Category Archives: Rant

Santa the Reindeer Molester

Yeah, you heard me right. Apparently Saint Nick likes to get a little bit too jolly… well at least according to the Little Theater of Alexandria (LTA), in their production of “The Eight: Reindeer Monologues.

 

Oh Santa! You're so naughty!

Oh Santa! You're so naughty!

Ok, so I’m guessing at this point you are asking yourself, “What the heck is ToBlogOr talking about???” (The answer? Does anyone really ever know? Probably not. But that’s the fun of this blog. I can talk about poop pretty much anything I want, blabber on and on and on aimlessly and without any intelligence or reason about nothing in particular and then make a crass joke or 2 or 9.)

Anyway, the point is here that I saw a show last week. An “adult humor” show at LTA that started at 10:30pm. I was excited to attend a show with “adult humor” because to me, that translates into stupid jokes with boobs.

But oooooooh was I wrong. While there were a few stupid jokes, the only boobs were the audience members who paid to see the show.

[Editor’s Note: Sorry GF, I know you paid for the tickets and were really excited to take us, but seriously??]

So, the show was basically a rant by 8 reindeer who all mostly talked about how Santa molested them, and Mrs. Claus was a saggy old cougar who shamelessly hit on all the elves.

The producer/director had a chance to put on the show in 2 ways:

Way #1 (i.e. the preferable way): Sarcastic and crass yet still funny and a bit light hearted.

Way #2 (i.e. the uhhh other way): Bitter and angry and performed as if you had serious parental issues when growing up.

It had such potential, but the show just left me feeling empty and dirty. Plus, the last thing I really wanted to know was that Cupid is gay, Dasher is a bad actor, Comet is a big-time druggie, and Vixen is a nasty slut. Oh, and did I mention that apparently Rudolph is retarded and has been institutionalized?

This wasn’t adult humor, this was a show meant to crush the happy spirits of human beings around the world.

The producer/director/creator/janitor of this show are Emotional Terrorists.

Maybe they were deeply entrenched members of Al Qaeda.  Hamas? Also a possibility as well.  Republicans?  Definitely.

Either way, they should be immediately shipped off to Guantanamo Bay with the other terrorists!

(You might note that I’m feeling a biiiiit strongly about this.  But come on!  It’s the Christmas Season, the last thing I want to think about 10:30 at night is reindeer sodomy.  And I’m not talking about the fun kind of sodomy.  I’m talking Santa-with-an-elf-tattooed-on-his-wang kind of sodomy.  And I’m not even kidding here.  They talked about that!)

Luckily, as a Jew, I don’t have to worry about it too much.  Yeah, it kills the holiday spirit a bit, but Santa never really visited my house, so who cares… right?

Now Hanukkah Harry?   That’s a different story.

He would never get caught with his pants down around a couple of hairy reindeer.  No, we Jews don’t do that kind of thing.

I would imagine if good ole HH were to get busted, it’d probably be for  insider trading or matzoh ball smuggling.

Santa the Reindeer Molester

 

And that would be sad.  Because who else would deliver my presents this holiday season?

————————————————-

I wish you all a very happy holiday season!

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I am a Criminal

Bet you didn’t know you were hangin’ with a bad boy, now didja?

I’m like Ben Wade from “3:10 to Yuma

I’m a likeable character with a mean streak.  I’m witty, I’m intelligent, I’ll shoot ya dead from 200 yards for just lookin’ at me funny.

I’m a bad ass mo-fo.

Well, about as bad-ass as a yuppy jew with euro-preppy glasses can be.

 

I am a Criminal

 

But don’t tell anyone.

I’m on the run.

It’s been that way for a long time….  Several times, the authorities have closed in, but I always seem to wiggle out of a tight situation. 

It’s stressful.  I’m always looking over my shoulder.  Always planning my next move.  Making sure I stay one step ahead.   That’s the life of a criminal.  And I like it.

I normally would keep this kind of thing a secret, but I’m being blackmailed.  Charlotte Harris has been threatening to reveal my dark-side to the rest of the world for quite some time now.  And I’m tired of it.  Tired of all the crazy things she’s forced me to do, while holding this over me.  So Ms. Harris, I will no longer peel all your grapes.  I will no longer watch repeats of “Britney and Kevin” with you.  And I certainly will no longer clean your toilet while dressed in a catholic school girl uniform (though that uniform is MINE.  I want it back!)

So the cat is out of the bag.

You see, I’ve been living in DC for almost 2 years…..

And I still have Virginia plates.

It’s shocking, I know, so I’ll give you a moment to collect your thoughts and change your now-soiled underwear.

Don’t be scared.  I’m not a bad person, I swear.   Ok, ok I might be a bit of a hypocrite, with my rants against Virginia drivers.  But being a hypocrite isn’t against the law.  Not registering my car in DC?  Well, that might be another story.

So – why don’t I just make the change?

Because I hate the DC Parking Authority.

You see, when I moved into the District, I had grand plans to switch my plates and license over and become one of the few, one of the proud, one of the complainiest people known to man-kind.  A DC resident.  Of course, I would be a unique DC resident, because I own a car. 

I now know why this was so out of the ordinary.

The moment I moved into the District, the tickets started flowing in.  It was a slow trickle at first…. maybe a $30 ticket twice a month.  Nothing I couldn’t handle…. right?  I was living the good life, right up until the day that will live in infamy.

The day I met Rosa.

No, Rosa isn’t a saucy little latino babe.  Rosa is the DC Parking Authority’s trump card. 

You see, the DC Parking Authority is the lovechild of the Nazi’s and this guy:

I am a Criminal 

Pure evil totalitarianism combined with blatant stupidity.

Only an organization as devious as this could create Rosa.

Not familiar with Rosa?  Neither was I.

One day I woke up and I had a ticket on my car that was stamped “ROSA.”  It didn’t have any charge associated with it, so I just chucked it out and forgot all about it.

That’s how they get you.  They lull you to sleep.  You see,  Rosa stands for “Registered Out-of-State Automobiles.”

In normal english, that seems a bit innocuous, right?  But in Parking Authority Lingo that actually stands for “we’re-putting-you-on-a-list-and-we-will-track-your-every-movement-with-a-gps-device-we-secretly-injected-into-your-brainstem-and-when-you-step-away-from-your-car-for-3-minutes-or-longer-we-will-give-you-the-largest-ticket-possible-just-because-ha-ha-ha-who-is-the-asshole-now-you-dumbass-Virginia-resident”

$30 ticket, $50 ticket, $100 ticket, $200 ticket.  They started flowing in faster than farts out my ass when I’m nervous.

It didn’t matter what I did.  I couldn’t avoid them.

In fact, I would get tickets when I didn’t even deserve them.  They would just drive by my car and give it a ticket.  Of course, contesting a ticket gets you nowhere, so I was at their mercy…..

And that’s when it became a challenge.  I could not let them win.  It might involve breaking the law, but I was going to take a fundamental stand against the Evil Empire.  You cannot question my manhood and get away with it.  DC Parking Authority…. my reproductive organ is BIGGER than yours.  Bring it on!

In case you wondered, in ToBlogOr lingo, “taking a fundamental stand against the Evil Empire” translates into “getting-a-garage-parking-spot-as-soon-as-fucking-possible-before-I-go-bankrupt.”

So, now I pay a pretty hefty fee each month to keep my car parked safely indoors.  Safe from the weather.  Safe from the Adams Morgan hoodlums that will break my windows with a shopping cart for no apparent reason.  And most importantly, safe from the Parking Authority Nazi’s.

Of course, I could just save the money and register my car in DC, but no…. DC is already using all the funds they sucked from me to throw a pretty nice Inaugural Ball…. and didn’t even f’n invite me!

I’m not completely safe though.  I still have to venture out of my safe haven once in a while.  You see, GF also lives in DC, and when I stay over at her place, my soft-Virginia-plated-underbelly is exposed.

Being a criminal is an exciting life.  Not everyone can handle the pressure, but I thrive in it.

Except on the last Tuesday of every month, because that’s when Rosa comes out to play.

A Return to Wedgieville

My 15 year high school reunion is this coming weekend.

FUCK.  When did I suddenly get old?

I swear it was just yesterday when I was going to college and getting bombed any night of the week was ok because I didn’t wake up the next morning with a huge hangover and have to write a blog tribute to my toilet.  How did 15 years go by so fast?

Ahhh high school.  The time of my life where I was so awkward, that the word awkward even picked on me.

I used to be short and scrawny.  Quiet.  Bookish.  I was a pretty good musician so everyone knew who I was, but no one really knew me.  I was an unknown.  Nerdy and badly dressed with huge ass shiny gold rimmed glasses.  The technical term that defined me was “bully bait.”

My senior year of high school, I was about 3 votes short of winning the award for “Most Unique.”   Yeah, you know that award.  “Most Unique” really stands for “Most-Likely-to-Get-Beaten-Up-By-a-Woman-in-a-Bar-Fight” (oh, wait, I won that one in college…) 

Fortunately there was this guy named Dennis Moon who ended up edging me out, and hence is forever remembered as the weird guy in our yearbook.  My singular remembrance of him is playing together on a soccer team and he wore a lavender sweat suit and a helmet. 

I’ve grown up a bit since then. 

I’ve filled out.  I learned how to dress myself.  I gained social skills and confidence.  I’m in shape, have all of my hair, and have a really good job.  My girlfriend is both smart AND hot.  I’m also a blogger, and we all know that bloggers are the coolest people ever.

So you know what?  I am going to own this reunion.

Why?

Because time has a way of evening up the playing field. 

Those so-called popular kids are now balding and overweight.  They still look back on their high school years as the best years of their life.

Think:

A Return to Wedgieville

or

A Return to Wedgieville

or

A Return to Wedgieville

Painful, isn’t it? 

When it comes right down to it, those old popular kids are no match for me now, just as back-in-the-day I was no match for them.

I’ve entertained thoughts of verbally gouging a whole long list of people who had wronged me in one way or another.  It would be like fishing in a barrel.  I could go back and make the whole school look like the idiots they are, and I would have fun doing it. 

And then I had a realization. 

If I go back to my reunion all bitter and angry with the purpose of showing people up…. I’d be no better than them, though I have a couple of pairs of vengeful underwear that would disagree.

The thing is, I don’t need to laugh at their crappyness to validate what I’ve done with my life.  I’ve grown up and become successful on my own.  I don’t need to shove their heads in a toilet and flush insult them to make myself look good. 

Just showing up is going to be victory enough.

The GPS set, the course is plotted.  Look out kids, I’ll be taking the high road in my return to Wedgieville.

Scared Shitless

Public bathrooms are like Satan.  There’s nothing good about Satan, but you just have to sort of accept that he exists and get on with life. 

Well, except that I’m a Jew and we don’t believe in hell.  Let’s just forget about that for a moment and stick with my analogy.  Ok?

 Scared Shitless

The point is, I hate public bathrooms.  Why?  For several reasons.

  • They are never clean, or cleaned properly
  • You have no idea who sat on the toilet last
  • The cheap toilet paper could stand-in as sandpaper
  • I hate having screaming kids in there while I’m trying to concentrate
  • I don’t want a Senator groping me from the next stall 
  • Butt germs are yucky

Yesterday, I blogged about The Poop Time PrincipleArjewtino made a great comment about how he enjoys his post-breakfast Sunday poop, and it got me thinking.

I realized how much I enjoy the hospitality of my own bathroom. 

In my bathroom, I have a firm understanding of how much toilet paper it can handle without overflowing.  I have control over the softness of the TP (charmin ultrasoft is the only acceptable choice in a house I live in).  I control the general cleanliness of the toilet and surrounding area.  I also have access to my internet, and no one looks at me strangely if I happen to bring my laptop in with me.

I have none of these creature comforts in a public bathroom….. which is why I avoid them at all costs.

My worst nightmare is having to poop when I’m out and my only choice is a porta-potty.  I’d rather safety pin my butt closed than use one of those. 

The next worst places to go are at mall and supermarket bathrooms.  In general those stalls look like someone let off a urine bomb all over the place.  It’s always extra fun when someone leaves a piece of wet toilet paper on the seat.  Argh! Enough already! I can’t take it anymore. 

Scared Shitless

Of course, it is nearly impossible to avoid public bathrooms since I have to go to my office every day.  So how did I deal with that? 

I formally adopted a stall in my office bathroom. 

2nd from the right – you are my temporarily adopted stall.  God forbid you happen to be taken when I walk in, 1st on the right is also acceptable, but we all recognize its less formidable flushing power.

Should either of those stalls be taken, I walk directly out of the bathroom and wait a while.  The other 3 stalls are unacceptable by my standards… in fact, I have yet to explore 2 of the remaining 3.  Why?  Because I am not the Indiana Jones of public toilets.  Fuck that.  I found 1 that works, and seems to be inhabited less than the others, so I’m sticking to it.

Stall 2nd from the right? Why do I love you so? 

  • I love your flushing power. 
  • I love that someone routinely leaves very amusing Jesus propaganda jammed into your paper-toilet-seat-cover-receptacle. 
  • I love that, after the cleaning people come, you are the last one to be used.  Why?  I don’t know… but I’m keeping your secret safe. 
  • I love that you are less brightly lit than the other stalls.  You still provide enough light for me to read, but being less brightly lit makes me feel like I have a bit more privacy.  I hate it when I feel like people can see in through the door crack.  
  • I love that you never have rogue pieces of toilet paper hanging around on the floor near you. 

 

Scared Shitless

Still…. nothing beats my own toilet.  It might have a jiggily seat that I can’t seem to tighten, but I still love it just the same. 

My bathroom and I?  We have a relationship.  A great relationship.

So Arjewtino?  Thanks for bringing it up.

My bathroom – this shout out goes to you.  I’ll be home soon.

12 Reasons I Won’t Date You

Dating is like eating chili – when it’s good it’s really good… but when it’s bad, it just gives you the shits.

As I mentioned in my post yesterday, my theme for the week is dating…. and if you’ve had a problem finding a date in this fine city, then pay close attention. I’m here to help.

DC is a great dating town for guys. It’s a buyers market – lots of single women, not as many single men.

I’ve lived in DC for just over a decade and have tried just about every possible way of finding dates. Let’s see, I’ve:

  • Done the online thing
  • Picked up people in bars
  • Met people through friends
  • Met people through co-workers
  • Gave up on those people and dated the co-worker instead
  • Met people on mass-transit
  • Picked up people at arts venues (art galleries, the theater, concerts, finger painting seminars, you name it)
  • [Insert location name, and I guarantee you I’ve picked someone up there. That includes at a funeral home. Bring it.]

I’ve had varying success with all of these avenues, but I’m not here to talk about the validity of any of those places.

Why? Because I’m here to help you. Your crappy dating life will remain exactly the same no matter where you go.

(I’ll pause here for a moment until the guffawing, snorting, and rolling of the eyes dies down)

You see, I’ve realized that the true key to finding a good date isn’t the place….

Wanna know what the key is?

Are you sure you can handle the truth?

(If big-brother didn’t block it, I would have inserted a youtube video of Jack Nicholson screaming, “You can’t handle the truth!” So do me a small favor and just imagine it for me, wouldja? Thanks)

Ok, I’ll give you a hint.

Take a look in the mirror....

Take a look in the mirror....

It’s really all about YOU.

Yes you. So stop fucking up your dating life, would you?

Oh, now don’t try to pretend that I don’t know what I’m talking about, or that I don’t know your situation. Pull your huge fucking head out of your tight little ass and get with the game. There’s only one common denominator in your consistently crappy dating life, and that’s you.

What was that you said? Your dating life isn’t consistently crappy? Just intermitantly crappy? Well then, since you are so high and mighty why don’t you take a big swig of some shut-the-hell-up too.

We all get lucky sometimes.

I’ve been where you are. I truly have been, and then one day I woke up and it just came to me. It might have been God speaking to me, or it might have been the narcotics – either way, I should still be institutionalized I have the answer.

You see, it’s not about the place you meet people, it’s really all about the criteria you use to decide whether or not they are worth trying to date.

Ok, I’ll wait while you bitch at me about how you have standards and blah blah blah and this that and the other and nice asses and big arms and taller than 5’8 and bullshit bullshit BULLSHIT!

It’s all crap. Why? Because you don’t really have the same standards that you thought you had.

How do I know? Because I’ve been where you are. I thought I had standards too.

In The Beginning….

I had pretty much 1 rule of dating: No penises.

That worked right up until:

12 Reasons I Won't Date You

You think I’m joking.

The thing is, this kind of thing happens to YOU all the time. It just isn’t quite as obvious.

So, if you were me and suddenly realized that your date had an un-requested penis, would you just think to yourself: “Well, maybe they’ll change – I mean, it’s not so bad… it’s pretty small and kind of cute. I’ll just ignore it and it’ll go away.”

NO! Of course not! You wanna know what happens when you ignore something like this?

One morning you wake up and realize that your girlfriend has been fucking YOU in the ass is not treating you as nicely as you would like.

Until you finally put 2 and 2 together, you’ve just wondered why your ass has been killing you you haven’t really been happy this whole time.

I’ll say it again. This happens to you ALL THE TIME.

So, what’s the problem?

You can only live by standards and rules that have been defined.

Because you only have a general idea of your standards, you end up dating people who violate all sorts of rules, until one day you wake up with a bloody ass and get the fuck out.

So, do yourself a favor, suck it up, and spend 30 minutes thinking about your standards and rules, and then WRITE THEM DOWN. Once you have your list, promise yourself that you’ll stick to it.

It is ok to modify your list once or twice – but you are not allowed to grandfather people in. That means you can’t date someone and then modify the list. Don’t lower your standards – that’s what got your ass bloody in the first place!

I stuck to my list, and it’s worked out great for me. Yes, it takes discipline – but the formula works.

So, to prove my point, I’m going to share with you my list of the:

12 Reasons Why I Won’t Date You

.

1: The first question you ask is, “So what do you do?”

If this is the first question you ask me, then you have no hope. I won’t date a woman who lacks in the personality department, or a woman who only dates for status. Ask me where I’m from, what books I’m reading, what kind of music I listen to, or how many times a day I pick my nose. I don’t care, as long as it’s not that question. We’ll get around to it eventually.

2: You put the class in classless

If anyone has ever mistaken you in public for being a hooker or stripper, then the closest you are going to get to a date with me is a $20 shoved in your garter. You don’t need to be Princess Di all the time — you just need to know when the proper times are. As a starter – the appropriate place to put your gum is NOT under the table at a 5-Star restaurant.

3: You only wear jeans

I don’t have any problems wearing jeans, but if you aren’t willing to dress up for me, then you have no hope. I prefer the kind of girl who tends to slightly overdress for most situations. Again, I have no problems with jeans, but if we’re going out to brunch with some friends, I like the fact that you take the time to get yourself ready and are the best dressed person in the room.

4: You don’t have an opinion

If I wanted a woman without an opinion, I would buy a Sarah Palin Inflatable Love Doll. I don’t want you to defer to my every whim unless it involves oral pleasure. I want to hear your thoughts on the world, on politics, on the arts, on ANYTHING. The thing is, if you have an opinion, you better be prepared to defend it. The last thing I need is someone who has an irrational opinion about something and doesn’t know why they have it – and “just because” doesn’t count. I won’t hate you for your opinion, as long as it’s informed and you agree that I’m always right.

5: Your shirts aren’t low cut enough

No, this does not violate the classy rule. Why? Because I’m not going for the slut look…. I just want to see some of your boobs. I like a woman who is comfortable with her body, and knows how to look attractive and sexy. Attractivity (yes, I created that word) for men pretty much starts and ends with boobs. If you are always wearing big poofy sweaters and hiding your feminine form – then you have no chance. Oh, and in case you were wondering, there are professional ways to show off your boobs – if you don’t know what they are, learn them!

6: I can see your underwear

The only times I want to see your underwear are either when they are lying on the floor next to my bed, or when you are walking around my place. I don’t want to see your panty-lines. I don’t want to catch a view when you cross your legs in a meeting. I don’t want to see your thong when you bend over. No no no no! Those things aren’t sexy, they just mean you don’t know how to dress yourself! Not sure how to avoid them? Go here!

7: You’ve never been outside the country

What? You don’t like traveling? Sorry missy, you are out of luck with me then. Why? Because I want someone who is worldy. If you are happy just sticking around here, then you won’t mind if I get in my car and drive the fuck away. I once went on a date with a chick who hadn’t been beyond the borders of DC, MD, and VA in more than 5 years. I believe the date ended within 10 minutes.

8: If I meet you at a bar and you’re drunk

I don’t want to date someone who is a sloppy drunk. Hold your fricken alcohol wouldja?? We all like to get our drink on, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to dance on the bar wearing your undies on your head. I don’t date strippers, and I won’t date you either.


9: You diss McDonalds at 3am

So, let’s say we got to a bar and get our drink on. Let’s just say that afterward you and I have the munchies. Let’s just say that the only place open is McDonalds. 3am might be the only time I’m willing to eat there, but if you turn your nose up at good ole Mickey D’s, then our relationship is going to last about as long as it takes to get a BigMac at the drive-thru.

10: You are a smoker

Ok ok, I’ll give you this – if you smoke, we are allowed to fuck like bunnies have a little fun, but we won’t be dating. I want to be with someone who respects their body, and will be around in 50 or 60 years. My grandmother smoked for 40 years and when I was a kid, she was so sick she could never play with me. I don’t want that for my kids and grandkids.

12 Reasons I Won't Date You

11: You can’t walk in high heels, or only wear flats

It really all comes back to the clothes and being classy. Wear heels that are appropriate for your outfit, and know how to walk in them. Classy women know how to work a good pair of pumps…. oh and anything taller than 4 inches is saved for the bedroom. Don’t like heels? Then you can take your “comfy” flats and walk the hell away from me.

12: You have more stuffed animals than pillows on your bed

I’ve caved on this a little bit – my rule used to be NO stuffed animals, but that was a bit too stringent. I don’t like sharing the bed with things from your childhood. The last thing I want is to be staring at Winnie the Pooh and friends while we’re fucking our brains out when I wake up in the middle of the night. That’s just a bit creepy. Grow up a little and cut the menagerie down.

No no no no!

No no no no!

Extra Credit: You have to pee more than once per hour on a car ride

It’s not a killer, but if you can’t hold it for more than 60 minutes, then we’re going to be in trouble. If you can hold it for 3+ hours…. then you definitely win bonus points!

So, now that you’ve seen my list – go create your own, and live by it.

I guarantee it will improve your dating experiences!

——————————————–
Have some dating questions? Post them here and I’ll address all your dating questions later in the week!

Come back tomorrow for the 12 Best Dates in DC

Stupid People: DC Commuter Edition

Let’s talk about a serious issue for once…

DC has a major problem: Commuter Stupidity.

So – the population of our fine city increases something like 72% every day due to commuters. I also believe the intelligence of our city decreases by 144% over that same period.  It’s as if when people cross over the Roosevelt Bridge, they are suddenly transported back to their school days when they took field trips to DC… And hadn’t learned how to drive yet!

I avoid traffic circles like the plague at rush hour, because, even though they are supposed to help ease congestion, it’s as if every rule of conscientious driving goes right out the window. Hey let’s make a right turn from across three lanes and NOT use our signal while giving the finger to everyone we cut off.

I could write on and on about this topic, but I’ll save you from that rant… for now. 

But, in keeping with the automobile commuter theme, I want to discuss an issue that has been flying under the radar for a while now…..

Slugging Stupidity

Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m all for helping to save the environment and shit like that…. Oh wait, you don’t know what I’m talking about?

Slugging is basically ride sharing.  The art of slugging was founded in the DC area, though when it began has been disputed mostly by people who have no life as being started anywhere from the late 70’s through the late 80’s.   So, you wanna know where it all began?

 DC Commuter Edition

 

That’s right!  Good ole Bob’s Big Boy is a transportation maverick!  (Take that McCain/Palin!)

The Urban Institute documents the first official slug line as starting in the late 80’s at a Bob’s Big Boy in Springfield.  Apparently Bob’s had all the important attributes for a slug line: parking, a bus stop, easy access to the HOV, and an awesome corned beef hash and eggs breakfast special.

Now here’s the thing….  can it really be that hard to get into someone’s car and get a ride someplace?

Apparently in DC it is!

You see, there’s an official Slugging website where you can learn all about the 18 (18?!?) rules to proper slugging, as well as entrancing facts about the Slug rating system, and a glossary of slugging terms.  My personal favorite slugging terms include: body snatcher, anal scraper, giving head slug, and pearl necklace.

The website is maintained by a fellow who wrote a paper in 4th grade a 124 page tell-all exposé on slugging.  I would quote from the book, but shockingly it’s no-longer in print.

You can even see the official website referenced on the Virginia DOT website, where good ole Paul Williamson, the executive secretary of the Physical Evaluation Board is quoted, “In fact, I thought it would be interesting to write a book called, The Slug Master.” 

Paul Williamson, Slug Master Extraordinaire

Paul Williamson, Slug Master Extraordinaire

Let’s not even get into trying to determine what the “Physical Evaluation Board” is, but Paul, with his porn-star sunglasses & mustache, looks like a perfect fit.

So, where am I going with all this? Good question, thanks for asking.

I was wondering to myself, if commuter slugging could become this popular, what other areas of our life could we apply this principle?  Here’s 2 I could think of….

Date Slugging:  For people who want to avoid the hassle of online dating or meeting someone at a bar.  Friday/Saturday nights.

  • Lines:
    • 8:00pm to 10:30pm – at the Key Bridge, outside any GW sorority, and in front of Roissy’s place. 
    • 2:00am to 4:00am – outside of McFadden’s, Rumors, and Jumbo slice in Adams Morgan. 
  • Rules include: no money should be exchanged, refrain from talking about anything intellectual, binge drinking a must, egregious ass grabbing is only acceptable between 2:45am and 3:15am, and awkward drunken sex in the backseat must be mutually agreed upon. 

Chore Slugging: For people who don’t want to do our chores around the house, especially cleaning/organizing.  Tuesday/Thursday evenings.

  • Lines
    • 7:30pm – Form outside OCD Anonymous meeting sites. 
  • Rules include: don’t park on any cracks, make sure you have at least 3 gallons of hand sanitizer available, and please organize your toll-road change by date & city of coin production before slug gets into car. 

Ahhh, if only the world worked like this.  If you have other ideas of how we could apply this principle – post it here!

And that’s something worth blogging about….. or not.

Randomly Rambunctious Remarks

Some people found my blog by searching for “sex boys and man,” “50lbs overweight,” and “Tighty whitie dude.”  What does this say about my readers (or my writing for that matter!)?

Whenever I eat a nice salad and some fruit for lunch, I’m still hungry.  I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll never feel full unless a slab of cow and a cookie are somehow integrated into my meal.

Dasani is “Purified water enhanced with minerals for a pure, fresh taste.”  So they are unpurifying the water to make it taste more pure?

I use a Swingline stapler everyday.  I wish it was red.

 

I hate it when the car in front of me leaves their blinker on.  It makes me want run them off the road, NASCAR style.

I was once told by a Rabbi that Jews are not prudes.  I think this needs to be better communicated to the Jewish women of the world.

I’ve been pulled over for speeding by a bicycle cop.  He had a siren and lights and everything.  Ironic thing?  I was on travel presenting at a big meeting for public safety officials.

 Randomly Rambunctious Remarks

I often wonder if I farted on a skunk, would it smell better? 

I’ve always hated September – because that’s when you go back to school.  I haven’t been in school in more than a decade, yet I still hate September.

My work colleague has a hand drawn picture above his desk that says “I love you Dad, Plese take it to work!”  He doesn’t have any kids.

 

I like drinking hot tea, hot soup, hot chocolate, etc but I can’t brush my teeth with either hot or warm water.  It’s disgusting.

When I’m walking up to an elevator, I secretly race anyone nearby so I can be the first to push the up/down arrow.

Whenever someone talks about “Change Management” for some reason a picture of a zoo-keeper pops into my head.

Randomly Rambunctious Remarks

I like making completely random analogies to help explain things.  The more obscure, the better. 

My life is sort of like a feather duster.  I own it, I know I can put it to good use, but I’m too lazy to.  So instead I hire someone else to clean up my dust and mess.

Scenario: 2 guys at work are in the bathroom, both in stalls.  They both flush at exactly the same time.  Invariably, one guy will pause in his stall and let the other wash his hands and leave, in order to avoid having an “embarassing” meeting of the crappers at the sink.

And those are your Randomly Rambunctious Remarks worth blogging about…… or not.

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A quick thank you to NBC Washington for featuring my post on The 12 Best Places to Make Out in DC on their website yesterday!