It's regrettable what happened to Bruce Boudreau (he was fired), or as I will always know him, Waxed Santa. In fact, it wasn't that long ago that I timelined the evolution of that jolly former nickname whilst the Washington Capitals rose to glory. Alas, times have changed. And while Bruce still looks every bit a hairless St. Nick, he's overseen the devolution of this town's one winning team into what lately seems more like the Redskins on Ice. Plus, rumor has it this recently fired coach started directing his "sh*tbum" insults to the team's do-no-wrong, Alex Ovechkin. What a shame.
So what happened? Well, if you care about that, you should probably direct your browser to a source of shrewd sports analysis because, here, I'm mostly just interested in continuing to propagate amusing nicknames for hockey coaches. Which brings us to the new guy, Dale Hunter, or as he shall heretofore be known on this opposite-of-inspiring little corner of the Internet, Sober Boris Yeltsin. Behold!
Although not necessarily related to Washington, DC, besides the fact that Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY) is tangentially involved, I wrote a fine essay about America's love of a good dick joke that I probably should've tried to sell for money to a real publication over at my other blog, my professional site, marissapayne.com.
If you're at all interested in humor and why we laugh at and embrace certain things (i.e., dicks) over others, then I invite you to click over there and enjoy the read. And a few dick jokes because you're a good citizen.
And if you don't give a sh*t about humor analysis (and for whatever reason hate dick jokes), then at least enjoy this humorous Dirk joke. It's a video dedicated to Dirk Nowitski aka German Moses. I hope I'm not the only one here who's been sucked into the NBA Finals...
YES! Hearing (and reading) the season of spring is going to pop in this weekend makes me feel like this:
...Says the woman who just booked a ticket to Iceland in March. What can I say? I'm an idiot. Or maybe I'm just adventurous. Lord knows I love a good volcano.
But like I said, that's not until March, which means talking about all the Bjorking fun I'm gonna have is a bit premature. Instead, let's talk about something a little more current, and also a little more idiotic. Let's talk about Dan Snyder, whose recent decision to sue the Washington City Paper over a three-month old slightly amusing niche article, has not only made him an even bigger laughing stock to football fans, but a new source of ridicule for those of us who never heard of the guy until now.
The Washington Post did a pretty good job today explaining how with this lawsuit Dan Snyder sh*t his pants then instead of changing them decided to keep sh*tting them over and over again. In fact, at this point it seems there's probably so much No. 2 in Dan Snyder's slacks, it's hard to imagine he's even able to move. And actually, maybe he can't. Not only must the load be too heavy to maneuver, but now it's started to drip down his leg. Ick. (Isn't this blog just a pleasure to read around lunch time?!) There's not a Shamwow big enough in the world to clean that mess up...
But enough with the poop allusions (you're welcome). Now, I wish to speak directly to Mr. Snyder about his rather dismal-looking future. *ahem*
Dan, are you there? It's me, Marissa another future defendant. I just want to give you some helpful advice. First off, don't pull a Hosni here. Go out with grace, and for you we'll define "grace" as "anything, as long as you just go away." See, just like Egypt doesn't want Mubarek anymore, Washington doesn't want you. You're smelly. And before you sue me for "general damages," let me be clear: Until we meet and I can confirm you deodorize on the reg, I mean that you solely give off a pungent and unplesasant odor metaphorically. Because, seriously, I'm getting the bad vapors from all that proverbial poo in your pantaloons, sir...
Of course, this is all wishful thinking. For one, judging from your latest 'tard-fueled antics, it seems you'd probably be the type to "forget" to put on deodorant. And also, lest we forget, we live in a crazy, mixed up world, a world where, I must remind you, this once happened:
In other words, sh*t be f*cked up.
Dan, I hate to be the millionth one to break it to you, but you're heading straight for Noltedom, or -- and this is very hard to say to a stranger -- even worse. At least Nolte had Prince of Tides. What will you have? Go ahead, I'll give you a moment to let the ugly truth sink in...
Has it sunk yet? OK, let's just save some time here and spit it out -- YOU'RE GOING TO BE A BUSEY!
So, I went to the hometown opener of the Washington Bullets Wizards the other night and realized two things: 1) I'm not really a basketball fan (too many fouls make basketball a very dull game!); and 2) I'm a John Wall fan. And while that might seem counterintuitive, it makes sense if you take basketball out of the equation. I'll be honest, I don't really care about how good John Wall handles balls (OK, that phrase just made me like basketball more). I care about his ability to make an intro.
Now, THAT is worth cheering for. Kudos, John Wall. I will attend more basketball games just to see your dance moves.
What's not worth cheering for, however, is the portrayal of Washington, DC, in "The Event." For those of you too hypnotized by John Wall's "Dougie" (that sounds unintentionally dirty), "The Event" is a new television show that combines all the absurdness of "24" with all the 'tardness of "LOST." (I can't wait to find out it's all due to a Hot Tub Time Machine in a cave again...)
Sure, the mystery, sci-fi storyline may seem enticing at first, but a closer look at how this show handles details makes me automatically lose faith. At one point in the last episode they make reference to the Metro. Someone gets on the Metro at Farragut North and sets off east. The next thing we hear is, "She just passed the Van Ness station. The next station is two miles, Metro Center." Uh, really? I mean, just a quick Google and the writers could've avoided that amazingly illogical statement. Why would someone get on at Farragut North, then travel WEST to Van Ness before then traveling east to Metro Center and eventually Chinatown?
Also, this is what the Metro car looks like:
I mean, really, if they can't even get something as simple as the order of the stations or the design of a typical DC Metro correct, how am I going to believe they're going to be able to resolve such a complicated storyline?
But that's not all! Didn't you see? Chinatown looks like this now in TV land:
Look, I wish Chinatown looked like that. I would LOVE to see a legitimate newsstand in this city, but alas, that doesn't exist. I mean, really, who did the research for the set for this show? A toddler? An intoxicated toddler? A blind intoxicated toddler? Because it's just wrong. And like I said, if a multimillion-dollar production crew can't understand that, at the very least, a few thousand dollars worth of stock footage would've been a good idea, then I really can't see how this show expects me to care about it. As far as I'm concerned, a more interesting storyline would be for a scientists to harness the aliens' anti-aging gene and market it to the public-at-large. How would living five times as long as we do now change our way of life? Now, that's a show. I'm going to set it in Miami and use footage of Anchorage to portray it. Now, all I need is a intoxicated blind toddler to ignore all the important details. I smell an Emmy!
Brandon Banks is so fast, he can run up an avalanche.
Brandon Banks is so fast, he can run across the Potomac without getting his feet wet.
Brandon Banks is so fast, he'd stop time if he ran counterclockwise around the earth.
The rest of the stuff I said about him was mostly brainstorming ideas for Brandon Banks fan fiction. I mean, really, he's a great inspiration, and to think! His name is just about two weeks old in my mind. Clearly, anyone who moves metaphorically that fast, as well as literally, has no choice but to have the workings of a legend. I bet:
Brandon Banks could find the missing children in the woods before the police can even gather a search team.
Brandon Banks could rescue a toddler from the burning house before he even started playing with matches.
Brandon Banks could stop the armed bank robbers before they got their Nixon masks on.
Of course, after thinking up these ideas and more, I realized any prose I wrote would be pretty boring. See, Brandon Banks is so fast, he stops the plot from thickening. His running skills would stop the action from even happening. There'd be no nail-biting moments. More likely, Brandon Banks would be able to stop by and trim your nails before you even got the chance.
And so I'm not sure fan-fiction, as ridiculously awesome of an idea it is, would be such a good plan. Instead, I guess I'll just hope I don't blink the next time he takes to the footgame pitch and gets the swine epidermis in his magic hands. Although I know he'll make it to the end area to score some points (or get close enough to allow the rest of the squad to do so), I'd like to be able to follow the blur of burgundy that got him there.
And please, Mr. Banks, no need to worry about a restraining order. As uncannily obsessed with you that I am, certainly you can outrun me.
I'm not sure when the hell this happened or why or even who I am anymore, but I've become somewhat of a footgame fan. And specifically, a fan of the village squad, the Redskins. Sure, the electric gold pants probably have something to do with it, but the real reason I think I've been roped in is Brandon Banks. I'm his No. 1 fan. "But how?" I ask. "He barely even plays!" I say. "I don't know." And then I talk to myself more. Finally, I settle on the answer that he must just have some sort of X factor that intrigues me.
Perhaps, it's because he's about four inches shorter than me, yet still goes toe-to-toe with dudes who are built like Shrek.
Of course, size doesn't matter (that's not what she said) when you can run like Brandon Banks who runs like my other favorite athlete, Usain Bolt. This is probably why I'm such a Banks fan. I mean, they've got the running fast connection; they've got the gold accents in their respective outfits connection. Really, besides the height and, well, the gazillion other characteristics that define a person's personality, Bolt and Banks are pretty much the same person. Indeed, when it comes to athletics, they both have the stuff of champions.
Banks just hasn't had the chance to show the rest of the world besides me yet.
But it's not his fault! He needs more support from his coach and team, who both don't seem to understand his greatness like I do. He's the underdog for now, but I predict that'll change. And considering my great wealth of sporting games knowledge, particularly when it comes to foot game, I'm sure my predictions will come true. See, I'm well-versed in all the main strategeries, such as pointing out when someone's littler than the other players, noticing when people run fast, and most importantly, commenting on the the uniforms. It's all very nuanced, and so I hope all you season-ticket holders and "rules" understanders can keep up. Brandon Banks is the sh*t. Period.
Well, indeed, after seeing this occur two more times this weekend, I am still frustrated by that. I think it's self-centered and truly demonstrative of what's really wrong with America today (besides the fact that Glenn Beck has become a badly dressed spiritual leader). Our society just doesn't seem to think about the proverbial big picture anymore.
I mean, it's fine to be a jerk, don't get this jerk wrong, but it's not fine to allow your jerkiness to infringe on someone else's basic right to breath. That, e-friends, is the non-negotiable line. That line is where all subjectivity ends. And specifically, from the viewpoint of a humor writer, that line, when crossed, is when being a jerk isn't funny anymore. Let's face it: It's one thing to Shambles P.I. a bitch. It's quite another to kill one.
Which is why when the police shot and killed a bitch in Adams Morgan yesterday, no one was laughing. Parrot was a cute dog and I hope she's he's (so, I guess he's not a bitch, after all...) been able to accompany all dogs and go to heaven. Seriously, I think I speak for everyone when I ask, "WTF?!"
Not only does this screw up my entire Thursday assumption that police and other emergency vehicles are rushing to scenes to save lives instead of end them, but this also makes me question my other assumption that drivers in DC are just a bunch of dicks. Why weren't these assholes blocking the intersection yesterday?? I mean, really, WHAT THE F*CK IS GOING ON?! And please, don't take this the wrong way, but, um, WHERE'S A DICK WHEN YOU NEED ONE?!
Unfortunately, according to news sources (remember, you heard it here last), there are no answers -- not to my questions and not to any of your probably more reasonable questions like, "How did this transpire?" The police are saying one thing (the dog attacked), the owner is saying another (the dog was subdued) and witnesses don't seem to know what the hell happened. For that reason, it's nearly impossible to say who was right and who was wrong in this situation, although I'm leaning toward the owner being right because, well, let's face it, DC cops have basically begged meto questiontheir authorityover the years.
The only fact that remains is that someone's dog was put down via a firearm on one of the busiest streets in DC during one of the most popular city activities of the year. It's really amazing that more kids don't grow up with PTSD around here...
And while I vow to keep my eye (maybe even both eyes) on this story as others do all the legwork reporting it, I wish now to turn to brighter news -- and I certainly do mean that literally. After having to endure The Anti DC's creative director, Terry the Tourette's Turtle, yap on for countless hours about the Redskins' new golden pants, I finally got to see them in all their technicolor glory. Here they are standing around with the other team...what was their name again?
Oh yeah, now I remember -- they're called the Dallas Losers.
And that's just about as in-depth as this blog will ever get when it comes to analyzing any footgame matches. We won from what I can only assume can be attributed to the burning of the Dallas Losers' retinas. May our sun-shiny butts continue to emit such blinding light!
Being the sporadic sporting games fan that I am (I only really pay attention if our country's reputation is at stake, like in the World Cup or the Olympics), it should come as no surprise that I'd never heard of Mike Wise until yesterday. Apparently, he's a sports columnist for the Washington Post, or at least he was until his editors decided to suspend him yesterday for a month after he reported false information on Twitter. And while perhaps his editors would've forgiven him if it was an honest mistake (i.e., his multiple sources happened to be wrong), Wise admitted he didn't have any sources to blame. That's right, he basically just made some sh*t up. However, he immediately claimed to have done so on purpose to experiment with the idea that false news posted on social media can spread like chicken pox in a kindergarten classroom.
Well, duh. Twitter is like the herpes of the Web, an echo-chamber of rumors rarely to be trusted. After all, it takes just seconds to retweet whatever bullsh*t someone posts, literally, just the push of one button. Didn't we all learn our lesson earlier this year when Twitter was all atitter with rumors of pop sensation Justin Bieber's death? However, of course it's important to keep in mind that when that was going around, the main spreaders were people with usernames like @Buttscratcher69 or @AnotherAnonymousDickWhoOnlyTweetsAboutStupidSh*tHeShouldKeepToHimselfOrHandleOnGchat. Clearly, there are many "sources" on Twitter that are not to be trusted. And just for the record:
However, turning away from high-pitched pop stars back to lowly reporters, here's the deal: Someone like Mike Wise a.k.a. @mike_wiseguy (ha, clever), who describes himself on Twitter as a "Washington Post sports columnist," should probably realize that whatever he says is going to be taken more seriously than the @Buttscratcher69s of the world. That is, whatever, @mike_wiseguy journalist, posts on his Twitter is going to be taken as news reporting -- as in he didn't just pull some information out of his ass and post it, but is reporting it via a reliable source that he checked to confirm, then checked again to confirm the confirmation.
See, there's this unspoken contract between the people and the Fourth Estate. This silent agreement gives reporters more credibility than the rest of us, so whatever Wise says under the label of journalism -- no matter if it's in print, radio, television or ether -- is going to be taken as true because we all implicitly trust that he's doing his f*cking job rather than f*cking with us. I mean, really, Mr. Wise, were you smoking the good sh*t? Because you pretty much thought of the worst idea ever.
And really, let's talk about the piece of false information that he decided to post.
Uh, really? That's it? That's the big juicy rumor he decided to spread? Jesus. If he was going to lose his credibility, at least he could've done so with pizzazz. Make up something better, something more jaw-droppingly shocking, like "Haynesworth set to apologize publicly for being a huge asshole, I'm told." Or "Johnny Weir will cut a bitch with his fierce triple sow-cow, I'm told." Or, "Ovechkin to meet Putin and engage in a shirtless tag-team, tiger-wrestling match, I'm told." Honestly, ANYTHING would've been more exciting that lying about some rapist getting suspended for one less game than he was originally supposed to. I mean, yawn-to-the-max. Which is probably why only seven people took the bait and retweeted it. Besides people like me who could blog about it, no one really even cared! To give you a comparison, @AndrewWK's tweet, "PARTY TIP: Light something on fire!" was retweeted more than 100 times, including once by me. Now that's social media at work!
And so I guess that just leaves us here, a sports columnist short and a lesson to be learned by us all: Next time you decide to "experiment" on-the-job, don't do it with your credibility. Instead, light something on fire!
When I woke up this morning for the fourth time, mainly because the slumber crusts that had developed during my 12-hour, Nyquil-induced coma had grown large enough to start forcing my eyes open (WELCOME!), I realized two things: 1) Eye biology is disgusting; and 2) It was all just a dream. Alas, I'm not a 17-year-old baseball phenom from Nevada who just signed a multimillion dollar contract with the Washington Nationals. That dream-turned-reality belongs to a boy named Bryce Harper. This accomplishment was only topped by him finally being able to see an R-rated movie without a parent or guardian present.
Disregarding the illiterate who spelled "indulging" with an "e," (perhaps it was the same illiterate who vandalized this LeBron poster in Cleveland?), that video was pretty awesome. I'm doing the "Double Wall" right now, as my helper horse Sven (when Charles Town went to sh*t he came back!) is hoofing away at the keyboard.
So yeah, sports and sh*t.
Besides the Olympics and the occasional tennis match, I never watched or, more importantly, cared about sports until I moved to DC. While I'd love to say I became a fan because our teams are just so good you're forced to love them, we all know that's a bold-faced lie. *ahem* Redskins... *ahem*
For the most part, here in DC we cheer for losers. Save for players like the Wizards' Wall, new Nationals pitcher Stephen Strasburg, and the Capitals' resident toothless Russian Sasha Alex Ovechkin, we got nothin'. Our local teams are like dogs who swallow the country's diamond rings. The result isn't that great. I mean, a sparkly dog turd is better than a dull one, but it's still a turd. (The Caps, so far, are the only team to even come close to turning turds into trophies.)
But I think we like it that way. We bond over having our hopes crushed. We bond in our collective misery. We bond in our simultaneous screams of "F*************************CK!" Indeed, in those short, utterly disappointing and depressing moments, we come together as a city. We are one and we love it.
So, cheer up Cleveland and other Ohioans (?), Miami may have picked the diamond out of your turd making it worth a lot less, but I bet that turd still smells just the same. It's yours. Scoop it up together! ...Or, I guess, metaphorically burn it and leave it on Miami's front steps...
*sigh*
While I understand Cleveland's shock and awe -- their boyfriend just broke up with them and all -- I'm less understanding of the emotional and even irrational, Comic f*cking Sans-fonted reactions of not only LeBron's purported "fans," but his former boss.
Honestly, the Cavaliers franchise just gouted itself with that letter. And if the owners continue to react like Satan just killed their unicorn, they're basically letting every future star of LeBron's caliber know that THEY'RE F*CKING CRAZY. Really, it's no wonder LeBron left. Would you want to work for Dan "Crazy Font" Gilbert?
Look, as a person who's interested in the game of basketball because it gives me another opportunity to move my wrist back and forth to a beat (I say "another" because that's also how I hail a cab), perhaps it's easier for me to take a rational stance. I see it this way: Professional basketball is a game. LeBron wants to win. By joining forces with his friends on the Heat, he just increased his chances. It's not about betrayal. It's not about abandonment. Hell, I don't think it's even about the money or fame. LeBron simply wants to win. That's not narcissistic, that's not an ego out of control -- that's just one really talented guy who thinks he has a better chance to reach his full potential somewhere else.
If anything, leaving Cleveland is the most un-narcissistic thing LeBron could've done. I mean, it must be nice being treated like a god everywhere you go, right? Instead, by leaving he's basically saying he's not good enough to win carrying a team on his own. He's saying he's not a god. He's saying he needs help, and it just so happens the players he believes can help him live in Florida. Judging from his answers to tough questions and the clear emotion in his eyes last night after he made his announcement public, LeBron is not a stupid guy. He knew this decision would incite an instant backlash that would result in a supersonic fall from grace. He knew he would lose his most rampant fan base. Yet he gave all that glory up for the purity of his game.
Now if that's a selfish move, then all of us who have ever left a situation in which we thought we weren't able to reach our full potential, are just as selfish. So, before you hate on LeBron, look in the mirror.
Wait, what's that? Haters gonna hate?
Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Carry on with your hatred if you must. But I'm moving on to other overblown news, mainly this announcement: The Anti DC now has a Facebook page! And like I noted this morning in a status update, "It's not named LeBron, so it's okay to 'like' it." Have a good weekend. Catch your faces on the 'book!
Last weekend brought us Soccer in the Circle, Capital Pride, and 90-degree weather with 100 percent chance of seeing someone's sweaty ass cheeks in a pair of sporty, flamboyant hot-pants.
HAPPY HUMP DAY!
Yes, it was a glorious day in the District last Saturday, a veritable perfect storm of shambles. *sigh* And while I'd love to sit here and bask gloriously in the light being reflected off that dude's taint, I can't because: 1) ew, and 2) I have a couple of programming notes to get to.
Firstly, I probably won't be posting anything substantial here until next Monday because I've got business brewing up in Boston. And by "Boston," I mean "the craps tables at Foxwoods."
However, just because I'm going to perfect the Golden Touch Dice Revolution, doesn't mean we have to completely e-part ways for the next four days. In case you're not privy to the most annoying way to keep in touch on the Web -- Twitter -- I invite you to join me there if you'd like to periodically interrupt your life with several 140-character snippets of Anti DC idiot-savantisms. I promise I won't tweet about meals, when I get up or go to bed, the weather, or any bowel movements. Unless, of course, I happen to wake up in an outhouse during a thunderstorm eating chicken wings. In that case, anything's fair game.
And, unfortunately, I wouldn't discount that as a possibility because, after the dice have stopped rolling, I will be road-tripping lightening-fast back to the District in what I've already dubbed the Shamblesmobile. Move over, above-pictured proud and sweaty ass-cheeks, you're probably gonna have some competition.
And speaking of competition, CHI-CHI-CHI! LE-LE-LE! VIVA CHILE! #worldcup
I've never *not* been in love with freedom. In fact, as I sit here on the back deck, my pants 100 percent not on, with the e-world at my fingertips, it feels so natural to lean back in this reclining lawn chair, which was made in China, and simply bask in it. Goddamn, this is a great country.
And if a person can fall in love with freedom just because he or she can engage in a little indecent exposure while spending hours searching the Web to find things like a soundboard dedicated to the best worst movie of all time, The Room, imagine how someone could feel about it when you add a pinch of team sports, a couple of vuvuzelas and a whole lot of making fun of England. Not only do I love freedom then, but I kind of want to give it a rape whistle because, oh my, it's so alluring that I almost want to touch it in its special place.
Did you notice the middle finger displayed just southwest of Old Glory? I'm pretty sure that finger's directed at David Beckham, whose larger-than-life face periodically graced the screens of Soccer in the Circle on Saturday afternoon to show his nonplussed expressions. And while (surprisingly) I didn't *act* like much of an asshole (my middle fingers were too busy helping me grasp onto whatever makeshift hand-fans I could find), I was (unsurprisingly) dressed like one.
Yet, so was everyone else and, really, I'm glad we all did because when England fumbled and we scored to tie, it made this moment all the more sweet.
USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!
O! What an amazing moment in DC history! Everyone came together to celebrate a common goal (literally), with nary an obnoxious idiot who sought to ruin everyone's time by climbing up a tree to enhance his own view while blocking those of the hundreds of people behind him in site.
Or maybe that did happen. But you know what else happened? Some freaking mob justice, that's what! And if there's one thing DC does well (that is, besides producing the type of person who would sacrifice the fun of all for the benefit of one), it's mob justice. And the evidence in this aptly titled "dicktree.com" incident is no exception. So, without further ado, mob, I present to you the highly uncoveted Anti DC Bald Eagle of Freedom award!
Congratulations, mob. You've earned it.
***
Also, in case you missed it (because you started waving your flag a early in the morning on Saturday), I did a rare weekend post, in which I (shoddily) recapped the events of the World Cup Opening Party at the South African Embassy on Friday morning. You can witness the shambles by clicking here.
Of all the places I've imbibed for free in DC, I don't think there's been any place more raucous than the South African Embassy. Even more impressive, it was all done in the early-to-mid hours of the morning, while South Africa celebrated the opening of the World Cup on its home turf yesterday.
And according to the facts in my mind, there's nothing that indicates the presence of good will in the world more than unscrewing a bottle of rum and watching a group of people from all around the world finish it off in mere minutes. At 9 a.m.
There's also nothing like watching a bartender unscrew a bottle of scotch, mix it with Coke and hand it to someone after she ordered a rum and Coke. Another fact in my mind says, you know it's an event to [not] remember when even the bartenders are too crunk to mix a rail drink right. At 10 a.m.
Damn, that party was a good time!
And I learned something to boot: I entered this event yesterday a soccer novice and, I can proudly say that now I know what offsides means, what a yellow card is, and that eight out of 10 dudes who play soccer are ridiculously good-looking. Indeed, soccer is a fine sport.
This woman, one of the Mexicans who attended the party to congratulate South Africa on this historic occasion and cheer on (albeit very quietly) their team in the opening game, agreed:
But then again, judging from her footwork skills, which she showed off after the match while playing with what I assume were her grandsons just moments before this picture was taken, she's known that for a long time. Wow.
And because I hate to leave you with something as impressive as an octogenarian's age-defying foot-eye coordination skills, allow me to present to you this short, poorly edited video log of yesterday morning's events. It's accompanied by horrendous audio. Enjoy!
Happy World Cup Fun Time! Remember to check back Monday for a round-up of the events in Dupont this weekend because I have my vuvuzela ready to go and my pipes warmed up -- USA! USA! USA!
Remember last Thursday (that's 80 years ago in blog years, I know, but try to remember), when I accused drivers in DC of being killers because of their dickish tendencies? I said something like, because they routinely cut off emergency vehicles in intersections, they value their commuting time more than basic human life.
Oh yeah, now I remember -- they're called the Dallas Losers.
Being the sporadic sporting games fan that I am (I only really pay attention if our country's reputation is at stake, like in the World Cup or the Olympics), it should come as no surprise that I'd never heard of Mike Wise until yesterday. Apparently, he's a sports columnist for the Washington Post, or at least he was until his editors decided to suspend him yesterday for a month after he reported false information on Twitter. And while perhaps his editors would've forgiven him if it was an honest mistake (i.e., his multiple sources happened to be wrong), Wise admitted he didn't have any sources to blame. That's right, he basically just made some sh*t up. However, he immediately claimed to have done so on purpose to experiment with the idea that false news posted on social media can spread like chicken pox in a kindergarten classroom.
When I woke up this morning for the fourth time, mainly because the slumber crusts that had developed during my 12-hour, Nyquil-induced coma had grown large enough to start forcing my eyes open (WELCOME!), I realized two things: 1) Eye biology is disgusting; and 2) It was all just a dream. Alas, I'm not a 17-year-old baseball phenom from Nevada who just signed a multimillion dollar contract with the Washington Nationals. That dream-turned-reality belongs to a boy named Bryce Harper. This accomplishment was only topped by him finally being able to see an R-rated movie without a parent or guardian present.
HAPPY HUMP DAY!
Congratulations, mob. You've earned it.
Of all the places I've imbibed for free in DC, I don't think there's been any place more raucous than the South African Embassy. Even more impressive, it was all done in the early-to-mid hours of the morning, while South Africa celebrated the opening of the World Cup on its home turf yesterday.
But then again, judging from her footwork skills, which she showed off after the match while playing with what I assume were her grandsons just moments before this picture was taken, she's known that for a long time. Wow.
