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.

that's not funny

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later dicks!

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

Whoops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, we shall see where this goes...

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

*Fingers crossed!*

still in shock

I fell off my bike yesterday. I understand this may not come as a surprise to some, as I believe I give the e-impression here that I'm 1) functionally retarded and 2) drunk all the time. However, for those who've seen me cycle, I'm hoping you're at least a little bit shocked.

"But Marissa, you're all dexterous and sh*t! You dangerously weave in and out of traffic with such a cool, nonchalant, devil-may-care demeanor! In fact, you're kind of like this guy!"

I know, I know. So when I mounted my bicycle yesterday and readied for the first pedal, I was as surprised as you were that just seconds later I was sprawled out like a chalk outline with my bike resting on top of me as if it just Ram Jam'd me (I watched The Wrestler yesterday -- it was so good it affected my similes). I was pinned, confused and, most of all, stunned.

But not stunned about the fall. As soon as the pedal didn't cooperate and I heard a snap, I knew I was about to bite it. Although that moment lasted a mere nanosecond, it occurred in my mind in slo-motion. I saw myself tip over and knew I could do nothing to stop it. I was going down.

When I thumped to the ground and realized I hadn't seriously injured myself, save for a couple of superficial scrapes and a gnarly elbow bruise, I immediately became concerned with my bicycle. The chain was completely disembodied from the gears. It was no longer circular, but in the shape of a long metal snake. It was dead.


"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I screamed (really), as I realized this was pretty much the worst timing ever for something like this to happen. I had just 10 minutes to get to the sex shop, where I planned to risk getting fired by ignoring customers and instead reading I Was A Teenage Dominatrix, one of the lovely pieces of literature we sell.

Onlookers, however, heard a scream of pain and to my visible shock, not one but TWO people rushed over to -- wait for it -- HELP.

"Are you OK?" asked a woman waiting outside for a delivery. She came over and lifted the bike off of my akimbo limbs.

Seconds later I heard, "Are you all right?" The words uttered from the larynx of a young guy cycling by who stopped mid-pedal to check up on the situation. "Are you hurt?"

I had no idea how to respond. I mean, I'm pretty sure these people were being nice. And since when are residents of Washington, DC, nice? All I could think was, "What the...?"

After several seconds of confusion, I answered them. "I'm OK. Thank you for your help, though. I really appreciate it. I mean, it's not often that people reach out here and your concern is really touching and..."

As I stammered on in shock, both individuals slowly backed away, probably thinking I was legitimately insane, especially when I started giddily laughing. But I couldn't help it! I just couldn't believe what was happening. PEOPLE WERE BEING NICE! This was revelatory! In my two years slumming here I've noticed most people won't help you unless there's something in it for them, such as the promise beating someone with a stick once you catch them. But in this situation, no one was about to beat my bike with a stick, at least that I noticed. More importantly, no one wanted to beat me with a stick. Although, since I reacted in a such a crazy, borderline psychotic way, I'm wondering now if these nice folks feared I was going to beat them with a stick...hmm...that would be a shame...

But beating anybody or thing with a stick aside, it's important to note that this was a simple act of kindness -- a simple act of kindness IN DC. This is a big deal.

In the end, I gathered my bike's pieces and walked it to City Bikes in Adams Morgan where they were able to fix 'er up right while I waited. I arrived to work just 30 minutes late, which left me just enough time to follow through with my plan to read I Was A Teenage Dominatrix cover-to-cover by 10 p.m. (By the way, if you ever find yourself working in a sex shop for 4.5 hours with nary a thing to do except ignore customers, I highly recommend this book.)

In all, not a bad day. I learned a lesson (if you want people to be nice to you, hurt yourself) and I made $10.66. Wait a second...d'oh!

something's rotten in my unemployment welfare check

It occurred to me last night due to a little fremeny of mine I like to call math that, for lack of a more accurate term, sh*t is all f*cked up. See, imagine this, or rather just read it:

For putting in nearly two years of hobnobbing with some of DC's finest douches (ahem, Norm Coleman) and then getting fired for what is thankfully not considered "gross misconduct," I am eligible to receive $384 a week in unemployment insurance (welfare) from the District.

Now, consider this scenario:

After a while, being the intrepid rogue blogger that I am, I decide to get a part-time job at the sex shop, one of the only joints in town hiring, for minimum wage (that's $6.94 after taxes). I put in 21 hours per week, which equals a rather pathetic $145.74 after taxes.

Still with me? Read on because that's not even the sad part:

DC does not allow a person who finds $384 per week barely livable to simply get a part-time job to cover expenses without consequences. Instead, DC recalculates a person's unemployment welfare using the following formula: Add $20 to your welfare amount (in my case, that equates to $404) then subtract 80 percent of monies earned that week working part-time (in my case, that's $116.54). Now, subtract the latter number from the former, rounding up any remainder cents to the nearest dollar and that will be the week's recalculated welfare earnings. If my calculator watch is correct (and it always is), that makes $288.

And here's where math really decided to teach me a lesson:

Now, if you add the original amount of money I earn from busting my ass 21 hours per week at the sex shop (pun always intended) and the revised welfare amount, you'll see I take home a total of $433.74 a week. Not bad at first glance. But then you think about it, or, in my case, my helper horse Sven thinks about it, and you/he realize(s) this:

"Hmm. The monetary difference between doing nothing and whittling away 21 hours of your precious time selling butt plugs to a surprising amount of middle-aged women is only $49.74," Sven said.

I stared at Sven in astonishment, like I usually do when I realize I keep a talking horse.

He continued, "That means for all intents and purposes you make just $2.37 per hour!"

Sven got that figure by dividing my recalculated working wage earnings ($49.74) by the 21 hours I spent selling hundreds of dollars worth of vibrating dildos to a suspected Congressman (identity still pending).

"That's f*cking retarded," Sven and I said in unison. "Jinx!" (I owe him a can of pop now.)

After a night of restless sleep due to this revelation and the fact that Sven snores like a horse (har!), I've come to the following conclusions: 1) The system is stupid as there's barely an incentive to actually get up and find work opposed to simply doing nothing and continuing to suck the taxpayer's teet to the max; 2) I'm retarded (and so's Sven) for not figuring this out sooner; and 3) I hate my life.

Of course, now I'm left with a decision. Should I quit the sex shop and simply panhandle for extra cash? I'm pretty sure I can make at least $5 an hour doing that. Or should I quit the sex shop and busk? I figure I can take advantage of my store discount and create the world's first street puppet theater in which all the puppets are derived from different dildos.

"Stick 'em up!" "Where!?"

If I don't make at least $10 per hour with street dildo puppet theater, even if it's money made simply from people telling me to stop, then I don't deserve to make more than $2.37 per hour. Seriously, coming to a cardboard box near you. I said coming to. pervs.

Or, I can make a quick $100, apparently, by pimping what appears to be the DMV's MySpace page.


Help Me Design My MySpace Page (DMV)

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-04-19, 8:33PM EDT

Need someone to help me design my Myspace page asap. You won't get rich but i'll pay

Location: DMV
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: $100

REALLY?! My welfare is being reallocated to fund activities such as pimping the DMV's MySpace page? Firstly, why in all hell does the DMV need a MySpace page? It just doesn't make sense. Hmm. Could DMV possibly stand for something else? Give me a minute to Google-ize this sh*t.

...

Phew. DMV also stands for DC-Maryland-Virgina. However, knowing this does not redeem the inate idiocy in this advert. I mean, is setting up a MySpace page really a "skill" that necessitates payment? I haven't used MySpace in quite sometime, but from what I understand even a legitimate moron could make a page, which makes me wonder how this asshole scored $100 in disposable income to give to (hopefully) me to pimp his MySpace page (of course, I applied). Shouldn't people like that guy be of the ilk that makes $2.37 an hour? Seriously. All I know is that when it comes to setting up a MySpace account for street dildo puppet theater, my dildo puppets and I will do it ourselves. Wow. For once a phrase sounded sicker than I planned it...

armageddon -- it's here

I know I said I wouldn't be blogging about my job at the sex shop because I plan on using this material for a different project (don't worry, it's a SFW project), not to mention, I also don't want to get dooced again, but for the good of humanity, I feel compelled to retype a series of text messages sent from the shop last night:

me: Just got asked where we kept the butt plugs again!

mtp: They sure r popular. save one for me

me: Gross!

mtp: Fifty percent off [Editor's note: That's my employee discount.]

me: Someone's getting a purple one.

mtp: I want a brown one. more realistic.

All I have to say is this: MY MOM IS OUT OF CONTROL.*

Seriously, ever since she found out about my new part-time job, she's been fascinated with the, um, novelties I peddle. And although I, indeed, started this message exchange, I never expected it to go where my mom took it.

And in other inappropriate news -- my mom befriended me on Facebook. And, like the trouble I started above, I'm pretty much responsible as I ultimately decided to accept her e-friendship. I did, however, have some reservations about it. I mean, should she really be seeing pictures of me that look like this?


Let me correct that. Should I even be seeing pictures of me that look like that? Because, honestly, I do believe this might be the worst picture of me ever snapped.** So why am I publishing it here? Because I need to make a wider point -- a point that goes beyond my bad angles (correction: really bad angles); a point that goes beyond my mom's decision to join Facebook as a sextogenarian (my God, that is an ill choice of word right now...); a point that goes beyond every previously known definition of "totally f*cked up." See, what I'm about to reveal could change the way of the world.

You see that couple behind me? The one not following my lead in the crunk "USA!" chant that was happening while my brother and his friends sang a moving rendition of "God Bless America" at a Vegas karaoke bar? Well, besides the fact that the couple is obviously a pair of communists, the female freedom-hater looks uncannily like the woman who bought the purple butt plug last night (well, one of the purple butt plugs, as those, unexpectedly, seem to be hot sellers). Even stranger, the woman who bought the purple butt plug and the woman in the picture who looks like the woman who bought the purple butt plug also look to be sextogenarians (interesting...that word is still just as ill a choice as it was a few sentences ago).

Frankly, I'm not so sure this is all a coincidence. In fact, I'm quite sure this is the perfect storm for jumping to ludicrous conclusions, perhaps even a wacky, off-the-wall conspiracy theory type of conclusion.

What I'm saying here is that THERE'S CLEARLY SOME SORT OF SECRET COMMUNIST SECT OF SEXTOGENARIAN WOMEN WHO LIKE PURPLE PROBES IN THEIR REARS! And if my mom didn't make the disturbing distinction that she would prefer any butt plug she owns to look like an actual turd, then I would have half a mind (currently I only have a quarter of a mind) to think that she was a part of this communist sect, as well. OR IS SHE?! PERHAPS THE PROBES DON'T NEED TO BE PURPLE! Plus, I don't remember my mom being a part of my sweet, mind-blowing "USA!" chant either that night! OH. MY. GOD. It's effing Armageddon.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go rock back and forth in the fetal position while my helper horse, Sven, (my helper tortoise, Vladimir, and I continue to feud) readies the bunker. Because, as I've just proven above without a reasonable doubt, the world is clearly about to implode. Take cover.

HAPPY EASTER WEEKEND!***

*Actually, she's just flippin' hilarious, albeit incredibly disconcerting at times.

**By the way, thanks, sister-in-law, for choosing that photo, out of all the photos that could've been chosen, to display of me on your wedding weekend.

***The official Easter Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate is forthcoming.

and i actually wasn't kidding...

I have both delightful and disturbing news to share. And while under most circumstances I would now introduce two distinctly separate conjectures, such as (if I was Maury Povich), "You ARE the father!" (Delightful!) "Of over 100 babies!" (Disturbing!) But as it turns out, one sentence shall suffice to say both in this case: I actually went ahead and got a job at the sex shop. (See? That's both delightful and disturbing!)

This news is delightful because I can now tell you stories that begin with, "Where the anal plugs at?" and also quite disturbing because I can now tell you stories that begin with "Where the anal plugs at?" However, always thinking about my money, I won't be revealing too much about my new job here because 1) I don't want to get fired again, and, more importantly, 2) I can probably get paid for some of these stories. I've been waiting to sell out for YEARS.

But just because I'm not going to go into detail about the who, what and when's of my new employment (I don't really ever want to think too much about the where's and the why's...), doesn't mean this blog will continue to suffer from lack of worthwhile reading material. Or wait...maybe that's exactly what it means. But just think about how awesome my eventual book will be! "The Devil Wears a Strap-On" will surely top the bestseller list.

In the meantime, I've found some things on the Inturbonet that aren't as worthless as this blog currently seems to be, and because I'm a linguistics nerd, we're going to count them down in good old-fashioned Old English. (Ironically, I'm also enjoying an OE malt beverage as we virtually speak. Actually, that's not really so much ironic over here as it is simply expected. And yes, I have yet to put on pants this morning, as well. My helper tortoise Vladimir still hasn't returned, though, so at least I have a good excuse. All those zippers and buttons confuse me.) Uh, anyway...

An! Speaking of idiots, or more accurately people who probably should've just shopped at the sex shop instead of actually had sex, allow me to introduce my favorite new Web site: Why the F*ck Do You Have a Kid? You're welcome.

Twa! Hey, do you work in an office? If so, I'm actually a bit jealous. Why? Because it's always been a dream of mine to unleash my inner T-Pain and collate at the same time. (And a hearty Ic þancie þe -- that's "Thank you" in Old English -- to one of my favorite DC-based blogs, Manufacturing Rarity, for bringing that clip to my attention.)

Thri! In a non-news story that's been floating all about the Web the last couple of days, it seems MTV's prolific-turned-prosaic crack baby, The Real World, may be coming to DC. All I can say, is that I hope rogue Congressman Norm Coleman gets cast as the bad boy with a sensitive side. SHUT UP! JUST LET A GIRL WITH A DYING OBSESSION DREAM!

Feower! Stephen Colbert = Win! Glenn Beck = Lose.

Fif! Well, this article in New Scientist about how your brain peaks in your early 20s explains a lot. And now I don't feel so bad about having gone from "serious reporter" to "dildo peddler" because, according to science, "The peak of your brain's powers comes at around age 22 and lasts for just half a decade. From there it's downhill all the way." Like I said, it explains a lot. Now, if only I had Vladimir around to change my adult diaper. Hey, blame science!

morse money, morse problems

Despite the 389 bones I'm now raking in thanks to the $25 per week raise given to me by Obama for literally not doing work, my helper tortoise, Vladimir (who I procured last month as an homage to BikeSnob's helper monkey and, later, first introduced last Friday on Why I Hate DC), tells me that it's high time I try to get a sh*tty job. See, not only does he compensate for my lack of functional literacy by reading articles and then tapping summaries out in Morse code for me, but since I've been unemployed, he's also now in charge of running simple errands, as I refuse to put pants on to leave the house.

Now, if I was Vladimir, I'd just be damn thankful to still be employed, but as of yesterday, he's now demanding a raise. Apparently, allowing him unlimited refrigerator time no longer qualifies as bringing home the bacon, or more apropos, bringing home the dark leafy greens. Nope. Now he's demanding I pay him in legal tender, which, thinking back, shouldn't have come as much of a surprise considering he recently started hanging out at the track. (Clearly, he doesn't race himself -- he's a tortoise! He plays the ponies instead.)

But despite his recent foray into the gambling underworld, I must admit Vladimir pulls more than his share of the weight around here. I mean, just look at him!

(Vladimir refuses to be photographed, insisting instead that strangers from www.quiltermuse.com render his visage and his bookkeeping doings in embroidery.)

So, really, lest I hypocritically force my helper tortoise to give up a hobby I, too, greatly enjoy, or, even worse, he finds higher-paying work (I hear despite the economic downturn the helper tortoise market is quite hot), I need to get my job on.

Naturally, having very few marketable skills, there's very few jobs for which I'm qualified to even apply. Now, couple that with a crappy economy and I'm pretty much forced to do what I swore three years ago never to do again after walking out of Banana Republic for the very last time -- work retail. (Vladimir, I hope you realize how much I love you!)

Luckily, there are a few places still hiring, and thanks to Craigslist (which may or may not be finding me a new, cheaper home...and a hooker!), I've narrowed it down to two.

OPTION 1


Sales Associates (Union Station)

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-03-27, 4:29PM EDT

AMERICA! a local retailer is looking for Sales Associates at their Union Station location.

We are looking for team players who are mature, hardworking and experienced retail associates. Schedule must be flexible, able to work evenings and Sundays.

If you are interested in joining our team, please email resume.

Now, this is not a bad option. I mean, first off, I don't know anyone who loves America more than I do. Not even Vladimir, who's Kazakh by ethnicity but a true American at heart. We often spend our evenings celebrating this great nation together chanting "USA! USA! USA!" repeatedly. And slowly, because while I'm vocalizing a letter, Vladimir is frantically tapping away in Morse code. (Dot dot dash -- U! -- Dot dot dot -- S! -- Dot dash -- A!) Clearly, we like to party.

With that kind of patriotic fervor, though, I seem like a shoe-in. The only possible issues I can foresee that could possibly hinder a quick hire are the requirements to be "a team player," "mature" and, most importantly, "hardworking." I hate people, I'm clearly a 12-year-old boy trapped in a 29-year-old woman's body and you know my feelings about wearing pants. I am, however, available to work evenings and Sundays!

OPTION 2


Experienced P/T Sales Associates Wanted

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-03-27, 11:43AM EDT

Pleasure Place, Washington's Premier Upscale Erotic Boutique, is looking for experienced applicants for part-time sales positions. Must be available evenings and weekends. We close at midnight Wed. thru Sat. so please consider transportation before applying. If you are energetic,professional, pleasant, and LOVE retail, we want to meet you. Please apply in person at our Georgetown store located at 1063 Wisconsin Ave., N.W..

So, this blog just got interesting! (It's about time.) Especially if you did any follow-up research on the kinds of products "Washington's Premier Upscale Erotic Boutique" sells. (NSFW, suckers!) Who knew anal pleasure could be so sophisticated!?

Anyfart, while I can't say I'm more qualified for this job over the one at AMERICA!, considering Vladimir and I do not engage in any activities together having to do with, um, pleasure, I do believe I would be a good, er, fit for the Pleasure Palace. Firstly, I'm energetic. You know, after I muster up the wherewithal to put on pants. Secondly, I'm professional. That is, once again, after I put on pants. Lastly, contrary to everything I portray here, I'm extremely pleasant. Although, unlike the previous two requirements, I'm exceedingly more pleasant without pants on. Which, come to think of it, may be perfect for this job!

In short, e-friends, I've got options. Vladimir, you don't need to leave me to go work as a Congressional aide to Ed Markey! (To my dismay, I've just learned there's an offer on the table.) Yep, this is all going to work out just fine. Stay tuned!

i want your package

Well, let me rephrase that. I want to deliver your package. More specifically, I want to deliver your package on a bike. Unfortunately, I'm not all connected in the scene and, therefore, have no idea where to even start looking for this type of work. Plus, an article published a couple weeks ago in City Paper would have me believe that 1) only old men are bike messengers in DC and 2) I look way too "corny" to be a true messenger.

Thumbs up to safety in the slums.

And while the said "corniness" of my attire may be found in several different items of apparel, including the Golden Girls-worthy cardigan that I inherited from my grandma, the corniest item of them all, according to the bike messengers quoted in the CP article, is my sweet helmet.

Now, I'll admit, the helmet is a new addition to my biking wardrobe. I only recently got around to digging it out of the closet after being peer pressured into it via multiple dirty looks from other cyclists one day while tearing up the C&O Canal at nearly 10 miles per hour, helmet-less.

And while many of you safety and common sense advocates (and my mom) may now be exhaling a sigh of relief at seeing one less helmet-less asshole on the streets, I implore you to stop because, really, the safety aspect of me wearing such a helmet is pretty questionable. In fact, in a twist that only a true idiot like myself could induce, it seems I now ride even more recklessly than I did before. (That bus asked to be cut off!) I can only guess that some misguided psychological aspect is at play making me feel some sense of false security. For example, if I get clotheslined by a vehicle now, at least my noggin will remain intact. Right? Anyone? By the way, I like that word noggin. Probably because it sounds like egg nog and I like booze.

And speaking of that last sentence, which clearly indicates I suffer from at least a small amount of mental disability, perhaps I've already accrued brain damage. That would explain a lot. (Although, really, that effing bus was truly asking for it.) But regardless of the reasons behind my scofflaw sensibilities, it would seem that if safety isn't the primary reason I've decided to sport the bike helmet, it must be because I like the way it looks. It's so spacey!

So spacey, in fact, that as I look again at that picture of me in my hobo lair (yes, that is random garbage scattered about in the background), I remind myself a bit of Cakey, everyone's favorite cake from outerspace.



Wait. Cakey doesn't remind me of myself at all. Well, except for that we both have the ability to turn stuffed animals into soy milk by shooting lasers out of our eyes. But that's where the similarities end! I mean, Cakey doesn't wear a helmet. In fact, I don't think Cakey even rides a bike. And, of course, there's also his unnatural attraction toward 13-year-old boys, and truly, even if I was able to travel back to the year 1962 when Norm Coleman was turning 13, that would still never happen. Wow. This blog just got (more) awkward. Hmm. Let's just forget I tried to compare myself to an extraterrestrial, child molesting cake and try to move on.

So how about that weather? Pretty nice, eh? Yeah.

Outfit details: Cardigan -- vintage; T-shirt: bought at a Bright Eyes/Cursive show in Omaha 2000; Tank -- Filene's Basement; Jeans -- Joe's; Boots -- Steven by Steve Madden; Headgear -- Bell.

By the way, please do let me know if you have any contacts in the messengering business: theantidc@gmail.com. Thanks! AND WEAR A HELMET! Corny is cool.

i'm getting a bailout bonus!

All this talk about AIG is a little annoying. In fact, it's downright offensive. Why can't we just let those who failed to do their jobs adequately get money from the government? There's nothing wrong with a little welfare. Even if that welfare means getting a bonus for $6.5 million for totally f*cking our economy. So what! As if AIG employees were the first ones to receive money for failing! Just look at me!


What a fine screenshot capture...for a hawk. For those of you without the eyesight of an accipitridae, allow me to retype the "NEWS!" printed in red that popped up from the DC Office of Unemployment on my account summary this morning:

"It is our pleasure to announce that your weekly benefit amount has increased by $25.00 as a result of the Federal Stimulus Package. This increase is effective the week ending 02/28/09 and ends the week ending 07/03/10 and is based upon your continued eligibility for benefits."

While I hate to talk sh*t about money I'm receiving for no good reason (i.e., apparently this blog was just too cool for school, or rather too offensive for the workplace), I can't help but draw a parallel here. In essence, aren't AIG employees and I both getting rewarded for failure? Granted the former's failure affected the entire state of the nation, while mine simply affected the state of my personal finances, but, really, if you warp your brain a bit, drop any modicum of common sense and maybe get a little drunk, you'll see that these situations are simply two sides of the same devalued coin. We're both getting money for doing absolutely nothing!

Why is it OK to give a bunch of unemployed hobos (I can say that because I am one of them) stimulus money while we're seemingly embarking on a modern-day witch hunt of the rich? In fact, to really get all libertarian-crazy on you, I'll take it a step further: The former situation is possibly even more unjust than the latter. After all, the government is not contractually obligated to give me my $25 bonus each week. AIG was. Had AIG not paid those bonuses (or as I prefer to pluralize it, boni), the government would have probably had to spend more on a bailout to settle several thousand lawsuits than it did to simply follow the law (flawed as it may be) and do what modern American capitalism is designed to do in the first place, that is to make the rich richer. Good ol' freedom...

So where does this leave me and my reprehensible welfare? Well, I still have $9,000 more to collect and, considering I possess no true morals, I'll easily be able to ignore everything I just said and continue to happily cash your checks. (Thanks employed taxpayers!)

However, just because I'm raking in a fat $359 a week doesn't mean I'll continue to laze about rationing beans and watching Tyra Banks all day (I only do that from noon-1 p.m.). Oh no, I'm intrepid. I will continue to look for work. In fact, I just applied to work as a bike messenger. Why not? I own a bike. I own a bag. I use both on a daily basis. I might as well cash in on that.

Yet while delivering sh*t in a timely fashion sounds like a good temporary fit, I think my more permanent path might be peddling the SlapChop. And yes, I mentioned the SlapChop yesterday, but fear that not all of you clicked on the link. Even if you did, this clip bears repeating. Firstly, because of Vince, who, unlike derivative traders, is definitely earning every dollar he makes, and secondly, because of the SlapChop. It's not just about chopping sh*t, it's about making your life exciting via tuna salad. Also, it's about listening to what Vince says 55 seconds into the video and then listening to it again 50 more times (100 if you're unemployed).



"YOU'RE GONNA LOVE MY NUTS!"

e-lost and found

For those of you following me on Twitter (by the way, I almost "tweeted" this last night: "I like popcorn."), you may have caught onto the fact that I love the show LOST (and hate The View, but that's another non-story for another place in the space-time continuum). Anyway, LOST is truly a smashing television program because it's not simply just another show to me; it's a work of art. Unlike normal television shows not catered to freaky geeks who love weird science, LOST's complicated plotline finds its base in theoretical physics where time is malleable, magic dudes with a knack for eye-liner application never age and, well, finally I prefer the blond to the brunette when it comes down to who's hotter between two of the main protagonists, Sawyer or Jack. Sawyer, hands dastardly down and shirts heroically off, is WAY hotter than Jack. In fact, every (non-morbidly obese) male character, save for Benjamin Linus, is hotter than Jack because Jack, as it turns out, is a major tool. (As is Benjamin Linus.)

Jack's problem is that he's conventional, boring, an uncreative thinker and, most importantly, way too goddamn serious all the time. Jack is DC. Sawyer, on the other attractive hand, is the antithesis. He's unconventional, entertaining, extremely creative and funny. He's also apparently an avid reader of actual books and not just The Economist on the metro, which makes him representative of some sort of far-off magical island where all of your dreams come true. Wait. No, that's John Locke (not the philosopher, but yet another LOST character). Which means Sawyer is simply other-worldly. He's representative not of some place, either conventional or strange, but simply of himself -- a quality that seems to be becoming increasingly rarer these days and not just in DC.

People no longer follow their dreams or pursue happiness the way that I believe it was intended in this country. And while some modern-day folk may be perfectly content with their lives as they exist (whether it be because they can afford the high-end call girls, have the all-access badge to Congress or something equally as douchey...or maybe they're just genuinely happy...you bastards!), judging from most of my conversations with people (including many in-depth ones with myself...), many of us are not. I'm not. Or at least I wasn't. But I'm working to change that, which is one of the reasons why my blogging has become rather irregular (unlike my bowel movements -- thank you, beans!)

While I was toiling away in a job I felt no real connection to (like so many of us do), blogging was my main creative outlet. I set aside about an hour or two a day to let my mind flow freely and my fingers tap out rape jokes aplenty. However, since I stopped working my day-job, I now have 40+ more hours per week to focus on what I truly want to do, which so happens to be (probably unsurprisingly) creative writing. Weirdly, with these new projects (one of which happens to be a sitcom pilot, so if anyone has any experience/connections/etc. to that business, please feel free to contact me), the blog -- my once-upon-a-time primary creative outlet -- has become almost unreadably secondary.

And for that I apologize. But what can a girl do? I can't waste all of my A-list cancer jokes online. After all, if you give away the milk for free, who's going to buy the cow? (Yes, I'm pretty sure that's exactly how that phrase was intended to be used.)

But I digress. What this all means is that I'm probably not going to be blogging every day anymore. Last month, as you probably noticed, my posts were subpar at best. I am actually even e-ashamed of some of them. So, let's put those duds in the past, shall we? And instead focus on the future, albeit a more sporadic future, but still a future nonetheless. And a bright one at that. Hopefully brighter than that of Timbuk 3, whose one hit is so apropos right now that I can't help but post it in all of its "VH1's Where Are They Now?" glory:



But for reals, thanks for sticking around with me despite that I've become a sh*tty blogger. And, no joke, if anyone knows anything about the sitcom industry or is possibly interested in comedic acting in what may eventually become a DIY pilot (hey, that's how "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" got picked up!), email me here: theantidc@gmail.com. It's time to get legit. Or at least as legit as this:

something's rotten on h street

After missing the awesomeness that is Passion Pit a few weeks ago due to the very worst fact of life (besides, of course, the fact that Tom Hanks is still making movies based on Dan Brown novellas), I made it out to The Rock'n'Roll Hotel on Friday to catch fellow Minnesotans Tapes 'n Tapes for some live music action. If you don't know them, allow me to say they sound like Minnesota's most famous music men Bob Dylan and Prince had one of them been able to become pregnant and give birth to four nerdy'n'dirty looking dudes. NOT!

In reality, they sound nothing like Dylan or Prince. Instead, they sound like four nerdy'n'dirty dudes who have a knack for manipulating rhythm. Even better than how your Uncle Floyd manipulates an at-home stripper pole. (Trust me, that link is worth clicking on.)

In short, the show was smashing!

Well, except for the crowd, the sound and the overall atmosphere. It went from endearing, like your Uncle Floyd working the pole fully clothed (see above link), to very uncomfortable, like your Uncle Floyd and his rapist glasses working the pole in his panties.

Now, I can't confirm 100 percent, but I'm 100 percent 50/50 that I was one of the very few people who had heard any songs off of Tapes 'n Tapes' first album, The Loon (or as I prefer to call it, the good one), which leads me to believe the largely young, unfortunate-looking crowd was not only young and unfortunate-looking, but also retarded. Case in point, a group of drunk girls, one of which was dressed like Dog the Bounty Hunter, seemed to be more interested in snapping photos of my friend's boyfriend rather than watching the actual show. That's even creepier than your Uncle Floyd perfecting his simple aerial routine.

But all of this would have been forgivable (but still retarded) had the concert not sounded and smelled like I was watching it from inside the rectum of a gigantic butt in need of a pretty intense colonic. Honestly, it was about as enjoyable as watching your Uncle Floyd in his Underoos attempting a cross knee release on the family's basement stripper pole. Wait, it's the opposite of that. Your Uncle Floyd is growing on me.

Luckily, the crowd began to thin out about halfway through the show, either because of the intense heat of the venue or because of the rampant farter whose accompanying stench permeated every nook, cranny and can of Sparks within a 50-foot radius. Thankfully, the gas-passer either knocked himself out or left, as well, because when the crowd thinned and I was able to move forward, I was suddenly able to breath without the aid of a makeshift burka fashioned out of my T-shirt pulled up over my face. Seriously.

And because I dislike the majority of the human race, the show drastically improved after most of the people left. In fact, it improved so much that I was even able to enjoy myself. A little. (I refuse to enjoy myself too much as any unheeded emotion tends to short-circuit my motherboard.)

Next step: Program my circuitry and wires to do this (I must watch it one -- or one-hundred -- more times!):



Seriously. I think I want a stripper pole now. Think of the job prospects! Not for that, pervs, but for my new greeting card business!

uh, gee, great.

WHAT THE F*CK IS THIS ALL ABOUT?! I'm livid. Possibly. But I'll get to that in a second. For now, let's go on a short bus trip down memory lane.

As most of you know, I was fired just about a month ago for reasons having to do with this piece of avant-garde art you're reading right now. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say art? I clearly meant to type fart. My bad. Anyway, long (and retarded) story short, because of this avant-garde fart of a hobby, I was canned.

But like any good American with a dream, I didn't let that get me down. Instead, I took it as a disguised blessing to answer my true calling -- writing a 300-page cookbook filled with delicious bean recipes that can be cooked over a garbage can fire on the street. (The working title is "Being a Hobo for Hobos." And now my reference to an avant-garde fart makes much more sense.)

And to fund said activities, I decided to pawn all of my idealistic libertarian tendencies in exchange for government welfare in the form of a $359 check per week from the DC Office of Unemployment Compensation. (Next step: Food Bean stamps!)

Surprisingly, applying for said benefits in DC was easier than trying to hail a cab here. I could do the bulk of the form filing online. The only item the office needed a physical copy of was my direct deposit form, which, in an effort to save 42 cents on postage, I decided to bike to the physical location at 609 H. Street NE yesterday. And even that was a pleasant ride. So, basically, until I read the item I linked to at the top of the page this morning in the Washington Post about how more employers are contesting their former employees' unemployment benefit claims, I was floating along as freely as a loose deuce in a public pool (come on, this metaphor goes along with an avant-garde fart). That is, untouchable and probably a little smelly. Hey, I'm a hobo now. Give me a break.

But now? I'm worried. Well, sort of. See, I'm pretty sure my case will be contested as evidenced by the box marked on one of the forms I received back telling me "an eligibility or disqualification issue" has been raised. However, at the same time, I'm 99.9 percent sure that I can easily counter any contestation any employer may bring up because, really, who wants to get in a fight with a piece of mystery poo floating in a pool? More importantly (and, might I add, logical and less gross), my claim is solid. So solid, in fact, that Ashford and Simpson wrote a song about it when I was just five! That's right, my case to get my money didn't bat an eye when I made it cry and, for love's sake, each mistake, oh, you forgave. So both of us learned to trust, not run away! There was no time to play! We build it up, we build it up, we build it up and now it's solid! Solid as a rock! And nothing's changed it. The thrill is still hot hot hot hot hot hot hot hot hot...or something. Ashford and Simpson are some goddamn mystic geniuses.

But whether or not you're a believer in the great oracles that are Ashford and Simpson is irrelevant as statistics are also on my side, at least according to the Post: "Even as more employers have alleged employee misconduct, their success rate has stayed relatively stable -- they lose on such issues about two-thirds of the time."

Sweet! Three derivative cheers for math: y = ƒ(x)! y = ƒ(x)! y = ƒ(x)!

being a tourist in dc is effing awesome

Well, I've finally figured it out. What sucks most about DC isn't the squat architecture, the apparently blind drivers, the shambley fashion, the annoying people, the sh*tty public transportation or the high lead content in the water. Nope, what sucks most about DC is working here. Why? The typical DC job is boring. It's dull to do and even duller to hear about (which is, unfortunately, the topic of 90 percent of conversations here). In fact, entertain this idea, if you will: Fulltime employees in DC allow for every other problem in this city to flourish. Think about it:

FACT: DC's squat architecture is directly related to the prevalence of the federal government, from which myriad boring jobs are born.

FACT: When you get up angry in the morning because you have to go to work and get into a two-ton killing machine, it's only logical that drivers here have road rage.

FACT: Boring jobs lead to boring (often fugly) fashion sense due to unfortunate dress codes.

FACT: Being stuck in a boring job for too long will turn even the best of us homos (as in homo sapiens, mind you -- I am reclaiming the word) into drab, annoying personalities.

FACT: People who are miserable while stuck in an office they hate 40-plus hours a week ensure public transportation remains sh*tty because, compared to the job that makes them want to cut themselves just to feel human again, waiting three hours for a DC bus seems like heaven.

FACT: People who devote the majority of their time to a boring job like -- perhaps even demand -- lead in their water. Um, or something.

But whether the above "facts" are "facts" in the Merriam-Webster sense or whether they're "facts" in the sense that these are simply conclusions I've come to in my mind with the help of the imaginary rainbow-regurgitating unicorns I live with who tell me it's all going to be OK, is not what's important here. What's important is that when you (or at least I) remove the sh*tty job from your (read: my) schedule, DC becomes infinitely cooler -- enjoyable even -- because being a tourist in DC rules. You get to sleep in, you don't have a schedule to keep to, and who knew? There's tons of daytime sh*t to do here! And lots of it is free!

And I'm not just talking about watching the Tyra Banks Show (although that is pretty awesome). Nope. Since I've been fired, I've peppered my daytime television and beans-for-every-meal schedules with doing touristy activities around the city, such as going to museums, biking randomly around town and, most recently, loitering on the Mall in the snow. And while I can go on and on about this kind of good old-fashioned fun using my extreme e-verbosity, I'd rather let my subpar photog skills speak (or at least mumble) for themselves. Enjoy!

Look to the left!

Look to the right!

Look at this giant slab of metal!

Most importantly, look at my badass, sheepskin earmuffs as I give employed people the stink-eye!

because we may all need a break from inauguration madness...

Today I'm posting one of two pieces I wrote yesterday as part of a job application to work as a comedy writer for a well-known cable show/blog. I won't tell you exactly which one for fear of getting my hopes up (and we all know I'm anti-hope), but I will tell you that if I do get this job, I will be the happiest bitch on the planet. However, considering I missed the deadline to apply by a good week because I was too busy watching The Tyra Banks Show (that sh*t is tight), at this point the proverbial jury's still out on if the lovely and hilarious folk over at Viacom (hint!) will even glance at my rather stellar application. (Hot damn! There I go tooting my own horn blowing my own rape whistle again!)

Anyway, I invite you to take a short break from inaugurating new presidents by reading whatever e-drivel I e-spewed below. (And if you don't mind, keep your finger's crossed that the Viacom gods bless me with one of my best weeks ever (hmm...) and hire my ass!) Onward, ye!

***

Holy crap. We might not exist. Well, not true. We exist, but we might not exist as we know it. According to an article in this week’s New Scientist magazine, we might just be tiny specks of matter stuck on the edge of the universe. So, what does this mean? In the words of the great Gob Bluth, "It's an illusion, Michael!" OK, I lied again. Our world is not an illusion, per se, as much as just A GIANT HOLOGRAM!

Seriously, this is some freaky sh*t. Freaky science sh*t, which means it’s freaky like Beaker, Spock and Chewbacca getting together and having an alien Vulcan Muppet baby. So, like, Gonzo, and for those of us who fancy ourselves alien Vulcan Muppet baby scholars, Gonzo was pretty damn groundbreaking.

See, according to this so-called "science" I speak of, some crazy machine called the GEO6000 has detected something called "noise" coming from the edges of our universe, which, combined with our current knowledge of black hole rims (which I only wish was as dirty as it sounds), means that…uh…

Damn you, science! You've fooled me once again! I have no idea what it means in the grand scheme of things if this hologram hypothesis is true! (Clearly, I have no business trying to read New Scientist magazine.) I can only hope this new information finally makes it official to Jem that we are all, indeed, a part of her band, The Holograms.



Wait! I just figured out what it would mean if we really are living as holograms. It simply means that we're truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly outrageous. Take that, science!

***

To peep my other sample post for what sounds like the best job ever, CLICK HERE!

canned!

What's wickedly offensive, mildly retarded and gets you fired from your job?

THIS BLOG!

It's funny because it's true. Actually, it might be more accurate to describe this blog as mildly offensive and wickedly retarded, but regardless of which adverb goes where, the entire notion of said action is completely absurd. I mean, I can think of at least 100, nay, one million more valid reasons they could've canned me for, but my blog? Really?? Don't get me wrong, I can see firing someone for keeping a blog about something truly controversial, such as "The Pro Jihad" or something, but this is "The Anti DC." I mock Crocs here. And while it may be all retardulous all the time, it's hardly controversial. In fact, it's definitional of benign, in my opinion, which makes this first drama of '09 so dang absurd. But, really, isn't that what makes life worth living? The ridiculously absurd? It certainly makes it more entertaining, especially when you're retardulously benign!

Weirdly, however, while jet-setting in the Third World the other week (a.k.a., possibly my last paid vacation ever) I had decided to more or less quit this blog on account that in the past few months, as I have hinted at now and again, e-barfing all over this space has become more of a stress than a joy. But now, after finding out that, indeed, a part of Washington, DC, still can't take a joke and truly hates laughter ("If you ever want to work in this town again, you better shut that bog* down!"), I think fate decided to punch me in the face on this one. Let's just say this is probably the proverbial kick in the tight pants that I needed to get out of not only a blogging rut (which really doesn't matter), but the rut that has become a life of routine (which does matter, at least to me).

As you may have guessed, I've never been a big fan of "stability," as it were. But shambling, on the other hand...well, hello lover!

And now that I know this little endeavor is apparently not as benign as I had originally thought (although it is certainly as retardulous) and important enough to warrant a good old-fashioned pink-slipping, I am newly reinvigorated to reclaim the shambles-ridden, unstable, hobo lifestyle I was meant to have, as well as to rediscover the joy of no-holds-barred blogging (which would be totally badass, except it's, um, blogging, so it's really just dorky). Oh, and maybe get paid for something I'm possibly talented at (and I'm not referring to hooking). But we'll get to that in a bit.

What's really important here is that this almost unbelievable situation I find myself in is the ultimate validation of this blog's very existence; it proves every single one of my theories about DC correct. Mainly, Washington needs to learn how to take a joke, loosen up, laugh at itself, and at the very least understand the concept of satire. And after having several discussions with people in cities all over the globe regarding my fun Friday afternoon, I've come to the conclusion that this situation is uniquely DC, as most people living and working outside of this tooltastic, uptight world of Washington have reacted with just about as much incredulity as I did ("But you blog about Crocs!"), while my friends in DC have noted, "I could see that. It's symptomatic of DC's douche culture, which requires you to present yourself as a two-dimensional douche-bot whose sole priority is to network with other two-dimensional douche-bots to get ahead. And you're a three-dimensional asshole and a poor thespian, so...yeah. Makes sense in this warped world that something as seemingly silly as a blog that mocks Crocs could matter."

Of course it was other three-dimensional assholes (although better thespians) who told me this, which isn't surprising because it seems 3D-assholes often have the most realistic outlooks on life. It comes down to this -- many of us here (or at least a handful) are all just people, not workaholic douche-bots. The difference between me and, say, a person (read: 3D asshole) who succeeds in and can actually enjoy typical DC is probably just our interests, which doesn't make me better or worse than a legitimately content DC employee, but simply different. I'm just not that into DC. I can't stand bureaucracy, I fail at "networking" and I have an extremely low threshold for self-imposed stress. Moreover, I can't pretend to enjoy something or someone that I feel indifferent toward -- a skill that I never found necessary to excel at until I moved here. (But maybe I've just been lucky?)

Whatever it is, this incident has confirmed my suspicion that DC's douche culture looks down upon those of us who dare to publicly espouse our opinions on life that may not be politically correct, which probably explains why bloggers who are evidently more intelligent than I have made sure to remain anonymous.

So why didn't I? Well, not to toot my own horn rape whistle, but I'm proud of the essays I've accumulated on this blog (or at least not completely ashamed of them). As an aspiring writer with few connections in the business, this isn't just a hobby to me, but a gigantic resume (hence my decision to attach my name and visage to this project). It's also somewhat of a running time capsule of my life and, perhaps most importantly, a means to keep me sane in a community I feel largely alien in. And as long as I'm here (although for how long that will be is currently very much up in the proverbial air), I plan on bringing my patented brand of retardulosity to the e-table, unsensored. Think of me as the Thinking Man's Asshole. Hmm. That sounded better in my head...anyway...

Now, I don't expect most Washingtonians to take it (and definitely not to embrace it), but I'll be damned to an eternal life of wearing badly tailored discount polyester suits before I quit this due to someone telling me it's a "bad career move." In my world, which I won't expect anyone outside my head to understand, this is the best career move I could make. This sh*t is just too legit (at least in my twisted, tiny mind), ergo, I shan't quit.

It also helps now that I have 40 more hours a week to make sure whatever I do decide to post here is worth your time to read and, more importantly in the narcissistic world of blogging, worth my time to write.

But I confess, I won't be spending the entirety of those 40 additional hours each week blogging. And not just because that would be extremely pathetic. I also need to make some money (for booze), which is why I'll be starting my word hustle, hard. See, I'd like to get paid to craft words together that don't have to do with things like "the government," "Congress," or some acronym I'll never memorize. Not that I can't, it's just that I'd rather use my hippocampus to memorize more relevant things, such as all the words to Hall & Oates' "Private Eyes" so I can attack that in future karaoke endeavors, which, incidentally, I now have more than enough free time to actually attend!

And speaking of finding other sources of income, I'll pretty much write for food (and booze) at the moment, so if you read this still benign (and retardulous), but apparently rather controversial e-rag on the daily (I'm talking to you Washington Post and Washingtonian, at least according to my brilliant StatCounter) and need someone to wordsmith an article or two together for you, feel more than free to write to me at theantidc@gmail.com. We can discuss potential projects over a can of hobo beans that I will cook over a garbage-can fire that I light just outside of the double-wide cardboard box that will surely be my home in a couple of months. It'll be like a Parisian sidewalk cafe, except, you know, in the dumpster.

Yet while the economy blows and the chances of me gaining fulltime employment that actually means something to me are slim in the near-term (as is the prospect of me being able to get sick and afford to go to the doctor now), my spirit is surprisingly and rather disturbingly high. It's because I'm still in shock free now. Poor, perhaps, but free from the constraints of a secondhand, neutral-colored cubicle writing about things I have absolutely no passion for and "networking" with people who find me "bitter and frustrated" because I don't fit their description of "serious DC professional." But honestly, if publicly sharing your sense of humor, penchant for creative writing and an opinion outside of the workplace precludes one from that category, then I'll probably never be a serious DC professional. Perhaps, I'll never even work in this town again. Like two ships passing in the night (one outfitted with pleated khaki sails and the other tricked out in Norm Coleman paraphernalia, which is probably even easier to find now considering he was also canned recently -- serendipitous, n'est-ce pas?), I just don't think it was ever really meant to be. And I'm OK with that. In fact, I'm more than OK with that. I'll jump on the Norm Coleman-clad ship, pop on a copy of Christopher Cross's Sailing and keep it Yacht Rock smooth. After all, I already own a pair of Topsiders.

But where the S.S. Norm Coleman will eventually end up is as mysterious as to why not everyone sees the value of having on the payroll an employee whose main talent is cracking rape jokes. However, perhaps the former mystery is better left unsolved because if I did know exactly where the S.S. Norm Coleman would dock, coasting aimlessly through this metaphorical sea of life wouldn't be nearly as exciting. Or as shambley, and we all know how I feel about life's little shambles. (♥♥♥♥♥)

But eff it. Let it be known that this will be the most personal entry I will ever type into this space, meaning anyone who doubted my claims to be composed entirely out of circuitry and wires was right. To my great dismay, I am a real person. A very strange person with a, perhaps, very peculiar set of professional and life goals, but a homo sapien nonetheless. Indeed, I am so homo. But this endeavor was never meant to be a vehicle for this kind of personal discussion, so allow me to continue to do what I apparently do most effectively and alienate humanity.

In fact, to kick off this new era of exciting unknowns and my newly recognized ability to offend to the point of necessary firing, allow me to break open a cheap bottle of e-champagne on the sail-ready dingy that is this blog by serving up my very special brand of humor to my most beloved District of Columbia. I'm sure you'll all just love it.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

9/11.

9/11 who?

*Insert awesomely long pause while I morph the expression on my visage into a warped look of horror, or as my buddy Socrates Johnson dubbed it last week, "gang-bang face."*



But you said you'd never forget!

LOL!

What? Not funny, you say? Hmm...

Watch list for what was that again?

Oh...

Well, then maybe my company, oops, former company was right. Having an employee on a terrorist watch list probably really is a liability. Well, I'll be damned...

P.S. -- God bless the USA. Take that, terrorist watch list! WHAAAAAT!

*And yes, during the course of my canning, it really was called a "bog." More than once. And that's not hatin', that's appreciatin'. While I certainly won't miss the work, I will definitely miss my coworkers. And the free lunches on Fridays.