Cover your balls, `cause We know kung fu

Hello hello, one and all. Things have been a bit busy for me the past week and a half or so. I'm actually getting to carry some water around the workplace, which is interesting. Maybe one day I'll even get a cost-of-living increase to my paycheck. Who knows? We can dream.

Big happy fun time news: I went to the first MLB game played in DC in 34 years. One of the veeps where I work was kind enough to share one of his season tickets. It was quite a good game, the hometeam won 5-3, and with their win tonight remain uncontested #1 in the National Leage-East. Cheerio and all that.

Here's what the game looked like from where I was sitting:

Not bad, eh? First row of the deck, directly behind home plate.

The Prez-o-dent threw out the ceremonial first pitch. A fair number of those in the bleachers were booing, the guy behind me especially. From where I was sitting I could see the presidential box, and who should be observing our national pasttime but one of the filiae casae blancae. Yes, ladies and gents, Jenna. She did no butt-dancing as far as I could see, but I must admit, I'd poke `er. You know you would too.

I hope you remember kids: This is what Cyborg Squirrel looks like.

And Czech girls love sausage.

Last but not least: I am going to hell for linking to this. And you're all coming with me.


imageshack blah blah blah

Lollipop

Who loves ya, baby?

Diatribe

Springtime in la District. One of the two times of the year this city is a bearable place to be, climatologically speaking. The warm, yet not too warm, sun shines bright. A cool breeze from the northwest blows gently by. Trees bud, flowers bloom. The cuts of the ladies' blouses get lower and the hemlines get higher. The dudes are by and large still the same khaki-pantsed buttondowns they always are, but for a time it's forgivable. ("Dude, where we going tonight? McFaddens? Oh, fuck yeah. They let chicks dance on the bar for like two whole songs! Wha? Oh ya know it's gotta be Brooks Bros, bra! Gotta look fierce for the ladiez." Definitely the only place I've ever been where chinos and a buttoncollar dress shirt are considered the uniform for a night on the town. But I digress...) Birds sing, windows open, people are out and about. The city is utopian, bucolic, even the suburbs become bearable for a fleeting instant.

Then the idyll is shattered by the arrival of the tourorists.

Matching t-shirts, white sneakers, ambling along and wondering why the McDonalds don't have drivethroughs (I shit you not). To quote DCeiver: "They'll waddle up to the FareCard machines, and you can see their flyover brains erupt in a Ring of Fire stop-error as they collapse puddling like in a ridiculous display of melodrama and confusion."

I'm not pointing any fingers but people like him and him get a rise out of misdirecting our more centrally-located bretheren. Because I love my people, Our Imperial Majesty is not so callous. If I'm outside, partaking of the love the RJ Reynolds company shares with me, and I'm interrupted with an "excuse me, but could you tell me..." or a "pardon me" and our interchange concludes with a "thank you," then I'll do my best to get you where you're going. I like to travel. Travel to cities. And invariably at some point I get lost, so the help of a kindly native is always appreciated. Golden Rule and all that bullshit.

HOWEVER, if I even get a whiff of a "you owe it to me for some reason to give me all the information I should've gotten myself before I left the hotel" kinda vibe, in the very near future your ass is gonna be reading a sign that says:

Welcome to Prince Georges County...hope you brought a lot of ammunition

Just because I live in DC don't mean I work for you, motherfucker. Take a look around. Your tax dollars ain't payin' for shit.

Ahhhhh, that was refreshing.

Here's something else refreshing (by way of Warren Ellis) : The Perry Bible Fellowship. Must be seen to be believed. "This has been a blessed day, brother. We are truly free now that father is dead."

One last thought for all making their way to Districtus Columbianus. When you're on the Metro escalators, musing on how this whole concept of "mass transit" is a communist plot on par with fluoridation of drinking water and how it makes Baby Jesus cry, stand to the fucking right. We're coming for your fat ass. Just you wait. Some ex-linebacker lobbyist typing away on a Blackberry is gonna connect like a freight train and knock your ass clear from 19th Street to the platform, and believe you me, that's a long way to fall.

You have been warned.