DC Etiquette #18: Stop signs are strictly a suggestion.

I know I've touched on driving in DC before, as it truly could be a source of endless DC megadoucheassholeballsactwattery material, but I've been smited (I know that's not a real word.) by the grand Queen Twat of DC drivers.  And this happened approximately 4 days ago and I'm still ruminating.  THAT'S how deeply I was scorned.  Or how easily I get deeply irritated.  Either way...

4PM - 7PM: The time frame that constitutes the Bermuda Triangle for your soul if you're commuting by car.  A piece of my soul was blackened, necrotized, broke off from the rest of me, and fluttered out my driver's window on Tuesday during these hours shortly after I came over the Key Bridge and turned left on Lee Highway, ready to sit at the light to merge onto 66.  If you're familiar with this area, you're familiar with the stop sign that will sit to your right as you wait for the light to change.  If you're familiar with this area, you also know that this stop sign is NOT treated like a stop sign AT ALL.  That motherfucker in bright red with "STOP" emblazoned right across the center in a stark contrasting block white font might actually say "FUCKING PEEL OUT OF HERE AS QUICKLY AS YOU FUCKING CAN!! THERE'S A RABID PANDA THAT HAS ESCAPED FROM THE ZOO THAT IS GNAWING ON YOUR BUMPER AND IT'S GOING TO MAUL YOUR FACE OFF NEXT.  FUCKING GO!!!" 

But I don't actually know, I'm just speculating based on the behavior I've seen of people departing from this stop sign as if they were Nancy Kerrigan at the '94 Olympics with Tanya Harding hot on their tail.  I've almost died twice at this stop sign.  Once, when an irate Ethiopian cab driver (no, I don't know for sure if he was Ethiopian and yes, I am being racist.  He was black, had an accent, and there was a strong perfume of coffee emanating from his taxi. Where do YOU think he was from, for crying out loud.) decided he wanted to floor it out of there right when the light turned green (REMINDER: I HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY) and I proceeded to go, prohibiting him from pulling out in front of me lest both our vehicles end up being turned into instant bumper cars.  Homeboy started shouting at me from his car, irate that I didn't let him go.  Always a lady, I seized this opportunity to shout "IT'S A FUCKING STOP SIGN, NOT A FUCKING YIELD SIGN.  YOU HAVE TO FUCKING WAIT!" out my window, timed precisely when the light turned red again.  So I sat there, directly in his line of vision, his car immediately to my right as I was poised to go straight, doing the awkward car dance.  And by that I don't mean I was jamming to Hakuna Matata and bouncing all over my car like a pinball on speed with excitement, I mean I was looking at anything I could and being extremely busy...sitting...silently in my car...and avoiding his gaze...doing important car stuff. 

To summarize, I really showed him who's boss.  He felt foolish.  I could tell.

Moving on, my next near death encounter happened on Tuesday.  Sitting a car length back from the suggestion sign of doom, I noticed the car in front of me let the first car waiting at the stop sign go ahead of her when the light turned green.  "Huh, that was uncharacteristically nice," I thought to myself as I tapped my gas to continue onward.

I was immediately pummeled back to DC driving reality as an obese cunt (I said it.  Please don't tell my mother) came flying out of the stop sign at such a speed that she shocked us both, and we both slammed on our brakes.  I'd like to take this time to again remind you that she was at the stop sign, and I had a green light, and therefore the right of way.  As I gave this overweight whore a "WHAT THE FUCK?!" face, she turned to me, and gave me a wide, floppy cunt smile, and a thumbs up.  This breezy beef curtain then proceeded to pull out in front of me and put on her left turn signal to get into the turning lane, blocking my lane and the lane next to me.

I was so flabbergasted I didn't even think to act like a DC driver and lay on the horn for no productive reason other than to let everyone else know I was irritated. 

So uh...yeah.  That was it. 

Then on Friday I got a phone call from my coworker as I was driving home saying I'd cut her off merging onto 66 at this very location.  It's just a danger zone really. 

I really like ending posts with a pertinent picture.  You're welcome:

DC Etiquette #17: Share your opinion, even if no one else gives a shit.

It took me 4 tries to spell "etiquette" when I typed in the header.  It's been just that long since I last had a quality dbag encounter.  Either I've built up some immunity to being stunned by the douchebaggery I encounter on a daily basis, or I'm drunk and can't remember how to spell "etiquette".  It's anyone's guess (Hint: I'm just drunk).

Still, I haven't had anything particularly noteworthy of a high level of DC douchebaggery happen to me lately, so I've opted not to force posts, and just let them happen naturally.  It's just better that way, like losing one's virginity (that makes sense, right?).

Moving on from my really hilarious (read: not funny.) aforementioned virginity joke, I finally had a dbag experience, and I wasn't even looking for it.  I wasn't looking for anything at all really, as I was merely accompanying a friend on a trip to Harris Teeter.  Not even Whole Foods, where I expect to get visible looks of disgust when shopping in my sweats instead of hemp clothing purchasing non organic produce instead of mangoes handpicked from the backyard of some Phillippino immigrant child, as neatly displayed on the yellow, origin-explanatory, Whole Foods produce tag. 

No, instead my friend and I were spending a riveting, gripping, and enthralling Friday night at Harris Teeter doing some food shopping.  As my friend approached the deli counter, she did a quick scan of the items available, then turned and looked at me:


My pretty friend: Hey, what kind of turkey is good here?
Me:  I usually just get the Harris Teeter brand honey smoked turkey, it's pretty good.
HarrisTeeterTurkeyTwat: Um... actually... the Boars Head is FAR superior.

I wish I were joking or exaggerating when I transcribed her uninvited opinion, verbatim.  This little hot mess biddie was standing directly behind me, and in no way, shape, or form, could have thought my friend was addressing her (my friend and I may or may not have been spending extensive time in front of the cheese fridge area and had to jump out of her way when she shoved her cart past us.  So she knew we were "together", for all intents and purposes).  Here's a little FYI, my lithe, Free People clad, amiga:  in the deli section, all the meat is ground up animal parts packed into a deli-sliceable shape...so you see, not one product is truly superior to the other, it's all a whole lot of shit.  In reality, you should be buying a turkey and roasting it yourself, then carving that.  THAT's the best you can do at Harris Teeter, not purchasing from the deli section.  So why don't you shut your mouth when you're talking to me, you dirty, self righteous, turkey twat??

When I google imaged "turkey twat", I found this.  Glorious.

I'm sorry this wasn't very content filled or hilarious.  The end.

DC Etiquette #16: Use empty words, such as "NGO", "consulting", and "The Hill", to describe your life.

When I first made the mindless decision to move back to DC from the safe haven of my hometown (I was probably drunk when I made this decision. Like I am whenever I write these posts. Just being honest.), I had to do some extensive craigslist hunting to find my first place of residence in DC as a "professional" (I am essentially the antithesis of a professional, casual sidenote). I don't know how much anyone else has had to craigslist hunt the group home scene for some affordable, low income rent, but it's nothing short of a party.

One of the first group houses I "interviewed" to be a part of was in Columbia Heights (I know what you're thinking. Why would I ever want to be around THAT many HIV infected minorities? For $650 a month including utilities on a low income, you too may consider taking this risk.), living in a decent house with two other people. On the day of my "interview", as my potential future roommates referred to meeting each other, "Mario" and "Krissy" did a great job finding out a lot about me. And by that I mean they spoke exclusively about themselves for 30 minutes while my hand was anchored in their snack bowl (filled with Reese's Cups. Well fucking done, to be fair) before my allotted time to talk about myself so they could discern if they were in fact better than I was ended (I hope you could follow that run-on sentence).

During this time, "Mario" spoke briefly about his career as some sort of ambiguous government worker (I honestly was not listening.) before "Krissy" interrupted to tell me ALL about her NGO work (I've put their names in quotation marks only because I can't remember if those are their real names or if I'm making them up). She rattled on and on and on about some shit she did with breast cancer or starving minorities or who knows or cares what, but I can still hear her saying (and this was 2 years ago), "...what can I say? I'm just an NGO kid!"

Now I've noted that a lot of people in DC will respond to our favorite, "What do you do for a living?!?!" question with, "I work for an NGO." I have a few questions about this: Why don't you just name the organization you work for so I can try to guess what the fuck you're doing during your work day? What ARE you doing during your work day? Does that mean you retrieve coffee for the president of your NGO so you can try to act like you're working for a real cause? Does saying you work for an NGO really mean you're an unpaid intern having your life fully funded by your parents? I'M SO CONFUSED.

Moving on, there is no single profession in the world that confuses me as much as when people say they work in "consulting". I lived in a group house senior year of college (oh, afterthought, needless to say I got rejected after my interview in Columbia Heights with "The NGO Kid" and "Mario"), where two of my roommates (both people who are actually not raging DC douchebags, not even a little bit) went into consulting. They were both extremely nervous about their interviews, where it seemed to me that interviewers would all but shove bamboo shoots into their nail beds. I can get behind really wanting a job, but it was always hard for me to get behind this one, as I HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT CONSULTANTS ACTUALLY DO. Here's what I understand: you seem to work long hours, get mind fucked (maybe?), make much more money than I do, and travel sometimes? Lots of question marks??? From what I understand there are many fields of consulting...and that's about...all I really...understand...yeaaaaaaah (I seem to not be able to stay away from writing my side comments in parenthesis in this post. Enjoy.). I'd sincerely love to elaborate on this section of my post, but I legitimately have no idea where to go from discussing consulting other than to say I have no idea what it means. It's an empty word to me, like "hope" and "dreams" and "happy endings". Is that too much personal info? Moving on.

The other favorite "cool" thing to say as a person working and living in DC: "I work on The Hill" or, "I live on The Hill". Now, whenever someone says "I work on The Hill", regardless of his or her gender, I just imagine (I know this isn't accurate, just calm down and keep reading) a soulless 20-something on their knees under the desk of a member of "The House" with the house member's genitalia in their mouths. When someone tells me they live, "on The Hill", I imagine a shit load of people sitting on blankets on the lawn in front of the Capitol Building. I've heard there are great running trails when you live "on The Hill". But why would you want to claim to live "on The Hill"? Wouldn't you rather sound hipster and cool and say you live near Eastern Market, bordering dangerously close to a part of DC heavily populated by dangerous, gun-holding black people?


(Residents of "The Hill": I imagine you sitting on the lawn pictured here. All day long. And taking bucket showers.)

Perhaps even after four years as a student here and two as working professional (HAH), I am still wrapping my head around the complex entity that is the DC Douchebag.

DC Etiquette #15: Discuss your SAT scores well into your 30s.

Here's a good question, normal people of America: do you remember your SAT score? If so, do you use it as a means to compare your intelligence level to that of your peers past the age of 18, when you were accepted to college? If you answered yes to these questions, you should start considering suicide as a viable life option.

My first week at Georgetown meeting new people, I always found that I was the "quiet" person in the group. Why is that, you ask? Because the topic of conversation was SAT scores. While my new "friends" were bragging about their scores in the 1500s, I sat there in stunned disbelief, trying to comprehend why anyone would give a flying fuck about this. I mean really, we're freshmen in college, shouldn't we be trying to find a fun way to drink underage til we puke violently in pulic? No. No, it seemed no one else felt that way. Aside from maybe my roommate. But we mostly spent freshman year of college watching this video:


(You're going to want to skip ahead to the part where the euromullet mustached hero sings. just a personal recommendation).

Now moving on, understand that a few (literally.) of the people I work with here in DC are really into the fact that I went to Georgetown. When I do stupid shit, like lose my pen when it's in my pocket, and call myself dum [sic], these people say things like, "You can't be stupid, you went to Georgetown." I, honestly reply to this with, "That doesn't really mean anything, my dad went to Georgetown for law school, I'm a legacy, acceptance was a fluke," or, "Ah, I was an athlete, I got in because I was a rower for 4 years (yes, I am that nauseatingly upper middle class white that I was a member of a crew team. I did it only because it's too white for minorities to want to partake. No, no, I jest. Kind of. Ok, no really that's why I did it.). Much to my chagrin, these deflective comments have only served to bring me back to one single question, time and time again, when the topic of me attending Georgetown comes up:

"Sooo, what were your SAT scores?"

Now, as anyone who took the SAT, I still selectively remember my highest combined (not separately low scores) score. Now, as anyone who took the SAT and was not a blowhard asshole does, I do not reveal this score openly. I personally think it's rude to ask this question, namely because the underlying reason for asking this question is so the interrogator may ascertain (suck on that SAT word. Thank you, Princeton Review) if he/she is better than I am. Therefore, I refuse to disclose this score. Of course I didn't get anywhere near a fucking 1600, but it JUST DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER. We all took our SAT scores at 18. In a professional environment, we are all over the age of 22. The person persistently asking this question, our secretary, a 33 year old black man who I've nicknamed DUBL (which I pronounce "double", standing for Dumb, Useless, Black, and Lazy) who is a college grad, seems to think it's an extremely important question. I've been employed at my "real" job since September. He's brought up this question at least 4 times since my first day.

DUBL: So, what did you get on your SATs?
Me: I don't think it's appropriate to discuss test scores.
DUBL: Well, what do you have to get to get into Georgetown?
Me: I think that's stated on the admissions sections of the school's website.
DUBL: But what did YOU get?
Me: Seriously, you should really google that shit. Georgetown + mean SAT score.
DUBL: But like, were you above or below the average?
Me: God I'm busy. I'm just so, sooooo busy. I can't even speak right now I'm so busy.

WHAT KIND OF MEANINGLESS, ABYSMAL JUDGEMENT SYSTEM ARE YOU LIVING BY THAT AT 33 YOU STILL GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT SAT SCORES?! This useless shit, DUBL, takes AN ENTIRE HOUR for a bathroom break. I am not joking. SAT scores cannot save you from being that lazy and useless. If there were any sort of karma based Darwin system in play in the world, he would drown in the toilet in his hour long bathroom breaks. Here's a little comparison for you, DUBL: We both took the SAT. We both went to college. I do not take hour long bathroom breaks, and therefore I've managed to leg up into a different position than yours. It doesn't take an SAT score to discern who is doing better than who. And I don't mean that in the DC asshat way, I mean that in the I work harder and only go to the bathroom for 10 minutes max (depends on what I've had for lunch, you know?) way.

If I were to include an image here, it'd simply be a cartoon where a homeless man tries to one up a businessman by asserting that he did better on his SATs than the businessman, and the businessman curbstomps the homeless man Nazi-style. Alas this doesn't exist. So I am without. I'm sorry.

DC Etiquette #14: Be smart. Especially when you are not.

This may very well be one of the greatest rules of being a DC resident. Are you actually smart? Did you go to a prestigious school? Then I'm not concerned, because I'm sure you'll be sure everyone you meet knows it. Are you actually as challenged as Bristol Palin? Well you better make sure you talk over everyone who has a fucking clue what they're talking about. Allow me to elaborate.

At my "real job" (the one I never disclose to anyone because I prefer the shock value of announcing "waitress" as a permanent, degree-holding, career choice), I work with a lot of insanely smart and respectable people. However, I also work with an astounding number of individuals who think they're insanely smart, but in all reality are actually about as with it as my 90 year old grandmother with Alzheimer's who no longer forms sentences, but simply walks around using singing as her primary means of communication.

This all being said, one of the insanely smart members of my work force was trying to explain the concept of optogenetics to myself and two of my other coworkers (aside: it's seriously really fucking cool, if you care about it at all, check out the wikipedia article here) and how it could be applicable to different populations in the future. Here is how the Bristol Palin's level coworkers of mine responded to this:

Smart Coworker: So, what's happening is people who are suffering severely from anxiety could benefit from this by-
BP's Level Coworker: -Yes, right, people who are feeling sometimes very overwhelmed.
Smart Coworker: Um, right, yes, so these people could in fact receive the-
BP's Level Coworker: -Yes they could receive the treatment.
Smart Coworker: But the treatment would consist of-
BP's Level Coworker: -I just want everyone to hear my voice and know I'm actively participating in, and keeping up with the conversation.

Now, this concept does not need only apply in this type of setting. Just yesterday, at a salad bar in Georgetown, I overheard the following conversation, and this is verbatim what was heard:

DumbTwatWithBritishAccent: This stuff is SO good for you, Francine, just SO good.
Francine: ...Asparagus is?
DumbTwatWithBritishAccent: Yes, Francine, it's SO GOOD. It has negative calories, Francine, do you know what that means?
Francine: Well yes, it's when-
DumbTwatWithBritishAccent: -It means it takes more calories for you to digest it than it does to eat it, Francine. It's SO GOOD for you.
Francine: Yeah...

Standing behind this hot twatty mess, I was moved to say "YOU'RE THINKING OF THE RAW OR STEAMED FORMS, YOU DUMB FUCK!!", but that seemed both rude and inappropriate. Well, perhaps not inappropriate, but certainly rude. So I held my tongue. Regardless, this stupid whore was wolfing down pee-stinking asparagus by the pound, which was clearly soaked in butter and oil and who knows what, while preaching about negative calories. Granted, asparagus IS on the list of foods that are negatively caloric, but certainly not in this blatantly, butter-soaked capacity. REALLY?! If you're going to jump up on your soapbox, at least know what the fuck you're talking about. Or if you don't, know how to use your god damned smart phone to look up "negative calorie foods soaked in butter and salad bar shit". And this is coming from someone who is frequently outsmarted by her smart phone. Which is a Blackberry. And behind the times. Whatever. I still know that asparagus marinading in a pool of yellow liquid with oil bubbles floating around the top is not healthy. Not at all.

So, to recap: even though I felt like this bird could most appropriately describe how I wanted to address the Asparagus Asshole:

I instead glared at her with this expression, in adult form:

No, no, I jest. My 'WHAT THE FUCK?!" face is no where near this good. But I wish it was.

DC Etiquette #13: Judge new people you meet solely based upon their education and profession.

This will probably come as a shock, but I don't get out much. I know, thank god everyone was sitting down for that plot twist.

Nevertheless, last weekend I graced the only yuppie friendly place to be seen for a night out in DC: U Street. Oh, what a corridor.

Now, here's some background for this tale: I was out with my college roommate and a good friend from college. I assure you that not one of us looks friendly or approachable, at least not on purpose. And in the event that one of us were to accidentally seem approachable, we stand in that fuck you girl triangle. Yeah, I do that. Surprise. The three of us huddled together in the bars as close as humanly possible so as to ward off any unwanted attention. I assure you this was not a ploy, my friends dislike other people as much as I obviously do.

Alas, the fuck you girl triangle can only hold up against so much. After a certain point, our triangle was penetrated (pun not initially intended but still funny) by a short bro wearing a button down plaid shirt with this winning line:

"Uh hey, what do you think of guys with tattoos?"

His extraordinary wit was met with blank stares. Then obnoxious responses from our unfriendly girl triangle:

My fat friend: Um, is it a tramp stamp?

My pretty friend: snorting and looking uncomfortably at the ground

Me: (pointing to my pretty friend) She's a tattoo artist.

After a bit of bottomless, not very funny, and pointless shitting around about my friend the tattoo artist and the gay hammer the plaid bro wanted tattooed on his chest, he asked one of the great DC questions:

"So, where do you guys go to school?"

Perhaps in any other part of the country, this could be seen as a harmless question. Or perhaps if the question had been posed to a less cynical DC hater, it would also be seen as harmless. But since I'm needlessly aggressive and easily irritated, it was with effort that I didn't openly growl at him. Instead, I actually told him I'd attended a tech school and was a welder. Regardless, I felt inclined to make shit up because I was drunk, and also because I'm tired of how the typical, meet someone new, DC conversation always goes:

Any random DC Douchebag: So where did you go to school?

Me: I went to Georgetown.

DD: Oh, so like, where do you work?

Me: I'm a waitress.

(I could tell people what my "real" job is, but it's so much more fun to watch the horrified reaction at the thought of a Georgetown degree not being used in a world where I run around and touch myself whenever I hear the melodious cacophony of my own voice, from atop my soap box, bullshitting about a political something or other, like how Sandra Fluke is a whore. No I'm just kidding. But really, Rush Limbaugh, have you seen this girl? Who'd seriously pay her to have sex? Your vitriolic attacks are baseless. Anyway...)

DD: ...and you went to GEORGETOWN?

Me: Yup.

DD: ...so like, are you in school now?

This question is now pointedly asked to see if I'm of any real value as a human being. The only excuse for being a waitress at this point in the conversation would be if I were in fact working toward a career goal. As it turns out, this is exactly why I have my adjunct job waiting tables, but I prefer to watch seersucker suited bros wig out when I act totally apathetic.

Me: Nope.

DD: Well... do you know what you want to do with your life?

Me: What do you mean? I'm a waitress.

Tangible discomfort.

DD: Um, oh...

God forbid we have a normal conversation, and try to find out about the fun things I like to do with my life. Like talk about food, or shitting, or the Hunger Games. I mean, I'm a pretty complex individual, right?

Of course, this conversation can also kick off with "where do you work?" and not "where do you go to school?", which happened later that night when we were approached by the 30 year old version of this stud:

When he asked the "so, where do you work?" question, I was immediately overwhelmed with a series of inappropriate jokes to make at the cost of his ethnicity. Curry jokes, Pakistani terrorist jokes, 7Eleven worker jokes. Hell, I nearly just shouted "One medium coffee, cream and sugar. Multigrain bagel toasted with cream cheese," at him, but he was approximately 6'5" and I didn't want to anger AQ Khan's firstborn, you know?

DC Etiquette #12: Flaunt your FUPA.

I haven't been blogging lately because I'm lazy. That's full disclosure. Free of charge.

So, in every work place, there's one person who everyone cannot fucking stand (note: if you think everyone you work with is this hate-worthy person, you're probably the person everyone fucking hates. Congrats, you're a dickhead. ((Yes I know this is Dane Cook logic and I ripped it from him)).) This person is vital to the work group dynamic. Everyone can bond over how much they dislike this person. They're an asset to coworker bonding.

In my workplace, this twatastic coworker of mine, in her mid 50s, happens to have a raging FUPA.

If you don't know what a FUPA is, find the definition here, and a picture here.

Moving on, Twatastic is actually a woman of quite a small build. She has thin arms and legs, she's about 5'5", and happens to have an aforementioned raging FUPA. Now, whereas the smart smaller woman with a FUPA (like Twatastic) would attempt to disguise the FUPA with flowy, loose fitting tops, and perhaps even a loose fitting pant (so as not to accentuate the FUPA, but sort of gloss over it), Twatastic does the total opposite. Seeming to want to put forth her best feature, Twatastic wears top notch high-waisted pants and what can only be described as belly tops so as to show off her FUPA. Given that Twatastic is in her mid-50s, it's important to note that most of her floral belly tops are from the 80s. Which seems to be the last time she bought clothes that fit her. Even her FUPA proud pants are ready for Katrina's daughter to hurricane through DC. These high-waisted beauties come to rest just atop the FUPA, with the belly top just barely brushing the button of said pants. The FUPA, in these high-waisters, is highlighted more than the Hope Diamond on its rotating, lit up, display box in the Museum of Natural History.

Twatastic, when she's not doing everything in her power to try to get me or one of my other coworkers in trouble with our boss, or trying to get one of us to do her work for her ('cause she's Twatastic), takes to stretching. With her arms over her head. Wherein her belly top rides up, exposing her fleshy, white, bulbous FUPA for all to see.

Does she seem to feel shame, you ask?

No. Twatastic, upon finishing her arms-over-head stretch, will merely smirk, make eye contact with you, and rub her FUPA for good luck (that our boss catches one of us doing something wrong, so her smirk can widen as she sees one of us castigated). Moreover, while most people walk with their shoulders back, chest out, stomach tucked in, Twatastic walks FUPA forward. Yup, that's right. She sticks that fucker out as far as it will go. It's her center of gravity. It carries her onward.

I just would like to point out that the only time it's ok to be proud of your FUPA is in instances such as these:

I hate cats, because they're fickle and don't want to be around me constantly (I'm needy.), but this sure does make me giggle. And only in the animal kingdom is this both appropriate and funny. Not, please note, in the fucking workplace.

Lastly, I've had a thought. I'd like to write a coffee table book entitled "FUPAlicious: I Don't Think You're Ready For This Belly!" featuring photos of FUPAs from around the globe. Just think, that thing would fly off the shelves of Urban Outfitters. Additionally, I could do a cover of "Bootylicious" and call it "FUPAlicious"..."I dont think you're ready for this belly, I don't think you're ready for thiiiis 'cause my body's too FUPAlicious for ya babe..."

Just something to think about. If you know someone who knows someone who could make that happen, you have him or her email me. Thanks.