Heard around D.C. yesterday:
The Justice Department is going on strike. That's right. The DoJ is, as an entity, going on strike and leaving Gonzo to fend for himself.
A friend of mine was in Borders today and saw a Washington Post reporter talking frantically on his phone about this.
Let's see if it plays out. You heard it here first!
4.11.2007
4.09.2007
The Office of Management and Budget, aka The Office of Go Fuck Yourself
Today I was handed a fun assignment. Actually, it’s been my first fun assignment. Things are looking up. I sat around the office today for 2 hours with virtually nothing to do. Just as I was about to dose off, I was approached by a guy I’d never seen before.
He introduced himself as Alex. He was a short guy, with red hair and a thin beard that traced his jaw line. He had the kind of voice you’d expect from a disgruntled jew working in the non-profit sector. I immediately took a liking to him due to his propensity to pepper his conversations with expletives.
His task was simple: our organization is opposed to the Bush Administration’s appointing Michael Baroody to a post in a regulatory committee for consumer goods. The reasoning is pretty spot on. Why would you appoint a guy to regulate anything when he has gone on record numerous times to say that regulation is a waste of resources and everyone should be allowed to regulate themselves. He’s the definition of a libertarian cunt. Alex wanted me to go to the Office of Management and Budget and find a report that Mr. Baroody had contributed to in 2001. I would need to gain access to their public reading room, and find the report, and then find the source material. Sounds easy, right? Hell no.
I got to OMB and put my backpack through the x-ray machine. As I approached the turnstile some secret service guy stopped me and asked if I had a pass. Well, no, I don’t. See, when something is given the title of “public” you typically don’t need security clearance to enter it. Capt. Shitbag sent me to the front desk.
Progress! I waltzed over to the phone and dialed the operator.
Cool. So now I don’t know what the fuck, and everyone is looking at me like I’m deranged and ready to blow up the building. I decide to go across the street to the coffee shop with free internet. Finally after 20 minutes of searching I find out that the public reading room has been renamed to “library”. Well no shit. It even has a room number! G-102.
I get back to OMB and call the operator back, and ask for G-102. Success! I’m connected with a pleasant woman and explain to her what I’m looking for, and ask if I can schedule an appointment with her so that Capt. Fuckstick will let me through the door.
So after much effort on my part I FINALLY figure out who I’m supposed to be in contact with. I call her and again explain what I’m looking for. She listens kindly and then asks, “Well do you have a reference number?”
At this point, I would just like to point out that it was absolutely impossible to resist the urge to formulate conspiracy theories. I felt like every person I said the words “Michael Baroody” to pushed a red button under their desk, and made a hurried phonecall consisting of a hushed “he’s onto us” once we hung up. For every level of bureaucracy that I pierced through, these swine erected two more.
But I am a fucking lion. My claws are tenacious, and my hunger is vast. For the last two weeks I’ve been dreaming of doing shit like this only to rot in a fucking cubicle. There is absolutely no way I’m taking no for an answer.
A quick phonecall to Alex explaining the situation.
He was never able to find a number. I was on my own.
I called Pamela in Records back and in my nicest most polite demeanor asked,
Somehow this spoke to Pamela on some sort of primal level she had never been confronted with. From there everything changed. She began asking for all of my information in order to clear me into the building. Success. Someone back at the office was going to be very proud of me. I called Alex to let him know of my triumph.
I overtook the crosswalk like an oiled gazelle. The documents are mine!
To be continued…
He introduced himself as Alex. He was a short guy, with red hair and a thin beard that traced his jaw line. He had the kind of voice you’d expect from a disgruntled jew working in the non-profit sector. I immediately took a liking to him due to his propensity to pepper his conversations with expletives.
His task was simple: our organization is opposed to the Bush Administration’s appointing Michael Baroody to a post in a regulatory committee for consumer goods. The reasoning is pretty spot on. Why would you appoint a guy to regulate anything when he has gone on record numerous times to say that regulation is a waste of resources and everyone should be allowed to regulate themselves. He’s the definition of a libertarian cunt. Alex wanted me to go to the Office of Management and Budget and find a report that Mr. Baroody had contributed to in 2001. I would need to gain access to their public reading room, and find the report, and then find the source material. Sounds easy, right? Hell no.
I got to OMB and put my backpack through the x-ray machine. As I approached the turnstile some secret service guy stopped me and asked if I had a pass. Well, no, I don’t. See, when something is given the title of “public” you typically don’t need security clearance to enter it. Capt. Shitbag sent me to the front desk.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Uhh…yeah!”
“With whom?”
“The public reading room?”
“What? No. With whom do you have an appointment?”
“No one. Do I need to know someone on the inside to get in? Is this like a speakeasy?”
“You can use the lobby phone to call the operator and arrange an appointment with whoever it is you intend to visit.”
Progress! I waltzed over to the phone and dialed the operator.
“Can I be connected with the public reading room please?”
“The what?
“The… public reading room?”
“I’ve never heard of that in my life.”
“Huh. Because on your website it very clearly says ‘our public reading room is located on 725 17th avenue,’ which, I believe, is this building.”
“Sorry. I don't know what your talking about. Toodles.”
Cool. So now I don’t know what the fuck, and everyone is looking at me like I’m deranged and ready to blow up the building. I decide to go across the street to the coffee shop with free internet. Finally after 20 minutes of searching I find out that the public reading room has been renamed to “library”. Well no shit. It even has a room number! G-102.
I get back to OMB and call the operator back, and ask for G-102. Success! I’m connected with a pleasant woman and explain to her what I’m looking for, and ask if I can schedule an appointment with her so that Capt. Fuckstick will let me through the door.
“Well, due to the security situation we are not a public library. So I can’t let you in.”
“You can’t let me in to the public library. Wait, security situation? You mean like 9/11?”
“No. The Easter egg hunt.”
“Jesus Christ.“
So after much effort on my part I FINALLY figure out who I’m supposed to be in contact with. I call her and again explain what I’m looking for. She listens kindly and then asks, “Well do you have a reference number?”
At this point, I would just like to point out that it was absolutely impossible to resist the urge to formulate conspiracy theories. I felt like every person I said the words “Michael Baroody” to pushed a red button under their desk, and made a hurried phonecall consisting of a hushed “he’s onto us” once we hung up. For every level of bureaucracy that I pierced through, these swine erected two more.
But I am a fucking lion. My claws are tenacious, and my hunger is vast. For the last two weeks I’ve been dreaming of doing shit like this only to rot in a fucking cubicle. There is absolutely no way I’m taking no for an answer.
“Hrmph. Ok, reference number. Let me call you back.”
A quick phonecall to Alex explaining the situation.
“Well that’s not surprising. These fucking guys are such tools, of course they’d do something like this. I’ll do what I can to find you a godamn reference number, but I’m pretty sure this report doesn’t have one. How convenient. These people are such shit. They're worse than shit. I hope they die in a fire. FUCK. BLARAHGHAHGHRHAGH. Keep at it, I’ll call you back”
He was never able to find a number. I was on my own.
I called Pamela in Records back and in my nicest most polite demeanor asked,
“Hi Pamela. I'm having quite the time trying to get into this building so I can see these documents. I was wondering if you could make an appointment for me before I BURN THIS GODAMNED PLACE TO THE GROUND. Anything you could do to help would be swell. Also, I can find out where you live.”
Somehow this spoke to Pamela on some sort of primal level she had never been confronted with. From there everything changed. She began asking for all of my information in order to clear me into the building. Success. Someone back at the office was going to be very proud of me. I called Alex to let him know of my triumph.
"Bob Woodward would be very proud of you."
I overtook the crosswalk like an oiled gazelle. The documents are mine!
To be continued…
4.08.2007
Chance of a Lifetime: SQUANDERED!
"I just thought, 'Oh my goodness!' So, I started walking faster, and the President walked faster and he got to the cord before I did. I violated all the protocols. I touched the President. I grabbed his arm and I moved him up to the front," Mulally said. "I wanted the president to make sure he plugged into the electricity, not into the hydrogen This is all off the record, right?"
The Decider was this close to resigning his post, and this sonofabitch couldn't just let it happen and deal with the minor PR nightmare that would have followed? I mean, sure, the Ford hydro-electric car would never take off after this incident... but let's face it: everyone hates Ford anyways.
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