Showing posts with label calm the f*ck down. Show all posts
Showing posts with label calm the f*ck down. Show all posts

Thursday, June 23, 2011

reverse haterism: defined, revealed, refuted

There are a few surefire ways to wake the dragon of anger within me. And while that sounds terrifying, it's really not when you consider my anger-dragon is actually a puppy in dragon suit. It's adorable. But moving on, what's got my dragon-costumed-puppy of fury rearing its fearsome (use your imagination) but charming head? An article published yesterday via TBD.com, in which the author, Jeremy Binckes, attempts to counter hate with more hate:

New Yorkers: They still find D.C. wanting!
So says the Washington Post's Monica Hesse, who today wrote about a gathering of transplanted New Yorkers [TADC note: Actually, I very much enjoyed the WP article], who deliver tired criticisms of D.C. — or any city that's not New York, for that matter: you can't eat on Metro, there's sales tax on newspapers, the bagels, oh gosh, the bagels.
But here's the thing, and I, a real New Yorker, want to be explicitly clear: These people are not real New Yorkers. They're Manhattanites. Even their name, Fellowship of Unassimilated Manhattan Exiles, admits that they're not New Yorkers. Yes, there's a difference between New Yorkers and Manhattanites; there's a huge difference. Real New Yorkers have lived some of their lives in the outer boroughs...

And I think you can see where this is going... The whole thing continues on for another couple of paragraphs doing exactly what Binckes accuses FUME, which by the way Hesse points out chose the word "Manhattanites" instead of "New Yorkers" for the catchy acronym (how very DC of them!), of doing -- generalizing and complaining. TBD is exhibiting a classic case of reverse haterism, which is never effective because of its inherent, unintentional irony.

While Binckes is upset that FUME rags on the lack of delicious bagels in the District (a legitimate complaint, actually, considering this eighth largest metropolitan area in the United States so far boasts just one bagel shop I've found of note and it's in Arlington), or that people talk about their jobs too much here, he has no problem ragging on "Manhattanites" for not being "real New Yorkers" and, worse, being all just a bunch of close-minded, rampant snobs. He writes:

Manhattanites have a tendency to stay sheltered on their little island and rarely venture across the East River, except to get out of town. Ask them where you can find a street littered with excellent South American steakhouses (Northern Boulevard in Astoria) or where to find some of the best Jewish bakeries (Avenue M in Brooklyn), and you'll get ice-cold stares...

While that may be true for some Manhattanites, I know for a fact that's not true for all. I know plenty of people from Manhattan, including my former roommate with whom I lived in an East Village walk-in closet, who is privy to a lot of what the boroughs have to offer. In fact, this particular woman does most of her shopping in Queens because she knows they boast the best and cheapest tailors. Then there's the couple I know who, despite being New York, I'm sorry, Manhattanite lawyers (I guess they must have taken the Manhattan Bar?), still manage to make it out to parties and shows and random warehouse raves in Brooklyn on the reg (and please pronounce that as Kenny Powers would, thank you). Then there's also one of my best friends who lives in Elmhurst, Queens, which is *gasp!* even farther away from Manhattan than Astoria and which also, I suppose, makes him the realest of the real New Yorkers that Binckes opines about. But guess what? This friend of mine complains about DC with a fervor that sometimes even irritates me when he visits!

Look, DC can be a difficult town to move to. Actually, scratch that, any town can be a difficult town to move to because, much like pimpin', change also ain't easy. When I moved from Moscow to Boston I became near-clinically depressed. I was complaining nonstop about all the Ugg footwear and Northface fleece. Then of course, having gone from Boston to New York, I complained incessantly about the high rents and trash-filled streets. And then came my move to DC and, well, you've read the title of this blog, right? Bitchin' and moanin' and droppin' metaphorical bags of flaming dog sh*t on things that are initially off-putting is the human way!

And here's the thing: complaining, whining or whatever you want to call it isn't necessarily even a bad or negative thing. Actually, it's quite enjoyable and often a positive signifier for the organization of a real community. As seen via FUME and this mind-blowingly awesome blog you find yourself reading right now, besides being entertaining (especially if it's combined with humor), kvetching also has the power to bring people together, not only to bitch, but to create community, to allow like-minded individuals in a town that sometimes feels wrong to come together. Now I ask you, is that such a horrible thing? In my mind, as long as no one's going around hurting people or dropping literal bags of dog sh*t on this city, I say it certainly is not. It's good! In fact, a lot of the best ideas are born out of complaints about the inadequacies of others. Take, for example, my post yesterday about horribly outdated, lame and otherwise totally inadequate DC tourism videos. I vow to make a better one. See? It works!

And so I say go for it FUME, as long as you're having fun doing it. And who knows? Maybe while you're at it, you'll all pool your resources together and remedy the dire bagel situation...

Friday, July 9, 2010

lebron who? we have john wall...

...AND THE JOHN WALL DANCE!



Disregarding the illiterate who spelled "indulging" with an "e," (perhaps it was the same illiterate who vandalized this LeBron poster in Cleveland?), that video was pretty awesome. I'm doing the "Double Wall" right now, as my helper horse Sven (when Charles Town went to sh*t he came back!) is hoofing away at the keyboard.

So yeah, sports and sh*t.

Besides the Olympics and the occasional tennis match, I never watched or, more importantly, cared about sports until I moved to DC. While I'd love to say I became a fan because our teams are just so good you're forced to love them, we all know that's a bold-faced lie. *ahem* Redskins... *ahem*

For the most part, here in DC we cheer for losers. Save for players like the Wizards' Wall, new Nationals pitcher Stephen Strasburg, and the Capitals' resident toothless Russian Sasha Alex Ovechkin, we got nothin'. Our local teams are like dogs who swallow the country's diamond rings. The result isn't that great. I mean, a sparkly dog turd is better than a dull one, but it's still a turd. (The Caps, so far, are the only team to even come close to turning turds into trophies.)

But I think we like it that way. We bond over having our hopes crushed. We bond in our collective misery. We bond in our simultaneous screams of "F*************************CK!" Indeed, in those short, utterly disappointing and depressing moments, we come together as a city. We are one and we love it.

So, cheer up Cleveland and other Ohioans (?), Miami may have picked the diamond out of your turd making it worth a lot less, but I bet that turd still smells just the same. It's yours. Scoop it up together! ...Or, I guess, metaphorically burn it and leave it on Miami's front steps...

*sigh*

While I understand Cleveland's shock and awe -- their boyfriend just broke up with them and all -- I'm less understanding of the emotional and even irrational, Comic f*cking Sans-fonted reactions of not only LeBron's purported "fans," but his former boss.

Honestly, the Cavaliers franchise just gouted itself with that letter. And if the owners continue to react like Satan just killed their unicorn, they're basically letting every future star of LeBron's caliber know that THEY'RE F*CKING CRAZY. Really, it's no wonder LeBron left. Would you want to work for Dan "Crazy Font" Gilbert?

Look, as a person who's interested in the game of basketball because it gives me another opportunity to move my wrist back and forth to a beat (I say "another" because that's also how I hail a cab), perhaps it's easier for me to take a rational stance. I see it this way: Professional basketball is a game. LeBron wants to win. By joining forces with his friends on the Heat, he just increased his chances. It's not about betrayal. It's not about abandonment. Hell, I don't think it's even about the money or fame. LeBron simply wants to win. That's not narcissistic, that's not an ego out of control -- that's just one really talented guy who thinks he has a better chance to reach his full potential somewhere else.

If anything, leaving Cleveland is the most un-narcissistic thing LeBron could've done. I mean, it must be nice being treated like a god everywhere you go, right? Instead, by leaving he's basically saying he's not good enough to win carrying a team on his own. He's saying he's not a god. He's saying he needs help, and it just so happens the players he believes can help him live in Florida. Judging from his answers to tough questions and the clear emotion in his eyes last night after he made his announcement public, LeBron is not a stupid guy. He knew this decision would incite an instant backlash that would result in a supersonic fall from grace. He knew he would lose his most rampant fan base. Yet he gave all that glory up for the purity of his game.

Now if that's a selfish move, then all of us who have ever left a situation in which we thought we weren't able to reach our full potential, are just as selfish. So, before you hate on LeBron, look in the mirror.

Wait, what's that? Haters gonna hate?


Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Carry on with your hatred if you must. But I'm moving on to other overblown news, mainly this announcement: The Anti DC now has a Facebook page! And like I noted this morning in a status update, "It's not named LeBron, so it's okay to 'like' it." Have a good weekend. Catch your faces on the 'book!

Monday, March 8, 2010

yeah, i'm back. f*ck you, too.

Hey, you know why I hate DC? Because everyone who lives here is an asshole. That's right. You're all a bunch of dicks. (Well, except for you.)

And I have concrete proof: I didn't get an old-timey ticker tape parade when I got back. Nope. Instead, all I got were a few emails and comments telling me I've somehow failed them by gracing this city with my exceptionally dressed presence again. But one comment really gave me a heater, probably because it was the most blunt. It's from someone who calls himself (or herself, who knows?) "i formerly loved you."
You're back in DC?! After all that build-up and the ultimate climax of actually getting out? Ugh. M@ deserves more respect at this point.
OK. Fine. So I may have portrayed my escape from DC like I was getting out of prison when I left all those months ago, but you know what? Suck it. Should it really come as that much of surprise that someone who's been in jail before winds up there again? These are statistics, people! (That is, these are statistics that may not have anything to do with this blog, but these are, indeed, statistics.)

So here I am. Again. I am the proverbial second-time offender, except my only crime this time around was getting sick. That's right, assholes, I'm here because I might have a motherf*cking brain tumor.

OH SNAP!

I bet you didn't see that one coming! (See? I told you you're all a bunch of dicks! Who "formerly loves" someone who might be hosting strange cells on her pituitary gland? An asshole! That's who!)

Uh, but I'm serious. Unlike my jabs at having a tapeworm and rickets (although I am truly Vitamin D deficient), for once, I'm not just joking about disease. Yep. I may, indeed, be growing a second head. But don't you worry your wired little screen-face, Internet, because 1) nothing is confirmed, which I will explain in a moment, and 2) even if I am tumorized, it neither means it's fatal nor cancerous, which I will explain after I return to explain point No. 1. God, you're all going to feel so awkward after this. This is my dream post...

OK, so let me underline that I have not yet been diagnosed with a brain tumor and hopefully I never will be. According to medical professionals with legitimate degrees, a medication I was on (not the crack, which is back, in case you didn't know) may just be making it seem like I have a brain tumor. How the hell does that work? I don't freaking know. I can't even tie my own shoes yet. All's I know is that I had a bunch of blood drawn and my endocrine system is completely out of whack, which could indicate a lesion on the ol' pituitary gland and/or a tumor in the section of the brizain that controls the pit-gland (ew). OR, and this is my preferred outcome, my wacky blood work could just be the fault of a lady pill I was on (AWKWARD!).
And so while I continue to allude to using ironic street drugs and anti-baby pills, I'm stuck here in DC until said medical professionals can get "clean" blood tests to decide whether I really do need to get an MRI to find a brain lump or if I simply need some other sort of medication. (More crack?) So yeah, f*ck you for yelling at me for being back.

And now to point No. 2, which I'd like to add since I dropped the words "brain" and "tumor" in a menacing kind of way and don't want to start receiving Evites to my own funeral. Although I would love to partake in a Make-A-Wish Foundation sponsored activity, I don't want anyone thinking there's something more wrong with me (well, at least physically) than there actually is. That would be a dick move, and clearly, like you, lovely non-hating reader, I, too, am an exception to DC's dick rule.

So, here are the facts: Apparently, the type of brain tumor I'm a candidate for (OMG! I'm just so excited to be qualified for something!) is actually pretty common, meaning up to 10 percent of you may have this sh*t, too. The thing is, a lot of people don't realize it because your second head doesn't cause any symptoms that affect your daily life, or because you're drunk all the time and have no idea what's going on around you. But whatever. Getting back to me, this narcissistic egomaniac is not dying. Duh. I'm immortal.
So yeah. Suck on that poached egg of knowledge, haters!

CLICK. That'll surely lighten the mood.

Hi there. How are we all doing? Good? Are we all googling brain tumors right now? Aw, that's great. Anything I can do to spread mass panic awareness. I'll give you a moment and then I'll propose we never blog about brain tumors again. Agreed? Good. Now, where were we...

Oh yeah. I'm back in DC. Hey, you know what's even more f*cked up than me disclosing my medical problems to the entire Web just to make a couple people I don't even know feel like complete assholes? I'm actually glad I'm back. That's right. The last two weeks here in DC have been great. In fact, I think I've smiled more than I've grimaced, which is weird because the grimace is to me what sturgeon face is to Bill Clinton. That is, I'm a damn natural at looking simultaneously confounded and perturbed and DC presents so many opportunities for this signature look.

But don't worry, those of you who don't just formerly love me but love me (or at least e-love me) unconditionally and still want to read this blog -- I won't ever write about the things that have been making me smile, although I assure you, it's not the tumor. (Oops! I dropped the T-bomb again!) That would all be highly inappropriate, kind of like joking about your possible brain tumors. Plus, after all, this blog is still called The Anti DC. And if my helper llama Eugene's calculations are correct (I picked him up in Peru), no matter how much good stuff is going down in your life, if you live in DC, experience shows there will be more than enough exceptionally messed up sh*t to complain about here to keep up a daily blog.

So, buckle up lovers and haters, I'm back and even more unemployed so I'm going to start blogging like there's nothing else to do because there is nothing else to do. Well, except wait with bated breath for jorts season to begin. Razzle dazzle!

Monday, January 19, 2009

confessions

One of my dreams came true yesterday. I saw Usher live and in person. Or at least pixelated on a slightly time-delayed Jumbotron. And while I was dismayed he didn't perform "Confessions" (or drop trou on stage), I'm elated that he was chosen to sing "Higher Ground" with Stevie Wonder. But then Shakira came on the stage and f*cked it all up. At the time, however, with my rather obstructed view, it was just "some blond girl with a shaky voice." Who knew? Oh. The people not watching the Jumbotron at an awkward angle.

So, alas, I'm not the savviest of large concert goers, but I am one of the most observant. Well, except when it comes to Shakira. In short, it was a really bizarre atmosphere. I've mentioned it before, but allow me to just go ahead and repeat myself -- the hysteria surrounding Obama seems very Soviet to me. At one point, while I was walking down 17th (I was forced to bequeath my bike at G Street), a scruffy young whippersnapper (yes, sometimes I talk like an octogenarian), came up to my friends and I and offered us gift certificates for a free "Obama tattoo."

My immediate reaction was, of course, to laugh in his face, however, as I type this now I wonder, "Is that a free tattoo of just the name 'Obama' or a full-out portrait of the man's visage?" If it's the latter, then I can assure you that my fears of a 21st-century, American version of a 20th-century, Soviet-style cult of personality are disturbingly accurate:


However, unlike the Soviet versions of cult of personality, which were largely propagated and controlled by the state, Obama's seems to come directly from the masses, who went nuts whenever the camera turned its attention from whatever celebrity (Usher) or C-lister (Tom Hanks) was on stage to Obama's toothy grin, even if it was for a split second. This means two things in my mind: 1) Obama is hopefully just as creeped out as I am by all this unnecessary and quite creepy attention, and 2) There's going to be a sh*tload of people in four (or maybe eight) years who will be in need of a tattoo removal service, lest they end up looking like that looker posted above. (Hello, business opportunity!)

But enough about that. I'm becoming a broken record regarding Obamysteria, which I'm afraid doesn't sound cool like an Usher record, but sounds fairly boring like a Josh Groban joint. So, let's move on...

It's Martin Luther King, Jr. day today and I would very much like to observe it, not just to honor Obama (in a non-creepy, but very reasonable way) for becoming our first black president (which is pretty damn cool in showing we've at least come a little ways since the civil rights movement), but also in honor of my beloved Usher, whose name is as fun to type as it is to say. Usher (Usher, Usher, Usher) is, hands-down, the best all-around performer since Michael Jackson. That's a scientific fact. And he's hot.



And in other news, since I suddenly have a ridiculous amount of time on my hands, I've signed up for "Twitter." Not that you all want to know what I'm eating for breakfast (beans), lunch (beans) or dinner (beans), but if you have brain damage and for some reason can't get enough of my daily retardedness here, feel free to "follow me" (wow, that sounds creepy) over there. You can "follow me" (seriously, who thought up the terms for this Web site, anyway?) there under the very creative username "theantidc," which you can find via my E-mail or my name maybe. I don't know. I'm functionally retarded.

And speaking of retarded, I've been asked to DJ a short set next Monday (Jan. 26) at Solly's near U Street. I can guarantee you that I will throw some Usher up in the mix, which I will sandwich between stuff Usher's probably never heard of, or if he has, probably doesn't like. Anyway, bring your family, friends, e-friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, frienemies, archenemies, nemeses, hobos, hookers and whoever else you can wrangle up and be sure to say "Hello!" or "F*ck you!" or "See you in hell!" or whatever. I don't yet have an exact time for my set, but when it comes up I'll be sure to let you all know through at least one of the 7,983 means I have to e-communicate (read: self=promote) these days.

Until then, Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!

Sunday, January 18, 2009

think before you buy that collector's coin

Parents are useful for many things. Love, support, guidance, the perennial birthday check and, in my case, useful information:

ha ha, your google thing took me to the crocs site today ! for real!!

Now, there are two disturbing things about the above E-mail from my mother. The first, clearly, is the fact that she comes across as a 12-year-old girl ("for real!!"). The second disturbing feature has to do with the E-mail's content. A Crocs ad? To quote my mom and millions of 12-year-olds, FOR REAL!? Sure enough!

Crocs at Shoes.com
Huge Selection Of New Crocs Styles 110% Price Guarantee. Free S/H!
www.Shoes.com/Crocs

I was utterly appalled at first. I mean, I stand staunchly against the Croc. I loathe the Croc. I rue the day that the weather gets nicer and I have to once again see the Croc. But then I thought about how ironic it was that I'm making money off of the Croc. Soon (and we're talking within seconds here because my conscience is about the size of a Planck length) the idea even began to appeal to me. I mean, hell, if it's out there and marketable, why shouldn't I get a piece of that proverbial (albeit hideous) pie? It might be tacky and it pains me to think that I am advertising something blindly that I definitely don't endorse, but the thought of making another $0.67? Well, that's, like, a whole can of beans (on sale).

In a stream of consciousness that I won't repeat here, this idea of a Crocs ad on this blog led me to think about what I see as the growing Soviet-style cult of personality around President-elect Barack Obama. I mean, there is some crazy sh*t for sale out their featuring his visage. Commemorative plate sets, collector's coins, Metro cards, posters, paintings, T-shirts, bags, jackets...and I could go on. Even Pepsi® is cashing in.

This is ridiculous. I mean, the man hasn't done anything yet but get elected. And that was more on account of voters than him, which means wouldn't it make more sense to make Metro cards with faces of random Democrats on them opposed to his? I say, before we all go ape-sh*t over him, at least give the man a chance to do something; give him a chance to prove he will stand for all the "change" and "hope" he campaigned for. In fact, I can't help but think Obama, himself, is probably pretty disturbed by all this unwarranted positive attention. He seems like a reasonable man. Just imagine the pressure he's now under thanks to so many people falsely assuming he's some sort of magical demigod. He's just a human being, an extraordinary human being, perhaps, but give him a chance to prove it first.

Trust me, I know firsthand the havoc that the idea of a cult of personality can wreak. My Southern grandparents bought my brother and I Ronald Reagan collector's coins for Christmas in 1987. I was 8 years old. My brother was 10. I was expecting a new Barbie®; my brother probably wanted some Legos®. (Notice the elegant product placement, advertisers!) Ronald Reagan's cult of personality ruined our Christmas.

So, please learn from my family's mistakes. Don't let useless Obama chotchke propagating his cult of personality ruin any of your future holidays. And if you are convinced Obama is the new Christ and feel you must "own a piece of history" (read: make important historical events a tacky commodity), ask yourself "What Would Obama Do?"

Wait.

WE DON'T EFFING KNOW. (Although, I think it's safe to assume he wouldn't buy a commemorative plate set...I'll give him that.)

But, if you simply can't help yourself (you moron), allow me to suggest purchasing the Obama Commemorative Paper Plate, which I was alerted to via a commenter over at why.i.hate.dc. At least it's unique...and if you buy it for a kid they can use it for a future art project. That's something!

Monday, November 24, 2008

is columbia heights the ghetto?!

But we have a Target! And a Best Buy! It's practically the goddamn suburbs, no?! At least that's how I feel.

Some DC cab drivers, though, apparently feel differently. I learned that on Friday night when I tried to get a cab back to Columbia Heights from around Metro Center.

"Hi! I'm going to Columbia Heights."

"I won't go there."

"What?"

"I won't go to Columbia Heights."

"What? Is it too 'ghetto' for you?" (Clearly, I said that with much sarcasm because WE HAVE A TARGET!)

"Yes."

"What?! Are you serious? WE HAVE A TARGET!"

"Yes. I know."

And then he drove away.

Um. That's weird, right? But I'll be honest, for reasons I won't delve into, I don't remember if that's exactly how my exchange with this overcautious cabbie went down. However, I distinctly remember calling his reasoning ludicrous based solely on the fact that, to him, a neighborhood with a Target in it could still be considered too dangerous to drive into. I still stand behind my argument. WE HAVE AN EFFING TARGET!

And not only do I stand behind my own argument (that should be obvious), but so did the second cab driver who found my retelling of this conversation with the first cabbie ridiculously funny.

"Well, thanks for bringing me to Columbia Heights. Apparently, it's a pretty rough neighborhood. Some cab driver just refused to take me!"

"But there's a Target there!"

"I know!"

"And a Best Buy!"

"I know! You're reading my mind!"

Then much laughter ensued.

Although, I'll be honest again. I don't know if everyone in the cab was laughing or if it was just me snickering away in the backseat like an insane asshole. That's really not out of the realm of possibility. Neither is me getting home, almost setting some microwave popcorn on fire and falling asleep upright in a chair. But, you know, that's just how we roll in the ghetto. Deal with it.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

bear with me...(LOL!)

DC doesn't often please me. In fact, more often than not it makes me question the very essence of humanity. I ponder such questions as "WHY GOD WHY?!" and "SERIOUSLY, IS THIS WHAT IT'S COME TO?!" But then something comes along so great, so monumental, so fantastical that it makes me stop in my proverbial e-tracks and type in boldface, "F*CK YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT, ARNOLD!" Of course then DC nearly always makes like Triumph, though, and comes along to poop on it. Asses.

Take for instance, this photo, which I jacked probably illegally from DCist.



Does that look like the work of a terrorist to you? DC thinks so!

How apropos, however, as yesterday I mentioned the ridiculousness of the Secret Service thinking a terrorist would waste his (or her! -- I'm equal opportunity over here at The Anti DC) time disguising an improvised explosive device in something as mundane as a pile of dirty laundry. I called it remedial, in fact.

So how's about disguising your IED as a giant stuffed bear?! Now that is some goddamn gold-star terrorism! Except, not really...at all. DCist pointed out that the image captured above is not unlike those of artiste Mark Jenkins. His sh*t is, in fact, pretty tight. And, SURPRISE, it's not explosive!

Sadly this should not be a surprise. OF COURSE this isn't a bomb. It's a giant stuffed hobo bear that's attempting to scavenge from a garbage can. It's wacky! It's wonderful! IT'S A LIFESIZE HOBO BEAR! Seriously, the laundry idea was more plausible than this... But does logic stop the city of DC, or any American city for that matter (DCist rightfully points toward Boston's infamous, yet hilarious, Aqua Teen Hunger Force debacle), from getting their metaphorical granny panties in a bunch? Hell-to-the-retardulous-no.

According to DCist and NBC4, residents around the area spotted the bear as early as seven in the morning. Police, however, didn't spring into action, as they're too busy yelling at me for jay-biking in an EMPTY F*CKING INTERSECTION, until 10 a.m. when they decided to shut down the Columbia Heights station. Then they stood around staring at it for a while trying to figure out if there was a person in the costume or if it was stuffed. Finally deeming it stuffed, the bomb squad came in around noon to chop the bear in half and concluded what everyone else had concluded at fricking 7 o'clock. It might be da bomb, but it's certainly not a bomb. I feel as sorry for that poor stuffed bear as I do for myself for cracking that last joke.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE! A RANDOM, LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEAR SHOULD BE THE SOURCE OF WHIMSICAL WONDER AND MIRTHFUL MERRIMENT, NOT A CAUSE FOR UNNECESSARY ALARM. It's sh*t like this that makes me thing the terrorists really have won. They've made our society so paranoid that we've sucked the fun out of everything...EVEN LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEARS! For shame...

Photo and, well, all the facts stolen from DCist. Irrefutable opinion courtesy of The Anti DC. You're welcome.