my foot stepped on by an woman wearing stiletto heels! Ouchies! And then I got yelled at again when I asked for help, noting the time! Uh-oh! Thirty minutes till lift-off!

Finally, 15 minutes before my plane was scheduled to leave, the surly woman who apparently is Delta's only employee gave me my boarding pass! Victory! But not first without noting, "You shouldn't have checked in online! It screws up the system sometimes!" My bad!

But wowsers! Technology is really something, isn't it? Hooray!

So I ran to security where I became the lucky one to be asked, "We're going to need you to step aside, miss, while we run some explosives trace tests on your bags."

"But, good sir!" I said, "My plane is supposed to take off in 10 minutes!"

"That's not my problem."

Okee-dokee! And sure enough I guess it wasn't! Silly me, trying to make my flight. LOL!

Then I ran and ran and ran some more! And when I finally made it to the gate, my flight was no longer listed! Uh-oh, Spaghettio!

Lucky me, though! Turns out the flight was never even on the board because the arriving plane never landed! Wah-wah!

So I waited with the other cheery Delta passengers, who came up with some really fine things to say about Delta. "F*cking sh*t for brains airline!" ZOMG!

So we waited and waited and waited some more! Just like in Russia! And then I waited so long that I missed my connecting flight! Zoinks!

And so did everyone else! So, all 100 of us went to the Delta Service Counter and one-by-one we were helped by the solo employee! Boy, was she a firecracker!

Three hours later, I was rescheduled on another flight! But wouldn't you know! The arriving flight for that one also never landed! Double zoinks!

So I rejoined the lovely line with now 300 people in it and waited again to get rescheduled! And joy of joys, when the feisty gal rescheduled my flight some time later, she added a free extra layover! Not only would I get to now go to Boston (and spend the night on my own dime to boot!), but the next day, I would also get to visit Cincinnati and Minneapolis before landing in my final destination 12 hours later! Don't you just love free stuff?!?!

But that just sounded like way to much fun for my old bones to handle! So I decided instead to scrap it all and give DC on more night with me. Lucky!

But my bag must not have gotten the memo! Because it's stuck in Boston! All right!

In closing, F*CK YOU, DELTA. I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL.

And to U.S. Airways? You better not disappoint me tomorrow. Because I will cut you.

good times yelling at assholes in the street...again

As we've seen through my continued downward spiral (rock bottom is still scheduled for late July), I've found myself engaging in rather strange behavior.

For instance, I yelled at a man in the street yesterday.

"You're the reason why people hate DC! Pull the stick out of your ass!"

And to think, all he did was ask for the time.

Just kidding!

He didn't ask me anything actually. Instead, he decided to lecture me about bicycle etiquette.

"Bikes belong on the streets!" he shouted as I rode by him with plenty of clearance on a sidewalk adjoining Massachusetts Avenue between 17th and 16th Streets.

For those of you more in the know than I was yesterday, Massachusetts Avenue between 17th and 16th is a one-way leading east to west. I was going west to east, but I figured it was only a block, so I moved onto the sidewalk for three seconds -- a bike salmon habit I tend to avoid whenever possible because pedestrians are often more annoying than traffic.

But not as annoying as being squashed by an army of oncoming black SUVs exceeding the speed limit by several miles per hour. More importantly, my dying right now would be extra tragic as I still need to create a will that indicates I'd like to be cremated with my ashes spread among the bean crops of Nebraska. I want to be the fiber in the digestive tracts of future generations.

With that in mind, I didn't heed this man's demand, but instead simply nodded and kept riding upstream. And that was that...or so I thought.

But when I was forced to stop at a traffic light about 30 feet ahead (or 10 meters -- I look out for my European readers), the man caught up to me and decided once again to drop a second deuce of knowledge on me.

"Bikes belong on the street! I know because I do it all the time."

I just looked at him, smiling and trying to tell him he was starting to get annoying (both just with my eyes).

"I do it all the time," he repeated.

"That's great."

"Because bikes don't belong on the sidewalks."

Now I was starting to get perturbed.

"Listen, I got it. I usually ride on the street, but if you'll notice, this is a very busy one-way street and because I don't want to die today I opted for the near empty sidewalk for a block. Sorry."

"It's a hazard."

"I understand that, but I really had no choice. Normally I'd agree with you."

"I never ride on the sidewalk and I bike all the time."

This guy was really giving me the business. But for what reason? When another cyclist -- a male -- rode up on the sidewalk behind us before swerving around the other side of this douche, I began to question his intentions. I don't think he was as concerned about spreading the gospel of bike safety as he was with simply trying to make a girl feel stupid. Ultimately, though, the joke's on him because I feel stupid all the time!

But luckily for him, I'm not so stupid that I succumbed to my urge to harm this man with my spoke nipples. Plus, before I had time to err on the side of hilarious violence, the light changed, so I rode off -- in the street now, as I was no longer bike salmoning. Yet, still this idiot couldn't drop it.

And that's when I stopped being nice.

"I'm not even on the effing sidewalk anymore!" I shouted and continued to ride. "Good God, you're the reason why people hate DC! Pull the stick out of your ass!"

Of course, I'm not sure how much of that tirade he heard, as I was pretty much shouting this like a crazy person from the other side of the traffic circle, but it's the thought that counts, right?

And on that note, I'm once again retiring this blog for a week as I skip town for the second time in a fortnight. I'll be bringing my tiny camcorder with me, though, so there may be another vlog coming on June 26 or so, which is when I return. But don't let that promise/threat stop you from coming back...

In the meantime, enjoy the hot-weather respite today. I'll be enjoying it all week from a cooler place -- both literally and metaphorically!

why i love why i hate dc

OK, love is a strong word. It'd be better to say I simply "tolerate" Why I Hate DC. (I only truly love three things: beans, bearskin rugs and David Lynch's daily weather reports.)

As you probably don't remember, not long ago I chastised the site on the site because I'm both incredibly meta and a huge bitch. I also found it quite pointless to do the same thing over there as I do here, namely, write for free. It was like trying to shine two turds instead of one. What's the point?

I probably also mentioned in that post a few other problems that I had with being associated with that site, but like you, I also don't remember. (Blog memory is notoriously short.) I do remember, however, vowing to stay away from that site.

But then I forgot. So I ended up visiting yesterday. But instead of being confronted by ridiculous, imaginary e-spars between a small contingent of idiots, I found something worthwhile. It seems, the site has recently gone through a sort of metamorphosis, including a downsizing of its staff and a restatement of purpose.

The first I really don't care about. Like I said, after I quit, I stopped reading.

The second, though, that's more important.

Not only does this new statement of purpose serve WIHDC well, but it serves me well, since I also aim to point out the pitfalls of this city.

Dave of WIHDC wrote, "I'd like to address the most frequent comment about this site:

'I don't understand that site, if they hate D.C. so much why don't they just move away?'"

Although the most frequent comment about my site is "Are you retarded?" I have also gotten a few commenters who ask why I live here if I hate it so much. What those commenters fail to understand is that, like Dave at WIHDC, I too don't necessarily "hate" Washington, DC. In fact, "hate" isn't even the right word for me to use. I'd say, I'm simply disappointed in this city. (I only truly hate three things in life: locusts who destroy bean crops, non-bearskin rugs and Topper Shutt's weather reports.)

See, aside from the horrid humid weather, most of the aspects about DC that disappoint me are human-controlled. Dave sums it up well: "There's a difference between hating living in Washington, D.C. and hating all of the incompetence and stupidity that makes it difficult to enjoy living here."

Yeah, what he said.

For me, DC has potential. If people would stop for a second while rushing to and fro to some sh*tty office job that makes them feel more important than they are, they'll notice this city is really quite stunning. If people would stop relying on Ann Taylor Loft for all of their work-appropriate outfits, they might notice that there are quite a few decent vintage and thrift shopping options here. If people would stop voting Potbelly Sandwiches the "Best Sandwich in DC," they would notice that there are several superior legitimate deli options around town. Wait, nevermind. But there are a lot of Subways.

The point is, DC's failures have nothing to do with the city, itself. Well, except for it's lack of bike lanes, well-placed mailboxes and L'Enfant Plaza -- that joint is ugly. Although, even thinking about those things, you'll realize those are all the fault of people for not planning and/or designing parts of this city to be either functional or ridiculously good-looking.

So, really, it's up to you and me to make this city livable. And if that means avoiding people and opting instead to watch hours of badminton via the new sports channel your government-subsidized digital converter box now picks up, so be it. (Go Albania!) But maybe for you that means opening a cheap and delicious deli in Columbia Heights. You're the working type, right? Because I'm too busy being FUNemployed and laughing at the word "shuttlecock" for any type of laborious activity.

But even if we all choose to watch hours of badminton and avoid human contact, at least we can rejoice that we don't live in Arlington. Although, at least they have a sense of humor...



By the way, why do so many dudes around here wear brown flip-flops?

welcome home?

I joke a lot about other people wanting to punch me in the face. Well, in a Seinfeldian twist, my little joke about nothing became something the other day. I got punched in the face. And by "face" I mean "arm," but, really, that's close enough for me to be a little concerned.

Of course, this punch to the face that was really my arm was also not intentional. The pain was thrust unto my limb by one of DC's ridiculously annoying teens. A teenage girl, to be exact, shouting something incomprehensible to her friend who also couldn't wait for those of us exiting the metro train to board themselves.

I guess I shouldn't have mocked that sh*tty video the metro authorities put out pleading with people to practice common courtesy, which as far as I know doesn't include punching people in the arm hard enough to leave a bruise while bursting onto the metro despite the exiting crowd.

Once again, DC is full of assholes.

And the timing couldn't have been better. It was just when I was getting back into the District after a nice relaxing few days in the country, where I didn't get punched at all.

But don't think getting punched was the only "interesting" thing to happen to me immediately upon my return. A homeless man also creepily approached me and told me and/or his imaginary friend that his leg "smells of Limburger cheese."

In retrospect, that really was interesting. And for the record, I didn't smell anything beyond stale booze and rat piss, although, I suppose, that could easily be mistook for Limburger cheese...

Yep. I'm so glad to be back...

where there's no smoke, there's an obnoxious fire alarm

I was going to write something brilliant today, I swear. But then at 4 a.m. -- right when my helper horse Sven and I are in our deepest bean comas -- my janky building's janky fire alarm started going off.

Of course me, being a person who has no desire to die in a raging inferno, popped out of bed, dressed Sven in his English saddle (he's classy) and readied to ride him down six flights of stairs like an ass in the Grand Canyon. But then the fire alarm went off.

"Phew. I guess the fire went out," I thought, which was good because I had forgotten to put on pants and everyone knows riding a horse without pants leads to major chafing.

So I settled back into my nest of packing peanuts to go back to bed. But just when I got comfortable in my box (I'm practicing for when I actually become homeless), the alarm started up again.

Then it stopped.

Then it started.

Then it stopped.

Then it started.

Then it stopped.

Repeat.

This went on until after seven in the morning. So, you'll have to excuse me, but my brain isn't up for any ironic sentence constructions. In fact, as u can c, I'm barely capable of righting a regluar sentance. Normally, I'd call in Sven for help, but he's too busy destroying all the fire alarms in the building. Safety first!

In the meantime, I invite you to take a look at what might be the greatest Web invention I've ever seen that was sent to me by a dutiful reader: http://mugshots.tampabay.com/

To quote said dutiful reader, "It's a constantly updated database of everyone who's been arrested in Tampa over the last 24 hours. Yes this sounds random, but if you check it out, you'll soon realize the genius-ness. You can sort by WEIGHT for christsake!"

Indeed, I've realized its genius-ness. Thank you.

By the way, I'll be leaving this urban sh*thole for the rest of the week to go to a rural sh*thole. But a sh*thole without faulty fire alarms where I plan to sleep for 72 hours, which means, I'll e-see you Monday.

Continuous yawn.

later dicks!

After a few nanoseconds of thought, I decided to quit the sex shop yesterday. Of course, I did this in the bitchiest of ways in that I waited for the manager to post the schedule with me on it before letting her know.

Whoops.

But I had my reasons. And, well, I was going to quit next week anyway...so...

Rightfully, though, the manager tried to make me feel guilty. Luckily, the knowledge that I earned a grand total of $2.37 an hour outweighed any modicum of empathy I may have had for leaving her with one less employee to do absolutely nothing for the mere 15 hours a week I was scheduled. Also, my conscience is made of Swiss cheese -- there's lots of holes in it, but it makes a delicious patty melt -- so feeling guilty is not something I do very well.

The truth is, for economic reasons and beyond, I had to quit yesterday. It was a do or die situation and sometimes you just have to look out for yourself no matter what the collateral damage. The collateral damage in this case means someone's going to get 15 hours of overtime. (You're welcome.)

I told my manager to blame logic or fate or the fact that I made less than the typical child laborer working in Malaysia for my sudden departure, but she didn't take to that idea too well. She said it was "unprofessional." Hmm, heard that before... Although, unlike last time, this was a sex shop. How professional can one be expected to behave when surrounded by rubber dicks?

I did feel a little bit sorry, however. I'm not one who usually balks at commitment. (HAHAHAHAHAHA!) Mostly though, I was sorry that the store always smelled like ass. I was sorry that the place looked like it was decorated by a blind child with spacial relations problems. I was sorry the shop's management didn't realize the economic benefits of making sure the shelves were stocked with stuff people actually wanted to buy. (Newsflash: No one wants to buy edible body paints that are opened and look like they've been used.) And I was certainly sorry to learn that one year later, some people were still getting the same hourly minimum wage that I was getting. That is a whopping $7.55 per hour. One year later? That's still a whopping $7.55 per hour. I don't care how bad the store's supposedly doing in "these trying economic times," there's something super f*cked up about that.

But just because I will no longer be working at the smelly understocked sex sweat-shop (not to be confused with the smelly understocked sex-sweat shop...ew), it doesn't mean I won't be writing about it. Au contraire, my experience has inspired me to try my hand at fiction. In fact, that's the sole reason I started working at the sex shop in the first place if you hadn't guessed that by now.

So, we shall see where this goes...

All I know is that I hope David Caruso will play the part of Perv #2 in the novel's film adaptation.

*Fingers crossed!*

oh, you've created a vmonster

If you couldn't guess, the "v" stands for vlog. And the "monster," well, that stands for monster. Duh. Anyway, the bottom, retardulous line is this: You've created a vlogging monster out of me. It's like you gave me a knife and a gun and I made a knife-gun. And then both shot and stabbed myself with it.

Honestly, I truly thought last week's vlogtastical experiment was going to be a one-time thing, but since I got so much feedback that didn't involve the phrase "that was f*cking retarded," I decided to try it again. And on a rare serious note, this whole video thing has served as a much-needed break to rest the remaining molecule I call my brain that is now dedicated to writing a work of (gasp!) fiction. Not to be confused with fictional work.

Besides, vlogging offers a clearly demented person like myself an additional benefit: When I inevitably hit rock bottom (scheduled for sometime next month), I'll have both written and filmed documents of the downward spiral. This should make the diagnosis much easier for when I'm finally forcibly committed.

But mainly, I hope you all just like my hair better this time...



Sadly, that was an actual phone call. A real conversation. And if you're wondering, yes, I too am both bemused and disturbed by how often I seem to talk about David Caruso.

Also, did you notice the toilet paper perched gingerly on the top shelf? That's probably the best part of the video.

But let's not bid our weekend adieus on that note. Instead, let's renew our faith in the capabilities of humanity (instead of its mental insufficiencies), and peruse possibly the most informative article I've ever come across on the Internet forwarded to me by a friend: "Seven Ridiculously Over-the-Top Modifications to Deadly Weapons." Because when I mentioned that knife-gun in the opening paragraph, I wasn't kidding. That sh*t exists.

City Paper does their part to kill print journalism

There are very few things one can do to kill time while working at a sex shop. You can talk to your coworkers. You can stare at all the merchandise and wonder why so many of them are named after dolphins, rapists of the sea. Or you can read and do crossword puzzles.

While I do engage quite often in options one and two, I am usually that employee with my back turned to the customers thinking of a four-letter word that means "Humpbacked ox of Asia." In fact, I'm usually so engrossed in these puzzles that a would-be robber could probably calmly go over to the cash register and steal the entire thing without me noticing. Remember, I only get paid $2.37 per hour, so not that much should be expected from me.

The highlight of my work week is always getting my dildo-peddling hands on the new Washington City Paper. It gets delivered on Wednesday nights around 9 p.m., just in time for me to ignore the evening rush. And once I finish the crossword, I usually decide to read the rest of the paper. Obviously, I start at the employment classifieds. (Apparently, surrogate mothers are needed. Anyone know if that's off the books?) Then I proceed to columns like The Straight Dope and Savage Love. Finally, I'll take a look at the front-page story.

For the most part, they're OK. They kill time. Sometimes they're even interesting, like the one a couple weeks ago about the chef contest held by the owner of Busboys & Poets and Eatonville. (That restaurant sounds like a disaster, by the way.) And sometimes they're actually clever, like the time they wrote about how they're going bankrupt. That one even got my HTML code all hot and bothered.

But sometimes (and thankfully not as often as they are simply so-so), they're horrible.

Take, for instance, this week's lead story: "Washington's Five Most Fascinating Post Offices."

Uh, what? I showed it to my helper horse Sven to make sure I was reading it correctly (remember, I'm functionally retarded). He said, "Ja!" and then went back to eating his smörgåsar -- he makes his with hay, oats and Beluga caviar.

So it was equine-confirmed. The editor, indeed, decided to dedicate 5,000 words to f*cking post offices. I honestly don't know where to even begin mocking this because, really, as a formerly employed reporter, I find this just so incredibly sad. I mean, can you imagine the editorial meeting?

"OK, intrepid reporters, I have a doozy for you. I bet you'll even fight over it," says the editor as the underpaid staff who got into this business because of an altruistic love of writing looks on in eager, wide-eyed awe.

"Tell us!" they implore. "Please!"

"OK," the editor would then pause dramatically for greater effect, "Washington's Five Most Fascinating Post Offices!"

*crickets*

"Who wants it? Do we have to draw straws? This is going to rock this city!"

*crickets*

"Uh, I don't think you guys understand what kind of opportunity this could be! We can blow the lid right off this USPS scandal!"

"What scandal?"

"The, um, scandal about, you know, which post office is easiest to buy stamps in..."

"But what's the scandal?"

"Look, if one of the you two remaining fulltime employees doesn't take this or at least find a touring musician and owner of a small record label to take this, you're fired."

Fortunately, the editorial board found just that. Justin Moyer, "a touring musician and owner of a small record label," sacrificed himself for the cause of publishing sh*t that doesn't matter. See, Justin's "spent a lot of time at the post office." He's "mailed a lot of sh*t and knows exactly what he wants from the blue-clad public servants he pays to handle his correspondence." He then proclaims himself the "postal-inspector-for-the-people" and vows to "spotlight five of the region's best, worst and otherwise fascinating post offices for your benefit" based on seven criteria: Automated Postal Center, Safety Glass, Prompt Service, Parking, yadda, yadda and yadda.

Honestly, it was hard to read even that far (and not just because I'm barely literate). But I trudged on, as I am the "ombudsman-for-the-people" and I vow to spotlight the region's most pointless, idiotic and otherwise unpublishable articles for your benefit based on one criterion: Retardedness. My two word Washington City Paper front-page article is below:

WHO CARES?

Maybe it's just my gut and my helper horse Sven's logic, but when you live in the assumed Capital of the Free World, you'd think there were more pressing issues to dedicate 5,000 words to than whether you have to show ID to the clerk if you choose to pay with a credit card at one of five area post offices. That, apparently, adds to the post office's "Triflin' Factor."

OK, I get that this article is supposed to be light-hearted, humorous, etc. But why not combine humor with usefulness? Not that I know anything about that as I try to keep this blog as uninformative as possible, but that's my point! There's a reason everything I write on here is strictly published for free on the Internet; it's useless and uninformative! So why then, was this ridiculously long, useless and uninformative review of post offices not simply put on a blog? What makes this useless and uniformative article printable?

Nothing. And we wonder why newspapers are on a death watch...

As far as I know, people turn to printed publications to learn something -- be it news, movie reviews, restaurant openings or what have you. They don't rush out to pick up a publication to read reviews of sh*t that no one cares about. First of all, how many people go to the post office more than twice a year? Moreover, the post office is a federal institution. Can you really reasonably expect it to be anything less than "triflin'" at any given time no matter where the location? I mean, is one post office so glorious that you would shirk your local joint in favor of driving several miles out of your way (assuming you even had a motor vehicle) to return your helper horse's manure basket there just because he didn't like the color option you chose?

No. No. And, once again, no. (And by the way, Sven, you'll drop a deuce in that maroon manure basket and like it!)

Alas, Washington City Paper is usually a small glimmer of joy at my menial labor job. But honestly, I'd have almost rather been actually doing my job than killing those not-so-precious moments reading about how the post office in Southeast Station "sucks balls." (Although kudos, Justin, on getting paid to use that phrase in print.)

And for future reference, Washington City Paper, when the idea starts floating around to pick out the five best Departments of Motor Vehicles in the area, just picture this:


You DO NOT want to taste Sven's pain. Trust me. Maybe just print five pages of crosswords next time...

a funny thing happened on the way to cure cancer

Washington, DC, is filled with assholes. Don't believe me? Then you're probably one of them. The kind who makes hitting pedestrians a sport. The kind who considers date rape a legitimate form of wooing. The kind who drunk drives for fun. The kind who hates pancakes.

But delicious breakfast foodstuffs aside, DC is filled with the kind of asshole who gets his jockstrap in a bunch over the supposed disorganization of a charity race to cure cancer.

Apparently, the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure goes down this weekend. For those of you not in the cancer know, this is a charity event that invites individuals and groups to run or walk a 5k in order to raise money for breast cancer research. It's really a good cause and if I was able to run/walk for more than a few feet without running into a stationary object, I'd totally participate. But that would require me to be sober.

Anyway, the bottom line is this: the SGK race is not really a race. There's no glory in coming in first. There are no prizes for the winner, well, unless of course you're not a dick and knowing that you've done something to help cure a deadly disease is prize enough. Alas, however, DC is full of dicks, with the ability to run or walk, who refuse to participate because the race doesn't fit their high standards. Moreover, they're recruiting other would-be charity runners on DCist to also not participate.

NewHCE commented: "For all you runners out there, stay away from the Komen races. Worst run races ever. Even potentially dangerous. There are plenty of other charity races to run."

Thankful for the info, DrLRonHoover (I hope to God this man isn't a real doctor...) replied: "Thanks for that! I was actually considering running the race, but not now."

I guess the big problem has to do with something called "chip timing" and "a corral system." The SGK event doesn't offer either, ergo, making it not legit enough to not quit. Instead, all the SGK race offers is a chance to raise money for cancer victimes. And clearly, that's not good enough.

Boondoggle said: "With chip timing and a corral system, you can have a competitive race and help people. But without some way of encouraging the slower folks to start in the back, the promise of chip timing is just going to frustrate serious runners. And if those people get frustrated enough no to running [SIC] it next year, your [SIC] left no better off than if you just called it a fun run to begin with."

THAT'S BECAUSE IT'S NOT A RACE, JACKIE JOYNER, IT'S A CHARITY EVENT TO CURE CANCER.

Oh, and if those comments aren't enough to make you want to punch this city in its proverbial junk, then maybe this will goad you (that is, if you, yourself, aren't a cancer-loving asshole). Wah, say these naysayers on DCist, there's not even any free stuff to collect! Blasphemy!

NewHCE writes: "Lawyers Have Heart (Ed. Note: LOL!). That is a good race."

To which DrLRonHoover replies: "I have to say the course is a disappointment. Out the Whitehurst, then Canal and back again. It used to be more fun when it went through the sidestreets in Gtown. Still, it's one of my three to four races a year. Good atmosphere and freebies."

Because the thought of doing something to help others without the promise of a free tote bag made in China filled with crap you'll inevitably throw into a landfill within a couple of months is pointless...

Says Boondoggle: "Thanks for the advice. I'll run Lawyers Have Heart 10k instead."

I guess cancer can wait.

But what about the metaphorical butt cancer that is DC? Is there a race to cure that? Maybe I should organize a race. I already designed the free tote bag.


I'd sweat for that.

i implore you to stop, media

A literate reader forwarded me an article from Rolling Stone the other day and, to my chagrin, it wasn't about Jonas Brothers. Instead, it was about all the ways DC has changed since Barack (we're on a first name basis now) moved to town.

Um, really? Again?

I feel like we've heard this before...or several times. And every single time, I come to the same conclusion: what a bunch of bullsh*t.

Newsflash: DC is STILL full of politico douchebag types. That's what this city was built on. And it's probably what this city will prattle on being until the world ends or the system collapses or my helper horse Sven gets sober.

So, needless to say--let alone type--I am upset with Rolling Stone for wasting valuable column inches on drivel like this:




Nary is a Jonas Brother even mentioned! Instead, it's all about how "Shaw" (which, by the way is not even really on the map) is totally the coolest neighborhood in DC now. This is a non-starter with me because, really, there are no cool neighborhoods in DC. There may be neighborhoods that are more tolerable than others, but just because you don't feel the need to stab yourself in the face all the time, doesn't mean it's cool.

My other major contention with these two pages is the Power Shift table, which looks at "what's in and out of the nation's capital." First of all, nothing is ever "in" in DC except for khakis and humidity. Secondly, how embarrassing is it that we traded in Jack Bauer for Oprah Winfrey as our cultural icon? While both can kill you, Bauer's methods of assassination are so much cooler than Oprah's. She wants to kill you slowly; Bauer wants to kill you quickly. And, apparently, to the soundtrack of Rammstein. And at least Bauer is fictional...

Now please, mainstream media, come up with some new material. Or at least get back to covering more important topics like what the Jonas Brothers are wearing.


Oh look! Ladies' jeans! I think I have that exact outfit being sported by that Jonas on the left. Sanjaya. Or whatever his name is...