the men at wapo are beliebers

While it may be just fine for Taco Bell to use only 36 percent beef in their delicious wares, or for American pop artists to survive on just 36 percent music (although don't expect to win a Grammy. WHOISARCADEFIRE?!), I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the Washington Post's 36 percent news policy.

OK, that may be a little harsh. As an avid reader of the Post, I have actually come to depend on it for very important international news, like this:


Yeah, I was being #sarcastic. But for the record, at least that link goes to Ezra Klein's blog, which is better than, say, a legitimate article that would have a danger of showing up in the print edition. But still... The fact that Mr. Klein, one of the most recognizable names at the Post saw it fit to even mention this Bieber nonsense can only mean one thing -- THE POST'S BEEN INFECTED WITH THE BIEBER FEVER!

And perhaps, if Mr. Klein lived in Canada, he'd have been able to cure his case without having to be up to his Bieber-bowl cut in debt. But instead, it seems he did nothing... AND THE FEVER SPREAD! OH MY GOD, POST EDITORIAL WRITER JONATHAN CAPEHART HAS IT TOO! He writes:

"Just the sight of Justin Bieber elicits an eye roll from me. I mean, what's up with that hair? And he has a 3-D movie about his life? He's only 16! But it's his political comments in the latest Rolling Stone that have my eyes rolling so hard I can hear my mother saying, "Keep it up. Your eyes are going to stay that way."

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG! EVERYONE PUT YOUR SARS MASKS ON! THE END IS NIGH!

Or maybe not. Perhaps, instead, it's just the beginning -- the beginning of the Post's inevitable transformation into The Onion. (Side note: That would be AWESOME!)

See, besides the original Rolling Stone article where Justin Bieber, political wonk, first appeared (I imagine the reporter asked these questions in the first place in an attempt to relive "the kid who doesn't even know what German is" moment), the only other outlets latching on to Bieber's bungles (now there's an SEO term!), are gossip sites such as the always funny Dlisted, which appropriately sandwiched it between O.J. Did Not Get the Beat Down in Prison and Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry Have Put Down Their Shanks.

The Washington Post, though? Come on, you're supposed to be a news generator, not a non-news re-reporter!

The New York Times didn't comment. The Boston Globe remained hush. I couldn't even find a reference to it in the freaking L.A. Times. Now, I don't mean to call up NAMBLA and have them send the male editorialists at the Post applications to join their organization, but I find it a bit odd that not just one but two adults at what was once a news institution have found the rather baseless and innocuous political quips of what seems like a rather dimwitted teenage boy not only important enough to mention in passing, but in the case of Capehart, important enough to actually analyze. ("Surely all that Oh, Canada flag waving and talk of Americans being 'evil' will enrage the conservative parents of Bieber's screaming teen girl (and more than a few gay teen boys) base...")

But take heart, future members of the National American Man/Bieber Love Assocation, at least you have each other and, hopefully, a sense of humor.*

*That is to say, don't sue me! I don't really think you have a thing for young boys! (Hey, after the Snyder situation, you can never be too careful...)

komi and get it

I wish I could say, "You probably know it's Valentine's Day, unless you were born in the USSR," but um...

Yeah. Unfortunately, nowadays it seems the entire world is making itself sick from overexposure to Red #40 and the ugliest shade of pink known to man.

Sike! Who am I kidding! I love this time of year! And not just because I get to send love notes to Vladimir Putin. I love it because this year I got to dine at Komi (the restaurant, not the Russian Republic), which is arguably the best fancy food venue in DC. And when I say "fancy food," I mean we're talking about a menu that comes in one variety -- tasting.

Tasting menus are great. Not only does this take the pressure off the customer from making a poor decision and ordering something he or she might regret when his or her companion orders something better (seriously, I'm the worst orderer known to man), but tasting menus leave you directly in the chef's hands and in the case of Komi, that's probably where you want to live.

I have nothing bad to say about this place. The service matched the phantasmagoria of the food. The waitstaff whizzed around explaining ingredients, keeping water glasses full, helping in wine selection. And when my napkin fell off my lap onto the ground one server swooped in to pick it up and a second flew by right after him to offer me a new one. It was a like a freaking Chagall painting in there. People were floating.

As far as the food, well, I touched on this initially -- it was fan-f*cking-tastic. I won't go into detail, as I think it's better to come here and be surprised (they don't tell you any details before a plate arrives), but I can say with almost 100 percent assurance that you won't be disappointed. Hands down, this was the best food experience of my life. And while I wouldn't want to eat this way every day (if that were the case, even Chagall wouldn't be able to make me look light), I plan to definitely come back again one day. Maybe in a year...Komi's also not cheap.

But alas, today my mind is still in a dream state. But don't worry. The second I bite into one of Taco Bell's 36 percent beef tacos I'll crash straight back into reality. I know where I usually live.

And speaking of lack of beef, it's nothing but love when it comes to my cat and his crush, Maru, the most famous cat in the world. Here's my Valentine's Day gift to the world in viral video form. Enjoy!



PS -- Arcade Fire won Album of the Year at the Grammys? Pigs must be flying to the tune of the fat lady in a very chilly hell today. Clearly, the world as we have come to know it is now over. Poor, poor Justin Bieber...but if 36 percent beef tacos can survive so can the modern American popstar's brand of 36 percent music. I'm a Belieber!

predicting dan snyder's future

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!

Good luck, asshole.

going up?

No. No you're not. At least not if you're trying to use the escalators in any of the Metro stations lately. In fact, I'd put the odds of that at about 50 percent. And while that might not be an official statistic (they're probably worse...), it's the number I noticed the last time I ventured into the Metro a couple of weeks ago. What the f*ck?

See, I'm usually lucky. Everywhere I need and want to go on a daily basis (*ahem* the liquor store) is within walking/biking distance to me. So, when I make the rare trip to somewhere I need to Metro to, I would hope my random test of the system would go smoothly. But when it doesn't (and, let's face it -- it never does), I start to suspect there's a larger, more systemic problem going on. It's like the Metro has AIDS.

OK, I'm sorry, that's a little offensive...to AIDS. After all, there's drugs to help keep that in check. But the Metro? We have to rely on human skill for that and if past experience has taught the world anything, it's that humans are the major cause of most mucking up of works. But instead of just one mothermucker, it seems there are several when it comes to the Metro. It seems systemic, and according to the Washington Post, who just wrote about a new Metro report:

Metro is falling far short of its own standards, complying with its maintenance schedule only 40 percent of the time.

In other words, Metro is doing its job just 2/5ths of the time. Two. Fifths. No wonder there's been some major injuries along the way. I mean, can you imagine if gravity was only doing its job two-fifths of the time? The Internet can, and it's not pretty.

Look, I'm already scared of going to Virginia for fear of death by freak peanut avalanche. Now, must I also fear for my life whilst just trying to get there?

And what the hell? Humanity has somehow figured out three different methods for hypnotizing chickens, yet we still somehow can't perfect a viable way to ensure the functionality of a Metro escalator? I don't get it. While I understand the moving staircase is a complicated mechanism, we've had almost 150 years to perfect it. That's right, the ancestor to today's escalator was invented in 1859. EIGHTEEN FIFTY NINE!

And if my all-caps exclamation didn't convey my thoughts enough, here's an additional sentence: That's a f*cking long time ago. I mean, seriously, we invented a goddamn airplane and perfected it enough to send a freaking man to the moon since then! How have we not perfected a means to safely transport a human 50 feet by escalator? IT'S NUTS, I TELL YOU! DEATH BY PEANUTS NUTS! IT'S INSANITY! It's stupid. It's really dumb...for real. Find a cure. Fix it.

This post is dedicated to those brave souls risking their lives today. Good luck and Godspeed.

every douche can be undone

Not to keep harping on bad advertisements I've spotted around town, but this morning I found this one:


Now, I'm not sure about you, but I personally don't see the connection between a buxom, bosomy blonde bouncing on a breadmill (just let me have my alliteration!) and home refinancing. Do you? Maybe I'm missing something.

Or maybe I'm just not the target audience. See, I saw this seemingly ineffective advertisement this morning floating next to an article on TBD.com about a pick-up artist seminar taught by boys with stupid nicknames. (I'm regretfully e-looking at you, "Maven.") Taking that into account, I think this ad may actually be incredibly effective if its specific aim is at horny dudes who spend their money on stupid things. In that case, kudos to the marketers at TBD.

But on the other hand, ew. Who are these dudes? It amazes me that corny pick-up artists can make a living off of charging desperate men $300 a pop to learn how to now be both desperate and creepy. This is truly a disservice to society, and to women in particular. And while I could probably now charge $300 for the counter-advise I'm about to dole out, after reading about the "technique" offered up by some weirdo named "Speer," I feel like it's my civic duty to do the world a favor and correct the errors of their ways for free. So, let's remove those rape-goggles, shall we? (And judging from the typical fashion sense of one of these PUAs, I'm sure I mean that literally.)

1) NEVER try to pick-up a woman while she's shopping for underwear. There is no way for that NOT to come off as creepy. Especially if she's 16.

2) NEVER be that old guy in the college bar. You're already weird for being 49 and thinking you can date 22-year-olds.

3) NEVER try to guess a woman's bra size. Do I really need to explain this one?

4) NEVER stick your tongue through your fingers pretending it's a vagina when introducing yourself. For an example, see Vince (if you dare).

5) NEVER...mind...

This isn't even worth it. If you're dumb enough to think any of the above is seductive, let alone acceptable behavior, you probably have Asperger's or, worse, you really are a rapist. Honestly, the D.E.N.N.I.S. System is probably more effective than what these a-holes are teaching...

But I guess it's one thing to follow these rules if you're just trying to have one-time short sex with the kind of woman who likes one-time short sex. It's another, however, to boast that these PUA rules can actually help these poor dudes get girlfriends. I mean, really, think about your friends who are in successful and meaningful relationships. Is there ever a guy named "Cuisine"? Does he wear a sparkly silk scarf and obnoxious chunky jewelry? Does he have a bikini wax on his face? Does he get weird in a bad way on a regular basis? Is he listed or does he seem like he'd be listed on a sex offenders database? Or are your male friends with cool girlfriends all well-adjusted, funny, socially capable guys, with compatible interests to their significant others? More importantly, have these guys displayed genuine sincerity in their actions? I would venture to guess yes.

One of the most disturbing things about the sausagefest of the pick-up scene is the idea that dudes need to put on some sort of act to impress women. Look Read, women are not idiots. We're not stupid and unless you're Ed Norton, James Franco or someone else with a penchant for method acting, we will not believe you. That is, when you roll up to a group of girls at, say, Lucky Bar and randomly ask them, as it was suggested, "Why is this place called Lucky Bar?" we will ALWAYS recognize that as a stupid come-on because it's not sincere. Worse yet, you're probably interrupting a decent conversation. Worst yet, you're at Lucky Bar...

But don't let your poor choice of bars deter you. You're in DC, after all, you must make do. However, allow me to ask, what the f*ck ever happened to lingering eye contact? You know, you're at one side of the bar, that potential special someone is at the other. You're both giving each other googley eyes. Done deal! And if one party isn't interested, all she needs to do is look away. It's so simple! Why is it commonplace these days for weirdos to think it's necessary to approach an entire group of women and engage in so much unsolicited awkwardness?

Or what happened to asking a woman to dance? Asking to buy her a drink?

And if you're not in a bar (and definitely not in a women's lingerie shop), there's a possibility to be just as straightforward. What happened to striking up a conversation about something apropos to the situation? Something you notice you both have a common interest in. You notice a woman reading the same book as you on the Metro. Strike up a conversation about that! (If you're on the red line, chances are you're gonna be sitting there for the next two days anyway!) Hey, there's a girl ordering banana peppers on her sandwich! You love banana peppers, too! Seriously, "come here often?" is a better way to go about things than "clever," bullsh*t "openers."

And I could go on. Unfortunately, I don't have the time. However, I could have the time for the low, low price of $300. I'll include a trip to the mall and the barber's for a makeunder and un-teach you all the ways tools have taught you to be a tool over the years. Don't you worry, the motto here at The Anti DC is every douche can be undone. You can too. Just believe.

the metro will ruin your life

If it wasn't for chili, I'd probably be a recluse. Really, along with getting out of town (both physically and colloquially), it's one of the few things that can tempt me enough to occasionally leave my hobo lair. It must be the beans....*sigh*

Anywho, where I was going with that terrible introduction was advertisements. Well, no, first I was going to segue into the Superbowl (not to by confused with Segway Into the Superbowl, a documentary I plan on making one day after I convince the league to introduce various gyroscopic modes of transportation to the game). More specifically, I was going to talk about a party for the Superbowl, where all the delicious chili will be. (As far as the Superbowl goes, Go Team Without Rapists On It!) Then, after talking about the Superbowl party, I was going to mention all the high-level advertisements one is likely to see. (I hope Betty White is in all of them this year.) Then, of course, I would finally get to the point of this essay -- Metro advertisements. In three words, they are terrible. In more than three words, here's an example of what I'm talking about, an advertisement that chilled me to my bean-fortified bones because that's what happens when you photoshop a demon kid, holding a conductor's stick, dangling measuring spoons on his big toe, and, of course, sprawled out in tipped over buckets of flour, sand, eggs and dead plants onto a single ominous page.


I don't know about you, but I've never seen a more terrifying ad for shilling an online database for home buyers in my life. When I see a child from the corn (or would that be cornstarch in this case?) involved in a baking project gone very wrong, it doesn't make me want to search for the perfect home so much as it makes me simply want to cover my own in in salt, dip it in garlic and, according to ehow.com, burn some herbs, which I'm pretty sure is just code for smoking weed because, yes, it seems even ghosts get annoyed by stoners. But beware -- this sage advice doesn't come without risk.


Hmm, starting a fire would seem to defeat the whole purpose, but does it really? Or are there more diabolical forces at work here?

EXHIBIT A: THE DEMON AD

Let's face it. This ad will do wonders for the sea salt industry, garlic growers, and marijuana distributors of the world. If I wasn't wise to the conspiracy theory I'm about to slap down before you, I'd probably already be at GW searching out the kid with the most bloodshot eyes. But I'm not. I don't have to because...

EXHIBIT B: THE EHOW ARTICLE

It's all coming together now. First, we have an ineffective ad for home-buying, but a very effectual ad for home-fortifying against demon-children. No one wants evil spirits around, especially a pint-sized one who's going to f*ck up your kitchen. So, you google ways to avoid ghosts and -BOOM- suddenly you're "burning some herbs." These herbs may make you lazy, careless, tired. So tired that -WHOOPS- you dropped the burning herbs on your chartreuse shag carpet during a Steakums-induced coma and -WHOOSH- your demon-filled home just went up in flames! Now, what? You may have just defeated the purpose of smoking out your ghosts by smoking out yourself, but now you've fallen into a trap!

EXHIBIT C: A VICIOUS CIRCLE

Well, look at that. Now you need a new home in a pinch. And where will you look? That's right, we're back to the demon-child ad again. You think, "Didn't I see an ad not long ago for a home buyers database?" And that cues the resulting mobius strip: demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs," house burns down, demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs," house burns down, demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs" and heroin (if your house burns down three times, let's face it, you've moved on to the hard stuff), house burns down. And the cycle continues. Thanks, Metro...

fat cat and dismemberment plans

Not that I need to beg you to excuse my long absence from the Web (I'm sure my lack of any standards lately when thinking of subjects about which to blog have driven all but the most masochist of you away), but this time I really have a good excuse for not Internetting for over two weeks. I've been taking care of this asshole.


Yes, I've taken one more step into the inevitable spiral of crazy by procuring this cat. But really, I'm just hedging my bets against going directly to hell, as I extended my goodwill to rescue this little nightmare from the shelter.

"But Marissa, how can this lil' cutie patootie be such a nightmare when he's so cuuuuuute?"

Well, let me count the ways: 1) He's had to go to the vet twice (come this Wednesday, it'll be three times), costing me precious dollars that could've been spent on something more appropriate (*ahem* offtrack betting *ahem*); 2) He broke a glass by knocking it off a shelf thinking it was a toy; 3) He's lost all his actual toys (seriously, where are they?!), costing me additional, all-important off-track betting funds; 4) He's a cat.

It turns out, I'm not really a cat person. In fact, I'm quite afraid of them overall. I used to have a theory that they had no souls (much like gingers) and, thus, were destined to steal humans' by staring them down with their demon yellow eyes.

Stop laughing. On a less insane note, cats have sharp claws and sizable incisors. When I play with animals I don't generally like to fear that I'm going to lose large slivers of my skin. I understand love hurts (thank you, Nazareth), but I'm pretty sure that's only supposed to be metaphorical.

And so I'm depending on Humphrey (yes, as in Bogart; yes, as in long for Humps), to grow the Garfield gene. I want his only duties to include: 1) Being fat; 2) Being lazy; 3) Adding witty commentary to my thirtysomething life because life without Garfield is just sad.


Ha! I love other people's cartoon misery.

And speaking of misery, or should I say the opposite of misery (give me a break -- not blogging for a fortnight left my segue skills a little rusty; although my Segway skills are still stellar), I saw the Dismemberment Plan on Saturday night and it was the best live show I've seen in DC. Here's why: There were very few teenagers there and the band was good. Remember when I had the most horrible time at MGMT? Well, Saturday was the exact opposite of that. The musicians were as seasoned as the crowd. Everyone knew what their role was. The band played their hearts out (not literally, ew), and the crowd, mostly full of people who came of age when Emergency & I was released in 1999, reciprocated kindly. People knew the material. People cared about the material. People felt the material. And so did the band. For once, DC rocked. And in case you missed it, here's a subpar photograph I took:


And in case you have no idea who I'm talking about, here's a video from when they performed on Jimmy Fallon on Thursday:



For real, that song is from 1999, yet it still sounds fresher than 90 percent of what's released today. And yes, on that note, your dear author has reached Official Curmudgeon Status, although one with most excellent taste. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn. Enjoy your Monday.

repeater

Either not everyone got the memo Snooki ball that it's now 2011, or some DC publications simply like reporting last year's news. And by "some publications," I unfortunately mean The Washington Post, which for whatever reason, people still seem to think is useful for more than just lining the pooping corner of your helper animal's living quarters. (Although, in my experience, Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle prefers to defecate on higher quality publications, like US Weekly and Highlights.)

But let's be fair. Maybe I'm being a bit too harsh. Maybe if I wasn't so busy aggregating my #suitablepublicationstopoopon thread on Twitter, I'd have more time to write about those (few) things the Post does well, such as...

*crickets*

Wow. That's way too much effort. Not to mention, that would be both boring to write about and excruciatingly mundane to read, as I wouldn't have been able to so seamlessly weave the words "ass apples," "bum fudge" and "doodly squat" into my intro, like I just did now. (You're welcome.)

And so we shall talk about the dumbest, most untimely sh*t -- excuse me, I mean "fecal brownies" -- I found in the Post this week.

1) Talk of the mysterious numbers from Hot Tub Time Machine Lost on the Post's "Hot Topics" bar (whatever the hell that is) at the top of the homepage.


First of all, yawn. Who cares? Second of all, didn't this stupid clusterf*ck of a show end months ago? Why is it only now a Washington Post "hot topic?" And while we're at it, why hasn't The Washington Post replaced the word "hot" with "trending?" Who are they? Starr Jones Rosie O'Donnell Barbara Walters on The View in 2002? KEEP UP.

But that's nothing compared to this next scat-worthy error:

2) Reporting on an art exhibit set to CLOSE next week. Uh, now maybe it's just me, but I like to read articles about art exhibits that are opening, rather than shutting down and moving on. And while I understand with art writer Blake Gopnik's departure the art editors might now be struggling to fill space while they look for a suitable replacement, reporting on something that's literally last year's news is just f*cking dopey. The New York Times first reported on the Arcimboldo exhibit at the National Gallery in September; I wrote about it in October, the Wall Street Journal even got to it, along with The Washington Post. Wait, what? The Post wrote about it in September 2010 (when appropriate, I might add) then proceeded to re-report on it in January 2011? Really?


Really. Jesus Christ (clearly said, with the accent of South Park's Big Gay Al)... A different writer and slight variations in the introduction and conceit are no excuse for this rookie mistake. Actually, scratch that. Even rookies don't make errors in judgement this egregious, especially in the era of electronic archiving. If you're unsure, Google it to make sure it hasn't been done. More so, just know that reporting on an art exhibit five days before it closes is just a stupid idea in the first place, you f*cking morons.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put on the soundtrack to Inception and dream up more synonyms for the word "sh*t." I suspect that since the Post is in the habit of repeating itself, it's highly likely that I'll have to write about this again, and toilet pickles forbid, I make a similar mistake and use the phrase "rectal feedback" more than once...

greetings and solicitations

You know what DC needs more of? Food trucks. And I'm not even being ironic. I mean it. There are definitely not enough mobile meal options in the area, which is why I'm coming up with a plan: Affordable Smoothie Solutions.

Now, since I don't know sh*t about obtaining a license to serve meals on wheels to those who can afford to pay a few dollars for a delicious and healthful smoothie/juice beverage, I'm on the hunt for those who do. In other words, would you like to be the Hugh Honey to my Vic Vinegar and help me spread the delicious taste of A.S.S. all around town this summer? If so, contact me here, here or here, as I am quite serious about capitalizing on this trend and making all kinds of money when the disgustingly hot swamp summer rolls around.

In other business-related news (although certainly not the A.S.S. juice business), an artistic friend of mine is selling a book of flowery photos over here. Although too late for the December gift-giving holidays, it's arrived just in time for National Bean Day. YOU ONLY HAVE ONE DAY LEFT TO PREPARE! Luckily, there's no better way to show that special garbanzo how much you care than by purchasing a book full of photos of his or her distant cousins.

Speaking of special garbanzos, I have to give a nod to new Mayor Vince Gray, who proved yesterday that next to Baby Preacher, he's the No. 1 motivational speaker in the Free World for DC voting rights.



YES! I want to go leave a flaming bag of dog excrement on the stoop of the Capitol! Who's with me??? Vince?

*crickets*

Uh, Vince? Mr. Gray?

*crickets*

Where the f*ck did Big Baby Preacher go?

"After the speeches, Gray, at the last second, declined to join the activists, who were going to lobby the office of incoming House Speaker John Boehner," reports WAMU 88.5 FM. "The mayor says he talked it over with [DC's fake representative/all-around baller Eleanor Holmes] Norton and the two will instead call and make an appointment to speak with Boehner in person."

Exquisite! Because there's no better way to "fight" the powers that be than by calling their receptionist and scheduling an appointment for two weeks from never. Ugh.

But let's not get ourselves feeling too hopeless already. Along with our extensive preparations for the A.S.S. truck, National Bean Day, and listening to rousing speeches about fighting the powers that be before deciding instead to do lunch with the powers that be, we must also make time to have fun during the last 715 days we have left before the Dec. 21, 2012 fake apocolypse sets in. (Are you really ready for nothing to happen?)

Anyway, I think I'll start off my fun day by drawing a full-size bath for my bear, if you know what I mean. In case you don't know what I mean, allow me to tell you: I'm going to procure a tub, fill it full with refreshing water, then wait for a baby mini bear to look cute in it. Alternatively, I can piss a bear off by giving it a tiny bucket of water, laugh at its struggle to fit in, then threaten to put it on YouTube.



Yeah. What a bunch of assholes. And let's be honest, I'm not sure this was the best plan... If this grizzly remembers this time of frustration, these people better be prepared to live without faces because this bear will rip into it like Daniel Day Lewis did a milkshake. DO NOT PLAY WITH A BEAR'S EMOTIONS!

*Photo "Archimboldo's Kindergarten" unknowingly provided by Flickr user erix. Thanks!

remains of the ride

There comes a time in every nearsighted girl's life when she needs to go to the eye doctor to renew her monocle prescription. And so came this day in my life yesterday, when I arrived at the lovably puntastically named For Eyes optical in downtown DC for a check-up. Once there, I was quickly told my eyesight had neither deteriorated nor improved, was given the same exact monocle prescription (incidentally, my pince-nez prescription also hadn't changed) and robbed of $130.00 because of my lack of adequate vision insurance. And although I look and feel quite rakish now, much like this monocled feline...


...A much better story is what happened before I got to the eye doctor. A much better story took place in the cab ride downtown, when I got into a rather interesting discussion about dignity with the driver. It was like a page/scene straight out of "Remains of the Day," except instead of an aging English butler, the main character was a thirty-something Sudanese man. And instead of the English countryside, the setting was L Street. And also, I'm pretty sure Mr. Stevens, the butler in "Remains of the Day" who was played on screen by Sir Anthony Hopkins, never uttered the phrase, "She wanted me to be having sexy on her." (Don't worry. We'll get back to that in a moment.) Luckily, however, considering that I apparently wear a monocle now, I was able to reprise the role of English gentlemen, so this literary comparison still stands. Except I assure you I was never a Nazi sympathizer. And I'm poor. And a woman. And not English. But whatever, it's too late. Let's just go with it...

"People in DC, they don't have dignity," said the driver.

"Hear hear, good chap!" I said.

"They say, to someone like me, disrespectful things because they are very much ignorant."

"Kind sir, whatever does one utter that should be so unbecoming?" I said, whilst buffing my monocle with my plus-fours. (And for the record, despite how disturbing that sounds, this is not when the phrase, "She wanted me to be having sexy on her," came up.)

The cab driver continued: "I give example. One time, I picked up someone in night. This is what made me not ever work in night again." He paused. "Should I tell you? I don't want you to take offense..."

"Carry on, my good man," I said, reapplying my monocle. "As an Englishman, I take offense to only two things in this world: smudged monocles and, of course, dental hygiene."

"She was white, like you, and drunk, like..."

"I assure you I am sober, good man! This flask is full of...tea. And crumpets. Blended together. With fish and chips. And gruel. That's how we eat in England."

"She was from another state. Maybe California or LA. She stay at somewhere like Ritz Carlton in Tyson's Corner. Rich. I take her all the way out there. Long way. As we come near she say, 'I can't believe I end my night with cab driver.' She said with hate. Like I not good enough."

"Cor blimey! She sounds like a manky, pissed up nutter of a scrubber!"

"What?"

"She sounds like an skanky asshole."

"Yes! She wanted me to be having sexy on her! But was mean and embarrassed because I am not yet a powerful man."

"But you have dignity."

"Yes. Even as cab driver now. This why I refuse her and refuse to work at night. I have standards. I have dignity! But I have ambitions also."

"I'll say!"

"When I finish school, I will rule people like that one day!"

"Oh?"

"Yes! I will be powerful and control them! HA!"

"Oh..."

"I will get all beautiful women to ask me to be having sexy on them and they will respect me!"

*silence*

"It is the American dream..."

And here I thought the dream was being able to occasionally pretend you were an English gentleman looking to purchase a monocle...

SO MUCH OPULENCE TO HAZ!

When is the next train to Bloo-beery Xkhill??? Treel, I want to haz it.

censorsh*t.

Indeed, it's been a while since I hacked my way into your online lives and offended your sensibilities. However, considering my last few months of essays have been less than inspiring (honestly, a few were the blog equivalent to stepping in a wad of gum, wrapped in a piece of dog sh*t, inside a pile of street puke), I suppose it's no big whoop that I chose to self-censor myself the past few weeks.

Put simply, I've grown rather tired of my e-self. My virtual world has become so predictable, so bloated with loathe, so annoying, that when my real-life self would stumble across these sticky, squishy, smelly online rants a day or two later, all I could do was roll my eyes, wish I could punch my online persona in the face and dry heave. But that last reaction may be because, according to the last three years of "The Anti DC's" existence, all I've eaten were several tons of canned beans...

And so I'm going to expand my palette and take on some new projects. And while that doesn't mean The Anti DC is dead (anyone containing that much legume-derived protein and fiber is fortified for life), it does mean The Anti DC is abandoning the daily essays. In other words, I'm trading in the paper plates for the fine china, which I'll only bring out on special occasions, like when I invite guests over to gather 'round the overturned milk crate I call the dining table (ART!) to serve up a trash-can fire grilled meal of dead Metro rat three-bean salad. In other words, something has to be real f*cked up to earn The Anti DC's patented form of insightful, yet mind-numbing criticism.

Luckily, one such occasion has popped up in the past few days, so set the f*cking milk crate, kids. The dead Metro rat three-bean salad is about to be served.

BEAN 1 -- THE BACKGROUND

On October 30, the National Portrait Gallery opened a GLBT-focused exhibit called Hide/Seek: Difference and Desire in American Portraiture, which included a video from an artist named David Wojnarowicz. The 30-minute video work, entitled A Fire in My Belly, sought to illuminate what it was like for the artist to live with AIDS, the disease whose complications ended up killing him in 1992. The exhibit opened to good reviews, until one month later, when some dickish religious zealot named Penny Starr wrote an article for CNS that focused on the 11 seconds of Wojnarowicz's installation that depicted ants climbing on a crucifix. Later picked up by Matt Drudge's Drudge Report, Starr's words were suddenly broadcast to the "gotchya" Internet, which got the priests at the Catholic League worried enough to stop (allegedly) molesting young boys for a minute and demand the piece be removed from the exhibit. Then, of course, the right-wing loonies in Congress got involved and threatened to cut off funding for the federally funded NPG because, let's face it, to those guys, anything about the gays is like an Internet meme to the rest of us. That is, it's just another way to procrastinate from doing your real job.

BEAN 2 -- THE THESIS

With building pressure from the idiots on the Hill, NPG decided to remove the "offending" work from the exhibit earlier this week.

BEAN 3 -- THE CONCLUSION

While NPG employees said they ultimately censored the work from the exhibit because it became a distraction, I believe they did it because the last thing they needed in an era when arts funding is already becoming increasingly scarce was a political controversy. And for that, I cannot fault their decision. "Look, the Smithsonian museums are like the attic of our country," said Anti DC creative director Terry the Tourette's Turtle this morning over tea and beans. He later amended his statement by adding, "Donkey dick!" And I think I get where he was going here...

The Smithsonian Institute isn't avant-garde. It's not about pushing the proverbial envelope or creating new limits. Instead, it's about depicting the limits that others have pushed elsewhere in the past. Hell, Impressionism used to piss people off, meaning, I doubt that the Smithsonian would have welcomed Manet, Monet and Pissaro with open arms either in 1863, yet today, those paintings are the Institute's reigning jewels. I'm certain in 100 years Wojnarowicz's work will also be looked at differently.

THE METRO RAT -- CHEWY

People are pissed. Hell, I'm pissed. However, unlike most people, I'm not pissed at NPG. Like I said, their roll is to basically play the soccer mom's fridge to the art world. That said, though, I'm disappointed that this decision had to be made, I'm more disappointed that certain members of society, including some Congressmen, aren't reasonable enough to deal with art in more mature manner. In fact, I'm outraged at that. But let me be clear to whom I think our collective outrage should be directed. The criminals here (that is those who seek to silence certain aspects of society) are the Congressmen, who were able to hold a metaphorical knife to the neck of NPG in the form of funding threats. The accessories to the crime, of course then, are the idiots who elected these assholes and the instigators who mistake injustice for righteousness.

Put simply, I look at this situation like I would a street mugging. These dicks in Congress just jumped the NPG, as if they were exiting the Apple store in Georgetown. In order not to get hurt, NPG did what they were supposed to do -- they handed over their MacBook nice and quiet. Can you really blame them?

Luckily, where our nation fails, our private sector can pick up. Transformer, an art space located at 14th and P in Logan Circle, has decided to make sure the work can still be seen, even it if is no longer a part of the official Smithsonian exhibit. And although, they differ from me on whom they are placing the blame (they put the blunt of the blame on NPG), I think what they're doing is a pretty good "f*ck you" to the bullies on the Hill. Seriously, f*ck those haters.

THE DIGESTION -- CONSTIPATION

Despite serving the fancy dead Metro rat three-bean salad served on the good china, I don't plan on getting the verbal runs. (The non-verbal kind, well, that's another story.) Like I was saying before I f*cked all the haters (now that didn't come out right...), I won't be updating The Anti DC every day anymore. What I will be doing, however, is continuing to work on some other projects, of which at least one will involve blogging. For those who may care, I suggest you follow me on the Twitter or "like" The Anti DC on Facebook to get timely updates on any details. I'm crossing my fingers that one day someone besides myself will deem my work vital enough to censor...