to beaver or not to beaver

For anyone who lives in DC, I'm sure you're familiar with how sh*tty customer service generally is here. For instance, just the other day I stood in line at Blockbuster (yes, sometimes I'm old school) just tryin' to rent Harold & Maude (I told you I was old school) while two employees did absolutely nothing and one tried rather fruitlessly to work the brainless technology required to take $3.99 from customers and give them their chosen merchandise in return.

It really shouldn't be that hard. (That's what she said. Actually, no she probably didn't say that.)

I mean, take my four dollars. In fact, keep the change. I'm in a generous mood.

Just let me go watch this:



Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because I had a very strange experience yesterday during which a customer service provider went above and beyond what I requested. I won't beat around the bush here (you'll get that pun in a short second), but let's just say I had a certain kind of grooming done that went a little too far. And now it's bald!


And now I feel like a pedophile every time I change my pantaloons. On the non-plucked turkey side, however, the woman who made me feel young in an incredibly creepy way again did a very good job -- so good that I had no idea that that's what she was doing. I'd give you the name and place where she works, but I almost feel embarrassed to in case one day she Googles herself and comes across this post. Because, well, let's be honest, it's pretty messed up that I didn't realize to what extent she was, well, we'll just say "Googling" me. But seriously, everything happened so fast that by the time I realized what exactly was going on it was already half gone.


By the way, you're welcome for all this wonderful imagery. I hope your next Thanksgiving is fantastic.

Hmm...

And so it's come to this. After 457 posts, who knew my 458th would end up being such a heartwarming tale of DC's excellent cuntomer service. But I guess if there's one service DC excels at, it might as well be this. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go register myself under Megan's law.

i'm so vain...

In the wake of yet another Kennedy leaving the mortal world this month, I'm left with few words. Actually, that's a lie. I have a lot of words, just not very much time to write them down today. I'll be trekking out to Pentagon City to continue Sports-Brassiere Quest '09 then hittin' the gym.



Which means while I'm getting vascular (because I'm sure two reps of five with three pound weights and a yoga class will do that to a person), I'm going to direct you to another blog. And because I'm pretty sure I have an acute case of narcissistic personality disorder, I'll be linking to a piece that I wrote.

And if that's not enough to entice you (I don't blame you), maybe this will do it: There are MP3s involved, including one by Phil Collins.


And with that, I invite you to click on over to The Vinyl District to join in on "Twitstock," which invites TVD's Twitter friends to reveal five songs they can't live without. Being as I only love myself, I listed five songs that make sitting at home alone in the dark a whole lot better.

E-see you tomorrow!

getting a job

As much as I Love (and please do emphasize the capital "L") being [f]unemployed, sometimes it gets a little rough. And by rough I mean, poor. As in, I'm getting pretty f*cking poor. Which means until my helper horse Sven wins big playing the ponies himself, uh, or something, I find myself perusing the want ads.

My first stop was Craigslist, which yielded me a lovely job at the sex shop not too long ago. So just imagine my excitement when I saw a company named Bezoom was hiring! Maybe I could finally get that sports bra I've been looking for and maybe even at a discount!

Unfortunately, after Sven placed his pince-nez on his muzzle and began to read the content of the ad to me, I immediately found myself in a fit of rage. Contrary to what American slang has taught me over the years, "Bezoom" in this case does not mean "boobie," but instead it's some sort of crappy video editing company. Or something. I stopped paying attention.

My next stop was JournalismJobs.com, where I learned that The Raw Story is hiring. And since everybody knows I like it raw (that is, my Town Hall meetings and Ol' Dirty Bastard songs), I became immediately interested. Until once again, Sven started reading, this time placing after affixing his monocle over his left eye:

"Popular politics site with five hundred thousand unique visitors is seeking an intrepid political reporter to cover the vagaries of politics in Washington, including the Obama Administration and Congress. We're looking for someone with reporting experience -– political preferred -- who is fast, self-driven, independent and hot for politics and muckraking journalism."

Intrepid? Fast? Hot for politics? Uh. Not to mention I would have to "cover the vagaries of politics in Washington." That sounds like work...next!

MediaBistro has gotten people jobs, right? I turned to that Web site next. Unfortunately, what I found there didn't really fit my criteria, mainly because apparently they now allow job listings for machines. Al Jazeera is looking for a DC-based "Teleprompter." Now, I'm no genius (clearly), but from what I know from my short foray at journalism school (dumbest mistake of my life), a teleprompter is a machine that allows broadcast journalists to have the easiest job in the world. It does not involve a person. Or a Bezoom. Or a terrorist! (Really? I thought that was a good one. Al Jazeera? COME ON!)

Well, I guess there's only one thing for me to do now -- open up a frozen yogurt shop. Or a cupcake shop. Or a pie shop. Or whatever other fad desert DC seems to be into these days.

raw!

I used to taut Columbia Heights as the greatest neighborhood in DC. Actually, wait. No. I never said that. And not because there's some other magical neighborhood in DC because, really, they're all on the same level of sucking, just for different reasons.

Columbia Heights, though, wasn't supposed to suck when it comes to shopping for basic clothing goods, such as undergarments. I mean, we have a Target and a Marshalls. If between those, you can't purchase your basic cotton drawers, well, Houston, we have a problem. Or more appropriate, I suppose, Ass Cheeks, we have a problem. This has happened to me before.

Which is why I probably shouldn't have been surprised yesterday when the need for a decent sports bras came up and I couldn't find one. Instead, I found myself at the gym holding my rather meager chestical region and crying. Even the bitsiest breasticles can suffer under high impact cardio.

That's right, for the next two weeks I traded my usual sweat-drenched outdoor cycling regimen for the air-conditioned surroundings of the Washington Sports Club. There's nothing like paying to suffer in a temperature-controlled environment while watching CNN "Town Hall Raw." Because apparently the health care bill is as hardcore as a WWE wrestling match.

But really, where can a girl find a decent sports brassiere in Columbia Heights besides on the Internet? I darest say this is an impossible mission. Unless I get this random super-pissed citizen on my side. This is RAW!



By the way, is it too much to ask that amid the Target, Marshals and Ruby Tuesdays that Columbia Heights also get a movie theater? After all, every suburb has one...

experiment!

Remember that game seven minutes in heaven where awkward kids demand that other awkward kids spend seven awkward minutes in a closet talking about how they don't want to make out with each other?

Or maybe that happens only in the movies.

Anyway, this is The Anti DC's seven minutes in heaven, in which my computer and I get together in the seven minutes I have of Internet access to see what we can do. I wanted to lick the screen, but the computer said no...ahhh...

So here we are. I've already wasted two minutes writing those paragraphs so I better make these last five good because there are no edits here. If I blow this chance, I will never have another. Until tomorrow when I have regular access to the Internet again. Then I suppose I have all the time I want.

I'm a bit nervous. This wasn't planned.

I guess I'll just blog my observations. I'm in New York and there are lots of people around me. I know, that's a horrible image. I shouldn't be let out in public unsupervised. Not to mention, people are gross.

The thing is, these people are so much more interesting to watch than most of those in DC. Mainly because I haven't seen one ill-fitting suit and tie. What I do see is a man in bright purple argyle socks, a teenage boy in short shorts and a baby with a top hat.

OK, that last one I made up. I'm hoping my computer will like me more if I lie to it.

It doesn't.

Wait, no. Actually, there goes a baby in a top hat. Goddamn, I love New York.

And now, I've been told I only have a minute remaining. I will use that minute to post this photo of David Hasselhoff in black panties:

Time's up. My computer is no longer speaking to me.

not really breaking news...but...

Crowned "King Douche" not long ago by this very blog, conservative columnist and road hazard Bob Novak died this morning.

Although not to be confused with the Grand Duke of Doucheville and Lil' Lord Doucheington, Novak really fulfilled the duties of his role well. He provided us with endless entertainment and more than a few scandal-sparking articles, ahem, Valerie Plame. (I'm sure she will miss him.) And while I must admit I feel much better about riding my bicycle on the streets now, this is truly is a sad occasion.

Yet as we mourn this loss (and, honestly, as much of an asshole as I can be I admit this really is a loss whether you think he's a conservative crackpot or a genius), I can't help but wonder, who will become the next King Douche?

If we can learn anything from the great Stewie Griffin, it's that douches of such great magnitude are not easily replaced...



RIP.

i learn new things every day

It’s that time of year, month, week again when I opt to leave to DC for greener pastures. Or, in fact, in this case a big-ass lake (again, not to be confused with big ass-lake) and a boat. Life is rough when you’re fun employed...

No, really. Life is rough. In order to maintain my jet-setting ways at a reasonable price, I have to take flights that make me get up at 5 in the morning. As expected, considering my brain is already functioning at levels on par with those of the “intellectually disabled,” I thought I’d limit my blogging today to simple observations at BWI.

What I see: Lots of fat kids eating McDonalds; a Kate Gosslyn dead animal haircut on a 20-something (this greatly upsets me); and a probable homosexual in European-looking pointy-toed loafers.

So far, this last observation is my favorite and not just because of his Eurotrash footwear. He’s also having what might be the most salacious conversation I’ve had the pleasure of rudely eavesdropping on in years. It’s even better because I can only hear one half of it since the other party is only represented to me by the bedazzled Bluetooth this scandalous man has attached to his right ear.

“I have a bruise on my arm.”

Pause.

“Oh just from being thrown.”

Pause.

“Of course it was fun!”

Pause.

“A hundred bucks.”

I told you it was salacious! Oh my…!

Anyway, have a great weekend and most of next week. Once again, the blogging will be spotty because, well, like I said, I'M ON A BOAT!

i am capable of wrong, too...i think...

Just as I've been growing increasingly ambivalent toward the inexhaustible goblet that is DC, I've also lost my will to dress myself creatively.

Seriously, this ensemble, which I wore yesterday, is objectively pretty boring, especially compared to such glorious get-ups as this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this and, of course, um, this. Weirdly, though, a strange thing happened yesterday. While my objectively awesome outfits of yore rarely garnered an iota of positive feedback, the yawn-worthy dirty laundry that I threw on haphazardly yesterday made me feel like I was ready to attend fashion week. 

Inexplicably, people loved my shoes, my shorts, my shirt, my bra straps! Well, maybe not that last one, but you get the idea. I must admit though, I'm not sure if I should be flattered. I mean, it's laughably boring and, for Bali's sake, my bra strap's were showing! After returning home from my quest to procure a $5 $6 footlong I looked in the mirror and just started laughing at myself. DC was totally f*cking with me!

Not only is this get-up boring, but the shirt makes me look like a pear, the shorts truncate my legs and the coordination is horrible -- I failed to fully incorporate the color palette of gray-brown-black with appropriate accessories. A black scarf would be perfect, but in heat like this I'd step outside and probably tie it in a noose. In short, I looked a bit of a hot mess, which may explain why the woman who most fervently admired my ensemble was wearing flip-flops, sweatpants and looked entirely too much like Grimace. It doesn't take much to impress Grimace.

But Ronald-McDonaldland evil-milkshake-stealer-turned-lovable-anthropomorphic-sidekick or not, at least this woman appreciated my non-efforts. 

However, not everyone felt the same way. One woman went out of her way to tell me so. But to my surprise, instead of focusing on the menagerie of things I described above, this woman insulted my shoes, which are, in my opinion, the only aspect of this faulty ensemble that actually works. 

Alas, I guess one woman's sandal-booties, are another woman's Crocs...

Misplaced shoe scurrility aside though, the fact that so many other people (and by that I mean four, including Grimace) really liked my lackluster outfit, made me wonder, "What the hell?"

 

Honestly, I'm not quite sure what this all says about DC. Am I that stellar of a dresser that I can grab whatever's closest to me at the time and still out-style the common DC woman? Although wait...hold on...what's that on my leg? 

In the course of my grainy pseudo-photog skills I had forgotten about the second-degree leg burn I incurred the other day while defending my visage. My helper horse Sven threw a flaming bag of his own poo at me after a heated (literally) argument over the electricity bill. Thankfully, my roundhouse kicking skills are top-notch and I was able to protect my face from the flaming doo-doo. My poor leg, however...ouch. 

And while the picture doesn't really do justice to the giant red, bubbly charred swatches of epidermis on my calf right now, I'm pretty sure I now understand why almost everyone was so complimentary. They were just trying to make a burn victim feel better.

Thank you, Grimace, but a milkshake would've been better...

refresher

So, I went away for a while and I must admit I'm having a hard time getting back into my usual hateful state of mind. But not because I've somehow magically come around to loving DC. Hell no. I still barely tolerate this place. The real reason I'm having Anti DC writer's block is because I've grown increasingly indifferent to this sh*thole we call home. Or maybe this sh*thole I call home if you're reading this and lucky enough to dwell somewhere a bit more sensational like San Francisco, Chicago or Ashgabat, which we all know is the capital of Turkmenistan. 

Ahh, does that really look like the former face of a totalitarian dictator? Or was Turkmenbashi simply a benevolent old man who wanted to spice up the calendar? I think the portrait on wheels explains it all.

Now, if you're an e-friend of mine on Facebook or Twitter, you'll already know where I was. And no, unfortunately it wasn't Ashgabat. 

I was on the West Coast enjoying such wonderful things as the Pacific Ocean, giant trees and, most of all, copious amounts of wine. And with little else to say at the moment, but with a lot more daydreaming to do, I present to you here a few photos from my escapade that make me feel like a deep sea fish with a transparent head and tubular eyes. Or a running robot. Or an octopus squeezing itself through a hole the size of a quarter. In other words, I hope you like them, too!

oh media, please just stop trying...

My mother forwarded me an, um, forward today that featured a parakeet dry-humping a cat. Or maybe they were just good-naturedly playing. Whatever. The point is, I think I've failed to make some things clear here.

Mainly, I don't like cats.

In fact, I'm terrified of cats. That's why I have a helper horse named Sven and not a helper cat named Begemot. Don't ask me to explain my irrational fear, just know that if you ever send me a forward that involves a cat in any way, shape or form (save for big cats like lions and tigers and bears, oh my!) I will react by cursing you, projectile vomiting and dancing around in circles screaming, "Kittens belong in hell!"

My other irrational fear is mummies, which extends to pyramids, which, if you think about it makes sense because a pyramid is really just a giant grave and to break into one is really nothing more than grave digging. Yes, along with my increasingly shrinking brain, some things are better left alone.

And speaking of being left alone, may I please ask Time magazine to stop mocking this city so blatantly? Clearly, since it was printed in Time, it's not worth reading the whole article, but I'll tell you it's supposed to be a guide to a 24-hour visit to the Capital of the Free World. I'll summarize the parts that made me laugh the hardest:

"But of all the places I have lived, none has the accidental loveliness of D.C." LOL!

That is actually the only part that made me laugh. The rest of it just made me bored and/or depressed.

Surprise! The author, Amanda Ripley (believe it or not!) suggests you stop by such unheard-of must-sees as the U.S. Capitol, the Smithsonians (except for the Native American one, which Ripley says is unfortunately not a casino reminiscent of "something designed by a committee"), the Holocaust Museum, the Cathedral, the Vietnam Memorial, the zoo and (drum roll please) Ben's F*cking Chili Bowl.

Oh, that's depressing. You have 24 hours in DC and the best you can think of is grab a greasy bowl of chili...

What the hell? Is fast food really that much of a reason to come to DC? Look, I dined there once. I didn't hate it. But then again, I was also 1 trillion sheets to the wind, so I probably would've been happy eating mokh-mokh, a Dagestani delicacy which roughly translates into English as "sheep's anus." Perhaps I simply don't appreciate cheaply mass-produced food enough, but, Jesus Christ, if one more media outlet jizzes in their pants over this, I swear to God I'll...I'll...pet a cat! This is truly unacceptable. Not only that, but Ripley goes on to note this about the neighborhood in which Ben's F*cking Chili Bowl exists:

"At night, you have three main choices in D.C.: Georgetown, where the tourists and frat boys go to party; Adams Morgan, where the frat boys go once they've graduated; and U Street, where you won't find any of the above."

Has Ripley even been to U Street? That sh*t is chock full of frat boys and tourists. Mostly because of Ben's F*cking Chili Bowl. And Marvin, which I think is an overrated sh*t hole. But according to the author, it's "good" and "upscale."

Um...first of all, the adjectives "good" and "upscale" are clearly misused. Had Ripley actually set foot in Marvin, I'm sure she would've described it as "sub-par" and "douchey." Seriously, if there's a place on U Street that represents the neighborhood's transition to "the new Adams Morgan," it's Marvin.

And don't try to argue with me because you know I'm right. These are facts.

while you were stepping on that used condom...

Oh, wait. I mean, while I was stepping on that used condom (is it just me who sees soggy prophylactics strewn about DC on a semi-regular basis?), Marion Barry was enjoying a night in New York City watching himself on the big screen.

And you, my non-used-rubber-attracting e-friends, can watch him tonight, apparently, on HBO. That's right! His life of shambles has been turned into a documentary!

"After a youth of extreme poverty (which included picking cotton) in Itta Bena, Miss. — “dirt, dirt, dirt poor” he says in the documentary -- Mr. Barry became an Eagle Scout and earned a master’s degree in chemistry at Fisk University in Nashville. But his head was turned by the civil rights movement after he got involved in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and he quit a doctoral program in chemistry at the University of Tennessee. In 1965 he moved to Washington and commenced an enduring affair with a city that was then a ward of the federal government."

Wow. So before a bitch set him up, he was legit. But then, of course, he became the Marion Barry that we all know today. My favorite part was the slogan he used in his 1994 bid to get re-elected to the City Council: "He may not be perfect, but he’s perfect for D.C."

Now, not often does the Anti DC get angry. We (meaning my helper horse Sven, our bean stash and I) usually tend to treat most things in life with a great deal of devil-may-care nonchalance. In fact, save for Putin's glorious moobs, there is nary a news item that elicits any sort of emotion from our collective cold, dark, heartless souls. But the fact that someone could actually run on a slogan like that, implying that a crack addict is "perfect for DC" and actually win, makes our beans boil.

"How is a CRACKHEAD the PERFECT representation of DC?" Sven will neigh as he stomps his hoof.

But then I point out the used condom that's gently attached to his horseshoe and he understands. This town is full of messy slobs with little respect for the city or themselves.

I am angry. Sven is angry. My bean stash is angry. This is a battle we cannot win. This city is lost. This city is dead to me.

Well, except for my best friend's barbecue grill. That is alive and well.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go take my first ice bath of the day. And then go disinfect Sven's shoe. Who knows what kind of syphilis he's tracking into the hobo lair...

Sigh.

If only people in DC would watch this informative Indian video about the proper usage and disposal of the "nirodh," we wouldn't have this problem.

here in body, clearly not in mind...

There's nothing worse than being insulted because of your appearance, well, besides, say, terminal illness, famine, war, murder, injustice, or having to sit directly in front of a crying kid who keeps kicking your seat on a plane...that's about to crash. Also, see: poverty, stupidity, living in Washington, DC, and irregular bowel movements. And, of course, being evicted, being dumped and being caught, which brings me back to my original point -- being insulted because of your appearance blows. But being caught and insulted for your appearance doubly blows.

The Post wrote a couple days back: "Montgomery County police released surveillance photos Tuesday of a broad-shouldered shoplifting suspect who they said left Saks Fifth Avenue with a $2,000 Chanel dress and could have been a man masquerading as a woman."

BURN!


Seriously, for this possible woman's sake, I really hope she is a man. I can't imagine that does anything for the self-esteem to be an actual woman who's mistaken for a man...even in a $2,000 Chanel dress...

Alleged cross-dressing crime aside, though, there's a larger point to this blog's nonsense. What's worse than being caught and insulted for your appearance is reading in the Post about a "woman" who apparently stole a piece of overpriced cloth (sorry, I'm not much of a Chanel fan) from a store in the suburbs. I mean, is this the most important news the Metro desk could come up with? It really makes you wonder when a local blog run by someone who has a fulltime job that isn't "reporter" can come up with more legitimate news items than one of the nation's best newspapers.

And sure, you can argue, "But Marissa, what have you done?"

The answer is nothing. I simply act as the city-wide ombudsman (and village idiot), whose job it is to complain and point out flaws while doing little to nothing to fix them. Not to mention, when you've been reenacting scenes from Sideways for the past week, it's hard to keep up with what's been happening in DC, let alone care.

But, yes, I'm back from my grand West Coast escapade. Let's hope I can come up with some better material tomorrow...

However, in an effort to save what is objectively probably one of my worst posts, I will leave with a little taste of what my helper horse Sven did while I wasn't drinking Merlot in California.

Sven, The Anti DC Official Helper Horse with Vladimir Putin and his Impressive Man Boobs.

Sven says he's never washing his muzzle again. Once you go Putin you never go back.