hey, ever wish you were dead?

While I try to tear my imaginary helper tapeworm Steve away from the listening to NWA's Straight Outta Compton, Explicit Content Only Edition, I find myself faced with having to fetch my own Irish Coffee, Whiskey Only Edition at BWI.

I can't tell you how much fun I find airports after spending several days, maybe even weeks, in the past four months enjoying their ambience while waiting for flights to various exotic locations, such as Newark, N.J.

Just kidding, I never got to locales that exciting.

But here's why I'm writing this. My gears have been ground this morning. However, unlike how this entire preamble I set up would seem to suggest, my gears were ground not by airports, but by traffic.

So, I have a car this time around in DC, which is pretty much the worst situation imaginable, aside from anything obviously worse, you know, like Ricketts.

And while I won't justify why I have the car because as of right now I'm kind of confused, myself, as to what made me think it would be a convenience, but I will justly complain about it.

I drove to BWI. This morning. During rush hour. Let me tell you, I never missed the "inconvenience" of standing outside in the cold waiting for a bus to take me to Union Station so I could take the overcrowded MARC train on which the incomprehensibly sweaty dude standing next to me with his smelly armpit in my face would spend the entire 30 minutes exhaling the scents of last night's dinner of chicken fried steak (extra gravy) from his ass.

I will see I-495 in hell.

Oh, it's good to be back! :)

craigslist ad makes me want to eat meal out of toilet

PREAMBLE: Um, I'm back in this suckhole for the next two-and-a-half months. Indeed, it's a fact that hell hath frozen over. Seriously, you saw all the snow in DC, right? (LOL! Let the laugh riot begin!) Anyway, I've decided that since people actually read this blog due to its distinct theme of bitchassness, I'd reprise it for all posts specifically regarding DC. However, I want to narcissistically remind you that I do have another blog that went from telling tales adventure in South America to a blog devoted entirely to men's figure skating. It's a magical e-place. Go check it out. Or not. Welcome back.

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So, it's been proven time and time again that Craigslist is f*cking creepy. Case in point, it once got me a job at a sex shop.

Anyway, now that I'm back in DC (I know, I know...), I'm finding myself once again turning to Craigslist to find some short-term housing. And because my budget is a bit more limited (after all, I no longer work at the sex-shop, where I was making a whopping $2.73/hour), I'm looking to live gentrify outside the northwest quadrant. However, unfortunately, my efforts to push poor people out of their homes hasn't been working out as smoothly as planned. And no, it's not because of imaginary helper tapeworm discrimination. It's because I have no desire to live with Captain Apollo.



Indeed, that's an actual, un-retouched CL ad. And if you can't read it because you're illiterate and your imaginary helper annelid isn't around to read it for you (or, maybe the text is too small), allow me to sum it up for you: Basically, some seemingly crazy possibly awesome old man who calls himself Captain Apollo is renting out a series of rooms, a.k.a. "officers' cabins," in a house he calls Casa degli Angeli.

Yeah. This might even be a worse business plan than my idea to market tapeworms as helper animals.

And I say this not because a plan to market a kitschy and or borderline 'tardy idea is necessarily bad. Obviously, I think we can all recognize the genius behind Taiwan's chain of Modern Toilet restaurants ("It all started when one of us was reading the manga, Dr. Slump, on the toilet...).

No, my problem with Captain Apollo's plan is that it's not quite kitschy enough. Instead, it's just creepy. I mean, if you're going to refer to a house as if it were a boat then you better not name it "Angel HOUSE," for example. More gravely, I see a definite missed marketing opportunity in this line, taken straight from the ad: "1st & 2nd Officer's Cabins with private bathroom."

Um, excuse me? Bathroom? Hello! Ahoy! CALL IT THE POOP DECK!

Duh.

And for that reason, I will not be answering Captain Apollo's ad.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to figure out how to gain franchise rights for Modern Toilet.