happy birthday, self!

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

that's not funny

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???

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

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

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

Really, anything goes here.

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


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

simple acts of strangers doing me favors

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

a proverbial e-bone to pick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i want the president to stay in the white house

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

Is that wrong?

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Yep, that seems reasonable.

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

shambles p.i.: khaki love

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

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


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

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

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

i like hats.

Since I wasn't feeling well yesterday (I blame Marvin), I had even more time than usual to bum around the Web like a boxcar hobo. Of course I checked out the standard fare, The New Yorker, Slate and Porn for the Blind, but after a while, I had to get a little more creative, so I ended up on the Tyra Banks Show site. And this is where things got exciting.

Tyra's looking for guests to be on her show! It's practically a dream come true! Let's see what she's looking for:

• Is Your Stage Mom Ruining Your Life?
• Do You Know Someone Who is Making Their Child Fat?
• Are You Afraid of Your Own Child?
• Are You Trying to Design Your Baby?
• Do You Know a Couple That Needs to Stop Making Out and Get a Room?

And my personal favorite: Do You Want to Be Patti Labelle's Personal Masseuse or Masseur?


Hmm...this isn't looking very promising. I don't have a stage mom. I don't know anyone making their child fat (although isn't that all of America?). I don't have a child to fear yet, nor am I trying to design one. And I don't know a couple who needs to stop making out and get a room. In fact, I know plenty who probably need to make out more. Maybe that'd loosen DC up. Lastly, the idea of being Patti LaBelle's personal masseuse kind of weirds me out.

What this all means is that it looks like I'm not destined to be on Tyra's show anytime soon.

:(

(Please note the above sad-face emoticon is bold-faced, indicating extreme depression.)

But as we've seen, I'm a little awkward on camera.

So, it's probably a blessing that Tyra isn't planning on having a show entitled something like: Do You Eat Beans for Almost Every Meal? Or, Do You Wear Weird Hats Indoors? Because then I'd definitely sign up.

I have e-disguised my mom to protect her from the public shame of having spawned me.

Actually, I wear that hat out of doors more than indoors. I got it at Target for $12. It packs up well in a suitcase, protects my pasty visage from the sun and, best of all, allows me to practice my hat dance moves wherever I go. (I'm getting good.)

The rest of the ensemble is composed of a pair of shorts I got at a thrift shop for $3, a men's Hanes T-shirt and a pair of Ray-Bans. I like investing most of my easy-earned government money into items that I commonly lose. Thanks, taxpayers!

And now to make this post slightly relevant to this blog's theme, as well as speaking of hats and taxpayers, or rather, tax evaders, what's with Marion Barry and this nonprofit shambles? I get that it's not such a good thing that Marion Barry led the DC Council to appropriate nearly $500,000 to nonprofits that probably don't even exist, but it's Marion "Bitch set me up!" Barry we're talking about. Should he ever be expected to do anything legitimate? Therefore, I think the blame for this debacle should be placed on the rest of the DC City Council. I mean, they're the ones that voted to OK Barry's proposal. Can't we just impeach them all?

Oh, wait. That would be too logical, like wearing a hat indoors. Or something.

marvin is an overrated sh*thole

There are so many things to hate about DC that, really, it's hard to narrow down one point to write about. But sometimes -- once in a douche moon -- something comes along that is so horrendous, so unnecessarily retarded, that a mere double flip of the bird just doesn't suffice. Sometimes, just sometimes, it's necessary to make a complaint known to the whole world...wide web.

This is one of those times.

Marvin is a pretentious, overrated sh*thole with wack food and even wacker waitstaff.

Actually, the food is pretty decent (unless you're a vegetarian [sidebar: sucker!], in which case the French toast is the only item on the brunch menu you can eat).

The waitstaff, though? I'll see them in hell. OK, well, not all the waitstaff. But one. I will see one of them in hell, the one that is apparently known throughout the land as "the WORST waitress ever." And by "throughout the land," I mean by another friend of mine who happened to dine at Marvin last week. If only I'd've known...

Now this is the time where I debate whether to out this particular waitress, but after thinking about it for a second literally just one second ago, I decided not to. And it's not because I don't remember her name. Trust me, I do. It was noted on the receipt. No, the reason I'm refraining from outing "the WORST waitress ever" is because, really, it would probably be a reward for her to get fired, after which she'd discover what she really wanted to do with her life and then do it. Instead, I'd like to know that she's continuing to toil miserably at a low-paying job she clearly hates. I am a cruel and heartless human being.

Anyway, the event in question happened yesterday around 1 p.m., prime brunch time. Luckily, Marvin wasn't that crowded so I and my two friends (equally cruel and heartless) were seated right away. And after passing several four-person tables, which I would quickly learn are called "four-tops" in restaurant lingo, we were seated at a "five-top." And in case you didn't pay much attention to that last sentence and your deductive reasoning skills equal that of a brain-damaged platypus, that means a table for five.

The waitress came, took our orders then disappeared. All was good. But then about two minutes later she came back. To yell at us. Well, to yell at me in particular, the one who ordered a $4 fruit bowl and a glass of water in place of something more expensive.

"Just so you know, there's a minimum tab of $10 per person," she sneered.

"Oh. I had no idea. That's not written anywhere," I said.

"Well, FYI," she noted with a ridiculous dollop of sarcasm rivaling my own patented variety, "That's the policy. Especially when you're at a five-top."

"A what?"

"A five-top. This table is for a larger party. It's a five-top and you're only three."

After that, she went into a tirade during which she inexplicably said "five-top" about 18 more times.

After she was done, my friend noted, "You know, we didn't seat ourselves..."

Looking around, "the WORST waitress ever" must've noticed the numerous empty, smaller tables the hostess passed by when she chose to seat us at the mythical "five-top" because she looked at us and said, "Well, I'll let you keep your original order this time, but you can't do this again."

After she walked away, all three of us collectively noted that we definitely won't be doing that again because not one of us ever plans to return, unless of course, we ever get a craving to be treated like second-class citizens...

Now, don't get me wrong, I understand why the waitress might be upset about my small order and having a trio sit at a table for five. Less tip. But 1) this $10 minimum "policy" was never conveyed to me; 2) like I said, we didn't seat ourselves at that ginormous table and, in actuality, would've preferred a smaller table, which would've made talking to one another easier; and 3) in order to get a tip, you have to actually do your job well, which doesn't involve unnecessarily bitching out paying customers.

Moreover, it's not like there was a crowd of people storming the place to eat there, which means my business, as measly as it was, should've been at least a little appreciated. I mean, maybe it's because I'm not a communist and/or terrorist, but isn't a paying customer who's willing to order $4 worth of items better than a quintet of could-be people with could-be money? Then again, although the answer to that question seems obvious, this is DC, a city that appreciates common sense about as much as a normal human being would appreciate contracting herpes.

But seriously, Marvin. You've made one angry hobo out of me. Albeit, a hobo now with an extra $4 to spend. All I need is one more dollar and it's off to DC's most reliable establishment for a $5 footlong. Now that's a brunch I can get behind.

a poorly videotaped bicycle jaunt

So, I haven’t been in DC since Wednesday. I’ve instituted a new policy that dictates I leave at least once a week. Next week, I’ll be going to New York. The week after, the West Coast from where I may never return. Just kidding. I’ll return for at least a week before I probably end up in New Hampshire. And then maybe somewhere in South America, where early retirement from not doing much of anything at all awaits. But since that’s still at least a month-and-a-half off, so there’s no use talking about it.

And on the subject of not worth talking about, I made another video blog. The setting is rural southern Virginia, and the subject matter is standard: bikes, my hair and my functional retardation.

Before today’s feature presentation begins, however, I’ll disclose that this is the first time I worked with my mobile medium, my Flip Mino Camcorder (someone should really pay me for that plug...), so excuse the extreme close-ups and shaky camera work. I'm still getting used to it. Also, considering I haven't been doing much of it on this blog lately, I'd like to remind you that I’m a writer (I hope…), not a videographer (which is really too bad).

Sigh.

But I guess there’s no need to prolong the inevitability of bringing more shame to my friends and family through this latest video experiment, so please all The Anti DC to present A Janky Bike, A Jankier Rider.

this isn't really the elusive same-day 2nd post...

This is just more of an addendum to my previous post, in which I made a somewhat valid excuse why I've seemingly been slacking on the blogging front.

I think other bloggers call this a blog maintenance post.

Anyway, per a comment and a single E-mail I received regarding my last post, I want to remind everyone (read: the imaginary third reader and all those who don't care) that, although I may not bitch in paragraphs on The Anti DC as often as I used to, I bitch in short sentences on Twitter pretty regularly. Ergo, if you want to keep feeling better about your life by having me remind you each day that you're not living mine, feel free to "follow me" there.

Also, I have a very lax Facebook policy, which means I pretty much e-befriend anyone who expresses even a slight toleration of my writing. I have very little e-dignity. So, please, feel free to add me on there, especially if you would like a picture of David Hasselhoff humping a giant bottle of Pepsi posted to your page. I make dreams come true.

mixed emotions

Sometimes I read a story and I'm not sure whether I should be sad or joyful. This happened to me this morning when I read this, a column by WaPo metro columnist John Kelley.

And I don't just have these mixed emotions about Kelley's hat, which is so retardedly and/or awesomely displayed for our amusement each week in his picture.

Nope. This time I felt mixed emotions about the actual content, which profiles a dude named Jon Urban, who's quitting his day job to move to Vegas and become a fulltime poker player.

At first I was like, "Oh, awesome! This guy has the guts to follow his dreams!" But then I was like, "Oh, no! But his dream is to move to Vegas and play poker. How sad."

He's basically trading in one douchey activity (you know, having a legitimate job...or something) for another. Now, if he was moving to Vegas to play craps, that'd be a different story...

But who am I to judge a man and his dreams? Like I said, at least he's chasing his instead of continuing to rot in a job that clearly doesn't make him happy. That takes a lot of guts and, so regardless of how douchey his dream is, I gotta respect Mr. Urban.

"I'm the age, and this is the time to do it," said Jon, 28. "I'm not married. No kids. . . . Everybody at work was impressed that at least I was trying to live my dream."

It's too bad those people who are so impressed with Jon will probably never allow themselves to follow their own dreams...

Me, on the other hand, well, my dream isn't exactly like Jon's, but it's still a gamble. And although I find myself pursuing it out of default (Jon quit his steady, boring job; I got fired from mine, although with a good deal of self-sabotage), I am compelled these days to pursue it.

I'm writing a book. A fiction book, to be exact. Unfortunately, the work I'm putting into it is cutting into the amount of time I devote to blogging. For anyone (of you three people) who check in regularly, you've probably noticed in the past couple of months my posts have been hardly regular. In fact, The Anti DC has the blog version of irritable bowel syndrome. Except instead of eating too much cheese, the lack of regular e-droppings on here is due to writing too much elsewhere.

While I don't want to say too much about the project before I have the chance to pitch it to an agent or two, I will tell you that I am greatly enjoying it. So, even if that agent or two hates my work and tells me I should probably try a little harder to get a day job to go complain about again, at least I know I have the guts (albeit a bit by default) to follow my dream (as silly and cliche as it may be).

But if this doesn't work out, perhaps I'll move to Vegas and pursue that craps fantasy.

In the meantime, I'm sorry to report, the regularity of my blog posts will remain random. Or, who knows, maybe I'll start posting excerpts from the manuscript. Or short stories. Or flash fiction.

Or maybe I'll just post videos reminding you of the dangers of dolphin rape.



You're welcome, although I have this nagging feeling that I've posted this video before...good thing it's worth watching twice. I'll e-see you tomorrow! Or maybe not...

Credit to above artwork: It's a panel in the graphic novel adaptation of probably the greatest book ever, Mikhail Bulgakov's Master and Margarita, by Andrzej Klimowski and Danusia Schejbal.

biggest idiot of all time

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artomatic, shambles and death by tiny birds

Sorry for the lack of bloggage yesterday. I was busy tending to my helper horse Sven. He got a little carried away with the roman candles on Saturday and set his fine mane aflame. Then when I threw a few shots of rum over to him to put it out, it really only made matters worse. Finally, he stopped, dropped and rolled. Like the wise, albeit cliched, Native American taught me on GI Joe.



Well, Sven, now we know.

And when I wasn't alternately killing then helping Sven not self-immolate, I was actually out doing sh*t. Mainly, I finally went to Artomatic! And, boy, was it arty! And a little big retardy...but we'll get to that later.

First up -- my favorites (from the small amount I was able to see in two hours. Oh and my camera ran out of batteries after the first 30 minutes. And also, I forgot to write down anyone's name. This is why I plan never ever to go back into journalism. I hate necessary information.)

I don't know who made this, but it looked like a giant piece of candy. Sweet.

Connor Glenn's sh*t is tight.

The fanciest toilet I've ever had the pleasure to poop on. Just kidding. It's not functional. And, yes, that somehow stopped me.


The most macabre Peeps diorama I've ever, well, peeped.


The District used to be cool. I guess. At least compared to now. Never mind the ill-fitting white pants you see before you...


And speaking of ill-fitting pants, this guy clearly didn't get the District-wide memo! First off, he's not even wearing pants! In fact, as you can see through the art of this blurry photograph by The Anti DC, who forgot to enter this year's Artomatic, he's barely wearing shorts. Yet, still, they are perfect. The Perfect Shambles. (I'll be selling prints for $0.99, discount for bulk buys.)

And now, I present to you the bad:

This just seems like a terrible waste of a bike to me...


And this kind of barf proved all too prevalent. Just because you own a glue gun, doesn't make you a talented artist. And just because you glue random, creepy sh*t to a tutu, does not make you a visionary. Sorry. I'm a harsh critic.

And now for the most thought provoking:

Joseph Hale certainly piqued my interest with this one and not just because this dog looks uncannily like Steve, the name I plan to give one of the huskies I plan to own in the future that will pull me on a sled along the Iditarod. And not just because it got me thinking about how short and precious life can be lest we get attacked by a small swarm of tiny birds. (What the f*ck are those, canaries?) No, this got me thinking because I'm confused. First off, speaking of those canaries, they really don't look like carnivores. Why are they eating Steve? And secondly, there certainly seems to be a lack of blood streaming out of that giant, gaping, possibly tiny-bird induced wound. Where's the science? I guess that's what artistic license is for. Welcome to my mind. It's a warm and fuzzy place. :)

But luckily, that's pretty much the hardest I was forced to think the entire weekend. Life really is precious.

kick it

Oh boy! Just when you thought DC couldn't get more f*cked up (after all, most of the population thinks dognapping is pretty great), turns out there's a dude wandering around town kicking ladies in the shins! Splendid!

According to the woman who got kicked, "Jeannie," it's this man, but without the hobo-esque (or Jesus-like?) facial hair:

Kicking and screaming strutting.

I yanked this photo from another blog called Holla Back DC that someone linked to on Prince of Petworth, where this story first broke. As always, The Anti DC is third to know. Or fourth. Or last. Whatever.

I've got more important things to do over here. Like watch men's tennis and read The Onion. I guess maybe I'm sexist because I really don't like women's tennis and I laughed for hours over that Onion article.

This led to several hours of self-analysis. Can a woman be sexist against her own kind? Maybe. I mean, I also hate The View. And I don't much care for Lifetime. On the other hand, I love to bake. And I love The Tyra Banks Show. Needless, to say I was very confused -- so confused, in fact, that I vowed never to engage in any form of self-introspection again.

Instead, I decided to go buy a pineapple. And no, that's not an exciting euphemism for anything. I really mean, I got on my bicycle and went to the grocers to buy a pineapple. I lead a very exciting life.

After procuring the ripest, most delicious smelling pineapple in the bunch, I returned to my bike, unlocked it, shoved my wad of keys in my back pocket and rode off into the sunset. And by "sunset" I mean "soul-killing humidity." The ride was going all right, but the whole time I was hoping not to get kicked. So when a fellow cyclist passed me and my pineapple and said, "Your keys are falling out of your pocket," I nearly weaved those keys between my knuckles in an effort to defend my shins. Then something weird happened. While reaching for my makeshift brass knuckles, I noticed that my keys really were readying to fall out of my pocket! This wasn't a man trying to kick me! This was a man trying to help me! Moreover, he had a tennis racket! No wonder I prefer men's tennis to women's!

I guess I'm not sexist, after all!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some dishes to wash, laundry to fold and a crazy man to go hunt down and kick.

Happy Fourth of July!

dc okays dognapping

Clearly, lots of sh*t in DC makes me wish I had the power to projectile vomit on cue, like a one-woman slime-machine a la Nickelodeon's You Can't Do That On Television. I'd slime the hell out of just about everything: the bus driver who seemingly has no peripheral vision or possibly just likes grazing bicyclists; the manager at Giant who thinks it's a good idea to keep only one of four self-checkouts open on a weekend afternoon; on most peoples' outfits; on the whole of the government; and, really, so many other nouns around town.

Luckily for us all (maybe save for my thighs), however, on-cue regurgitation kind of grosses me out, which means all I have is this here blog to e-projectile vomit on all the things that irk me about this town.

And what's irking me now is dognapping. When I first read about Molly's disappearance on DCist, I felt a feeling that doesn't come around often -- empathy. I hoped Molly would turn up all right and the sick asshole who stole her would stumble into justice.

Apparently, however, I'm all but alone in that opinion. Turns out, the majority of residents in DC, or at least those who comment on DCist, think it's perfectly okay to kidnap someone's dog if they leave it tied up for three minutes while they run into the store.

typemouse wrote: "As awful as having your dog stolen is, these people were just asking for something to happen. What if she'd slipped her leash and gotten hit by a car? What if she bit someone? Got in a fight? I'm surprised Animal Control doesn't roll right up and toss these seemingly abandoned dogs in the back of their truck."

engineergirl wrote: "I agree-- I would be so nervous if my dog was left unattended in a public area for even a minute. I know someone who had his dog stolen from his (fenced-in) backyard, so why wouldn't someone just pluck one off the street? Aside from theft, I'd be afraid of some crazy person hurting the dog, and what if the dog were to bite someone?"

volite wrote: "In DC, I have seen dogs tied up to the bike rack, telephone poles, fences... even a cinder block outside the Safeway at 13th and Kentucky SE. If you are doing this, you care more for your personal convenience than you do for your dog- it's as simple as that...I hope you find your dog and I hope this blog post will help. Quite frankly, I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often."

Drunga, dodgecitydave, deesee, and countless other jerks had similar sentiments.

Then SydPT said it best: Man you guys are a bunch of dicks. Stop lecturing people and go look for that fucking dog!

Although as eloquent and accurate as SydPT's assessment is, I wish to expand. Ahem.

F*ck this place. The fact that we, as a community, should not only expect this kind of sick sh*t to happen but should accept it, speaks volumes to how messed up DC is. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small town, but, um, doesn't it seem twisted to expect your damn dog to be kidnapped? What the hell kind of city is this? I mean, I understand leaving your dog abandoned for hours in the sun tied to a tree is a bad thing, however, these people hopped in a store for a few mere minutes! That's hardly abuse. That's not neglectful. And most of all, that's not outrageous behavior. That's NORMAL behavior. What's outrageous is all the reactionary asshole accusations being made by all the dicks that populate DC.

And to all those who compared leaving your dog tied to a tree for three minutes to not locking your bike or, uh, leaving your kid tied to a tree for three minutes, this is what I have to say: While I think it is perfectly sad that you need a frickin' Manhattan lock to protect even the sh*ttiest of bikes from getting stolen in DC, it makes logistical sense. When it comes down to it, bicycles, while some of us may treat them like pets, are tools. They're inanimate objects. They don't need to be fed or watered. And unless you're a magician, they don't sit, come or sick on demand. While you may know your bicycle, your bicycle will never know you.

Now, as far as equating a dog to a child, I'm not even sure where to start. This is just retarded. I feel the people who make that connection are the ones who abuse their pets by dressing them up like human beings in sweaters, dresses and pigtails. To those idiots, I say, "Your dog is not a baby." But you're right, no, you would not leave a baby tied up to a tree. You also don't walk it on a leash (although, perhaps this wouldn't be a bad idea). And most importantly, babies don't wash themselves by licking their own butts. If yours does, you might want to see someone about that...

And to those who ridiculously assert, "But was live in a major urban area! Sh*t happens!" this is what I have to say: I've seen many-a-dog tied up while their owners run short errands in New York City, Chicago and even Moscow. DC is far less urban than those places, meaning that excuse is total bullsh*t. DC is really nothing but extremely wack.

There! I said it! DC IS WACK!

In closing, I hope these people find their dog.