Sh*tstain, DC strikes again.

To maintain a dog park in Sh*tstain, DC, the following conditions must be met;

1. There can be no evidence of rats within a six-block radius.
2. Every single tenant within visual range of the space must agree in writing to having a dog park. Every single one.

Sure. We can have a dog park. Simply meet these two main requirements.

Oh, by the way, this requirement is only for dog parks. Restaurants, schools, and day-care centers do not have to meet these requirements.

Get me the hell out of dodge. This place stinks.

Last seen with Michigan Bob.

Well. The Carmenator and I returned from Beantown, and our St. Paddy's sojurn. As you might expect, it was wacky fun. Although, there were a couple of changes this year; inevitable signs of aging. We ended the night eating Lynwood's Cafe pizza instead of yakking in someone's garbage can. The Carmenator spent the majority of the day in Cambridge visiting a grad school chum and her sick baby. And...Heather was with child. Which, of course, meant very little to no boozy-booze for Heather. Even Chuck was cutting back a bit. Not entirely, but a bit.

No such actions by the Fox or me. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. As you might expect, thirteen hours of drinking can have an effect on a fella. And it did us. For those that know us, it meant insight and commentary beyond belief or reproach. And so, in our hours of madness, Fox and I came up with names for Heather and Chuck's youngin-to-be.

Ready?

For a boy, Michigan Bob, The Q-town Dandy.
For a girl, Beauty Shop Shannon.

I know. Genius. Kirk got a little antsy-in-the-pantsy about it, but he'll come around. He'll see the genius in our ways. So will Chuck. And Heather. They'll see.

They'll all see...

WTF.

Ok. Check out the diagram above. It's of an average Washingtonian. See anything missing? Yep! That's right! Reason. It's missing damn reason.

Why am I especially bitter today? Simple. Today was the day Washingtonians decided to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Parade and everything. Not the seventeenth, when it actually occurs. Nope. Today. I could see if St' Paddy's fell on a weekday. Then it might make sense. But this year it's on a Saturday. What gives, idiot land?

F*cking idiots. Yikes.

Mee so happy.

Four reasons.

1. I saw a Cardinal, an Oriole, AND a Blue Jay recently. It wont be long now. (April 4th, to be exact. 4pm. You want some more, you maniacs?)

2. As I grow older, I am getting more in touch with understanding my love of Foxy Boxing.

3. Two weeks until I'm back at my local with my friends drinking incessantly, and putting my filthy man-paws all over my wife under the guise of "caring."

4. I'm off to celebrate number 4; half-price Belgian beers at L'Enfant. Whoop whoop!

A common mistake.

A very common mistake is made around these parts almost every day.

Virginia is not for lovers.

Virginia is for idiots.


I am stunned, almost on a daily basis, at how inept the population of that state is. They can't add. They can't spell. They sure as all f*ck-get-out can't drive or park.

Case in point; Carmencita and I went to the Apple store in Bethesda to get some support for the fancy new Mac, and we were sitting at a red light at a main intersection. The cross-street was two lanes; one to turn left only, and one for turning right or going straight. A smallish SUV approached the light, stopped completely (during the green light, mind you), and the driver got out of the car to talk to a friend waiting to cross the street against the light. Unbelievable. Can you guess where the idiot was from? Yep. Virginia!

More evidence; a woman came into the bank asking to withdraw some money. I said, sure, just go to the window and withdraw some money, but make sure you present ID to do so. She said, "well, that's going to be a problem. It's my husband's account." When I replied that, if she wasn't listed on the account, she would be unable to withdraw money, she became hostile and told me, "sir, when you have been married as long as I have, you can tell me what I can't do with my husband's money." She was NOT on the account, and wound up complaining to the corporate office of my unwillingness to take her at her word that her husband authorized the withdrawl (even though she would not let me call him.)

And, if these weren't enough, I have one more that is indisputable. Period. End of story...

I had someone from Richmond bet me $50 that Plymouth Rock was located in Pennsylvania. Honest to God.

"You sure about this? You know where I'm from, right?"

"Yep. Fifty bucks. Plymouth Rock is in Pennsylvania."

"Just out of curiosity, how did it wind up there?"

"The Pilgrims carried it with them after they landed."

"So, let me get this straight. The Pilgrims landed on the rock, and then transported it to Pennsylvania? Have I got it right? Upon landing, they decided to travel inland, and took the rock with them?"

"That's correct."

"So...what about all the Pilgrims that stayed in Massachusetts? And what about the rock everyone "pretends" is Plymouth Rock?"

"They probably put a fake rock there so people wouldn't go looking for the real one in Pennsylvania."

"Uh...you might want to look that one up."

"Nope. I'm certain."

"Tony, last shot, man. I mean it. I'm from there. As school kids, we would go visit it. Are you SURE Plymouth Rock is in Pennsylvania?"

"Yep."

Yikes.

Five minutes later I was $50 richer.


Get me the hell out of here...