D.C. residents may mock country folk, but they envy our guns....

I grew up in a place where everyone had at least a couple guns around for purposes of "protection" and "tradition." As far as I can remember, there were only two gun-related accidents. More importantly, there were NO BURGLARIZED HOMES, before I escaped my ancestral lands, never to return.

Depending on who you ask, that put my people at either, "Robbers 0, Us -2." Or "Love All." Because some would say that yes, we never shot a robber, but the robbers never tried anything because they KNEW we had guns. (And yes, the "some" quoted are reasonably close relatives of mine).

So. Yeah. If you want a gun, and you are willing to bet that you will be in the .000000002 percent of the population who has access, skill and opportunity to protect themselves or others from crime with a gun, rather than the rest of the yahoos who just shoot themselves in the ankle cleaning it, or shoot grandma when they think they hear an intruder, or shoot the neighbor's dog because motive and opportunity happened to occur a little too close together..." Well, if you're willing to take your chances, be my guest.

I just wanted to say that wonkette had quite a funny post about the whole thing.

Who loves trolls? The WCP loves trolls!

You guys made the papers!

Sort of.

Andrew (whom I did write back to, but who missed my email in his presumably voluminous correspondence) quoted the comment where I said the trolls are morons. But he forgot to post this from the comments, which I think captured my softer side:


Dear Troll,

We here at "Why I Hate DC" are very concerned about the "die Rusty" market segment.

We want you to know that your voice has been heard and that we will promptly do... something... quite soon to express our appreciation for your "Rusty sucks" and "Liz is a GIRL" trolling business.

We are confident that, together, we will find a solution which properly addresses your needs. Thank you for choosing this board to express your rage and impotence.

Sincerely, Liz

It was bleach...

Or something like bleach. Chlorine anyway.

Maybe.

We're not sure.

I've read several incomplete accounts of yesterday's shutdown of the McPherson Square area yesterday, "Oh my god! It's terrorists! Or an errant cleaning crew? Who knows?" And I'm not feeling particularly safe or confident.

It looks like the WaPo didn't even cover the "We could have been in real trouble and there's not much we could have done about it," non-story. On the one hand, I can see their point. On the other, I'm starting to think that we aren't really protecting ourselves from terrorists by avoiding having to think about this stuff. The theory behind the lack of substantive stories, I've heard, is: If the press doesn't write about our inadequate protection systems, terrorists won't learn that we will respond with fire engines or other details that they probably could have assumed anyway.

It's starting to seem more like we're protecting ourselves by not having to face how completely inadequate our defenses are. Which I guess makes spending on protection from terrorists like the ridiculous shoes I buy. I have nowhere to wear ostrich strappy sandals but I want them and if the occasion comes up, I will have them. In the meantime, I don't have the money I've spent and all the occasions which have come up have been decidedly inappropriate venues for ostrich footwear.

This is very much like the things we buy for defense. I've seen the (censored) protection head bubbles they pass out in sensitive areas, in the event of chemical attack. They are even less well-made, and more useless than a Jimmy Choo sandal. What happens after (censored) of, quote, "Adequate, if incomplete protection," you might ask, while holding one of the bubble hats? The answer is: Nothing. They let you breathe, more or less, for (censored). If the threat still hasn't cleared up after that, you die. Threats rarely clear up after (censored), so... yeah.... you know... and that is when the person explaining this to me stopped talking.

In fact, I can't even remember the last time anyone added up how much we've spent on this. Our public safety really has become like my never-opened credit card bill. "Just throw money at it sometimes and try not to think about it too much otherwise." We are running our nation's capital like I run my closet.

This can't be good.

Why only a moron thinks the upcoming reality show set in Georgetown is big news...

1. It's set in Georgetown. Where all the best clubs are frat boy hangouts. The problem is: frat boy drunken tomfoolery - from going through the drive thru with a blow up doll on the driver's lap to dropping watermelons off the library balcony - only amuses the direct participant. Anyone who has to watch. Or, god forbid, hear the story over and over and over again (until forced to dump the loser) is unlikely to be amused. It's not good television.

2. It's set in Georgetown. This town just doesn't do uncensored self-expression. From Puck to Omarosa to Tim Gunn, the ONE THING that makes good television is someone willing to say whatever, no matter who will hear it. That doesn't work if you're trying to keep a security clearance. Besides, I'm pretty sure I worked with one of these girls (Or maybe it was just some other well-dressed blond with a habit of throwing up after lunch). She had nothing to say. None of them do. If they did, they'd already be somewhere ELSE. Politicians control the conversation here, and politicians are boring. There is a reason that James Carville with his severe adult ADD, has starred in the only watchable political documentaries in existence. Because all politicians do is answer their phone, duck calls, and have boring, meaningless conversations with people they don't want to offend. Then, sometimes, they offer long-winded speculations about either possible race outcomes or past race outcomes. Then they argue about it forever and no one ever wins because who the hell knows anyway. Like the frat boy problem, this stuff is only interesting if you are a direct participant or a recent victim of a serious head injury.

3. It's set in Georgetown. I've been on the Late Night Shots boards, and it's not that interesting. The racism all seems faked for shock value. (Not that that's ok, but anything like that wouldn't make it on tv anyway). Posters claiming to be girls are either obvious Penthouse-style fakes "I was POUNDED by a tall dark and handsome LNS last night - do you think he'll call?" Or provide lectures on appropriate footwear (Ok, that part I found quite useful. But it's not everyone's cup of tea). There isn't even a can't-turn-away-from-the-car-wreck angle. It's more like a low speed car wreck that you knew was coming and won't matter because their parents will cover any damages.

4. Finally. It's set in Georgetown. Have you been there? Are you KIDDING ME? The residents of Georgetown (deservedly, I think) are so serious about saving their national treasure of a neighborhood that they turn fights over sky lights into to-the-mattresses-wars. Plus 98 percent of them are lawyers. The show's producers can pass out waivers like candy and they're still going to spend the next 15 years in court.

I like reality television. I like Georgetown. Anyone who has paid any amount of attention to either would know that these two things do not belong together.

Look at my taste in night clubs...

LOOK AT IT!

This club means one thing. That I am better than all the losers who go to Science Club or Local 16.

I too drink on my parent's credit card (and use their connections at work, and brag about the high school where they sent me, and insist on "qualifying" strangers by demanding their opinions on South American politics). But I know it's important to spend my parent's money at a place where real people go.

People with tattoos.

I don't have tattoos because you never know how a career in politics will end up. (Also, the parents are still paying the bills...) But I am still very real. Because I understand the MEANING of the tattoos, man.

Besides, someday soon I might pierce something that won't show.

I have a fixed gear bike. I ride it to work sometimes. And I can remember way back - three, four years ago - when all the poseurs hadn't moved to town yet. Me and my friends talk about these things at this bar on H Street. A lot. That makes me almost local.

We don't dance because dancing is for frat boy losers.

I came with some frizzy haired girls who also know a lot about South American politics. But I will ignore them and spend all night hitting on the hot chick, who must be stupid. I will ask her about South American politics. If she knows the president of Chile and mentions this month's (ok this WEEK'S) Economist, I will get uncomfortable. I will start to brag about how I might pierce something and she wouldn't understand.

When her tattooed friends show up, I will lie and say I will be right back. Then I will go back to my friends and tell them there are no cool chicks here. The frizzy haired girls will roll their eyes and leave.

I will get more and more drunk. The bartender will start giving me watery drinks. I will stiff him, as punishment. Then I will brag about it to all my friends. Stupid bartender. I'll bet he just moved here.

When the bartender kicks me out, I will stumble down the street. Someone with tattoos will feel guilty about me being obvious mugger bait, and will stand near me while I wait for a cab. I will bum a smoke from him. I am real like that.

The next day, I will ask everyone if they've been to my club before, and look disappointed when they say yes. I will quiz them on when, EXACTLY, they started going there because I am sure I found the club first. Once this point is settled, I will be comfortable again. I will tell them about my plans to pierce something. Soon.

Not at all about D.C.

But The Guardian's lol Bush made me cry laughing.

Techie jerks trying to get laid are about as appealing as you'd think...

Get an intern drunk, drop her off in Dewey Beach, and according to this, she will immediately start making out with something called "Easy E."

Easy is a 33-year-old defense contractor* with the very good judgment both to introduce himself in public by a nickname he gave himself, and to tell a reporter about his (alleged) sexual exploits.

Is there anything in the defense industry so inconsequential that it is actually OK to leave someone like this in charge? Perhaps we could let him stuff the MREs into the little envelopes? Or maybe just let him supervise. Even then, probably some poor soldier a world away is going to open his MRE and find Easy's penis, placed there when Easy became convinced the envelope was drunk enough to be "asking for it."

According to the article (and, yes, it's based on Easy's version of events) the MRE would tots be into it. He maintains "separate Facebook identities" to keep track of all his "regular hookups." He has more than 1,200 photographs detailing his Dewey Beach exploits. A member of his group introduces them all to another group of girls, only to realize they already tried to hit on the bunch the night before.

So yeah, I would bet Easy has a pick up artist how-to manuscript which he has been shopping around to interested vanity publishers.

Unfortunately, the only girl he managed to parade in front of the reporter seemed "Drunk and slightly alarmed and disappears soon..."

Poor Easy.





* Mmm... looks like I'm assuming a leap here from "big Virginia tech company" to "Defense Industry." Whatever.

Monday hate digest...

- More fun with those zany tourists.

- Fenty fell off his bike, but he was very big and brave about the whole thing.

- The results from googling "What You Can Catch On The Metro," will make you think something is crawling on you all day.

- John Edwards Is A Sleazy Asshole (Although this is probably stretching it). And, unbelievably, no one had updated his Wikipedia entry as of this morning.

- Finally, if perhaps you're STILL single, here's a chance to explain that status with a defensive, pun-ridden self-description for the Washingtonian's reader's amusement.

I feel a little bad about making fun of the tourists...

It isn't very gracious.

It's also way too easy.

But then I found this tourist's tale of her family's recent trip to D.C.

What enraged me wasn't the story about how her teenagers think money is printed in dad's wallet but then, ha ha, they toured the federal mint. If I ever soften up enough to have children, I will feel entitled to make bad jokes at their expense for the rest of their damn lives.

It was when she described being puzzled by the people who insist on trying to walk on the escalator, because SHE preferred to think of it more as "an amusement park ride."

So all the times I've told myself, "I am being paranoid. This person is not TRYING to bother me by standing in my way when I clearly need to get somewhere. I will take deep breaths and send a warm circle of love into the universe..."

Yeah. Kind of a waste of love circle.

Favorite comment of the week...

"The trolls will leave you alone...

But first, you must answer three riddles!"

Hee.

It was scary and on a bus, like in Speed, except we weren't going all that fast...

Does any one of us really know, deep down, what we are capable of doing to another human being under stressful conditions? Do we have what it takes to rise to the occasion and defend our fellow man? Or will we cave, telling ourselves we took the prudent, if less heroic, path? *

The scene: A small band of bus passengers suffers through a late-morning commute.

The bus driver: A husky, seemingly sane man, moving with the kind of pained gestures that signal either long-standing back pain or one hell of a hangover.

Suddenly, whatever had been holding together the last of the driver's composure broke.

"What is that NOISE?" he screamed. To thirty chattering people, riding a squeaky bus, on a crowded city street, in one of the loudest cities in the world.**

"Shut UP! What is that NOISE?"

He was now sitting on the quietest bus I've ever been on. We eyed him warily. No one risked speaking.

"That NOISE? Who has a radio?"

Dead quiet. Eyes straight ahead, people started shoving i-pods and cell phones into bags as discreetly as possible.

"Does someone have a RADIO?"

The tension was too much. Finally, a voice from the back called, "It's a speaker phone. Someone on here had a speaker phone."

"Who?"

Another one decided to save himself, "That guy!"

The woman on the seat beside the accused dropped her phone into her purse and froze.

The falsely accused man stood. "Hell no. I got no phone," he said.

The bus driver just looked at him.

With a light sigh, the crowd's chosen patsy moved toward the door.

"Getting out of THIS shit," he said. The doors squeaked shut behind him.

No one spoke as the bus moved on.


* Admittedly not the kind of questions you want to be asking in this town.

** WIHDC has not checked this statistic, but it seems about right.

August doldrums are killing me slowly...

The gin rickey, supposedly invented by a turn-of-the-last-century D.C. lobbyist, was this week's most popular cutesy non-news story.

Politico refused to join in, instead filling space with a "Life" section piece about Hill staffers who go on really good vacations. That makes them cooler... sort of. Like the Mormon girl in high school who is the only one who won't have to hide pictures of herself wearing trendy leggings, because her parents made her wear long skirts every day instead.

Monday Hate Digest...

Looks like most of us made it out of bed this morning. Yay for that. Here's some lightly bitter reading material to catch up after the weekend:

- Heather Havrilesky of Salon crunches the numbers (over and over) and discovers that L.A.'s cost of living will doom any and all possible plans for a comfortable future. Don't worry. I'm sure it's totally different for D.C.

- Our little Rusty revels in his escape from this place, and new-found joy through his new gig reviewing Lifetime Movies.

- DCeiver sniggers through the latest 50 Most Beautiful People on Capitol Hill (I love that the list has obvs been carefully balanced to avoid the appearance of favoring one party over another...)

- If you manage an escape from the office, Richard Misrach's display at the National Gallery of Art explores themes of alienation, despair and "disquietude." His exhibit of brightly lit, but isolated and self-referential figures, reflects the corresponding hopelessness of the D.C. intern culture's collective struggle to become a favorite West Wing character.

- And, of course, the cure for our city of callow comes from What Would Don Draper Do? If you don't know who that is, go back to bed. There's no hope for your kind.

Dear Lord...

We beseech Thee to please, please, please arrange a small smiting of the people who think this crap is funny.

Also, if it could be fitted into Your Divine Plan, a pestilence for the jerk offs forwarding the story with headers like, 'Heh, the Billary, get it?" would be nice.

Because we, your people, have suffered long under the heavy yoke of Political Jokes That Suck. Deliver our restaurant menus from cutesy. Save us.

Relief, dear Lord, is overdue.

Oh the people you'll meet...

I look friendly.

I'm not. Really.

But that stops absolutely no one from trying to befriend me during short encounters. In line at the grocery store. Loitering at coffee shops. And always, always on the bus.

Like I said, I generally do not like most people. However, I am always fascinated by the things that come out of crazy mouths, and I am too much of a good girl to actually snub the people who start talking to me. Which is how I learned the following:

- The White House is haunted by "Glorious iridescent many-colored globes of light... Like in Ghost Busters, but PRETTIER."

- "They" are killing the homeless and dumping them in Maryland. (It's worth noting this was when R. Guiliani was still considered a viable candidate).

- God shows Himself when you sneeze.

- Girls these days don't have enough babies. The world needs more babies.

- D.C. muggers have no respect anymore. Not like years ago when it was grownups. Now it's kids out there. Kids.