I Scoop the Mainstream Media

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!

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.

“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…

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.

Wherein I fellate Grandmaster Flash

Well, something I can scratch off my list of things to do before I die: see Grandmaster Flash spin some fucking records.

Sure, the doors opened at 11 and I had to listen to some white guy spin shitty house music for TWO HOURS until Flash decided we were worthy enough to warrant his attention... but it was worth the wait.

Stating, "To me, all music is powerful, no matter who or where it comes from," Flash spun all sorts of shit: The White Stripes, gobs of old school hip hop, Nirvana... it was epic.

He completely outlasted my ability to dance. I don't think I stopped moving for 2 hours straight. Finally, drenched in sweat, I succumbed to the aching in my limbs and took a breather. Unfortunately mid-break he decided to lay down The Message and I was forced to resume.



At the end of the show, Flash demanded a circle be made in which DC's finest B-Boys and B-Girls would show their skills. I only got a picture of this guy (damn you cameraphone!), but I would like to call your attention to the Coolest Kid in the Universe: He's standing to the left in this picture and - oh yes - he did break dance. He couldn't have been more than 12.

Finally the show ended and I left dripping with sweat only to walk outside to be greeted with snow. I haven't seen snow in years.

Thanks, D.C.

Dick Cheney, Professional Boogie Man

When Cheney retires as VP, do you think he'll go back to being a Board Member for Haliburton? Perhaps a lobbyist?

I think he should start his own business. You could hire him to stand on the lawns of your enemies and slowly drive them to insanity.

Re-united and it feels so good

The other day Ben, Nader, and Dan came into town after months of estrangement. Their beards are GLORIOUS! We toured the typical places you would go if you were a tourist in Washington. 

But before we could get on our way, we were momentarily distracted by the most HOMOEROTIC BOYSCOUT MEMORIAL EVER. Seriously, since when is it a shock that boyscout leaders are creepy pederasts? This statue is over 50 years old.


Here's me displaying more excitement in one expression than I've experienced in the last 5 years:



We mosey'd on over to the cherry blossom festival and surprised Dan. Adorable. Why isn't Dan in any of these pictures?? We need more Dan.




World War II: Serious Business



And that was our day. There was plenty more, but I for some reason can't find all the pictures. I'll update with more.

The Hill Drop

Thursday was my first day of work. When I got there, all of the staff was giddy with excitement. They were ecstatic not because I had finally arrived, but because some major document that they put together had finally come in the mail. Basically, they published a booklet that makes the case for why the United States should have publically funded elections.

That’s really not the point though. The point is that for my first day, my task was to complete a ‘Hill Drop’ in which I ‘drop’ these things off on the ‘hill’ where the Senators work. Capitol Hill, woohoo! My first day and I’m going to somewhere important! And I get to do it with…. No one else! Because…. Fuck it I’m not excited anymore. I had to drop 100 of these things off to 100 different offices.

My entire day was a metaphor for how frivolous D.C. is. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way they number the offices, so every floor was a crapshoot. Go right at the elevator, and you might find 201. Or maybe they’ll just start you off at 275 for the hell of it. I think that’s why everyone in the building seems busy. They’re walking around, but its not because they’ve got things to do, it’s because no one can fucking figure out where anything is.

If you’ve ever wondered why people are disillusioned with politics, come to a senator’s office sometime. Here’s how it goes: First, you walk in brimming with hope. You’re going to present your case about this issue or that and the secretary is going to drop everything, grab the phone and growl, “GET HILLARY UP HERE NOW. WE’VE GOT AN ISSUE ON OUR HANDS.” Ms. Clinton will come rushing into the front office where she will quickly size you up, determine that you are a mountain of a man, and she has no choice but to drop this whole presidential campaign bullshit and fight for your cause. Then you’ll say, “Ms. Clinton, I’m sorry, but there’s 99 more of you and I have a fucking revolution to attend to. Get to work and I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

What actually happens is you walk in brimming with hope. You walk up to the front desk for the secretary gives you a forced smile while internally reflecting on how much she hates non-profits. You’ll say, “Hi! I’m from , and this is for your Elections Legislative Assistant.” Typically, you won’t be able to finish this sentence before he or she will roll their eyes, and point to the overflowing inbox next to them filled with shit that looks just like yours. And none of them have been read. Or, they’ll be a little more polite and say, “Oh, thank you! I’ll get that to them.” Then you will leave, and they’ll use it to wipe their ass next time they hit the restrooms which typically take about an hour to find because – even though this particular assistant has worked on the hill for six years – they can’t find the bathroom because no one knows what the fuck.

There’s no way to describe how much pain my feet were in. There comes a point when you are in so much pain, that words simply cannot do it justice. I’ll give it a shot though: Imagine a thousand orgasms localized in your feet while beautiful naked women gently massage them with cocaine. Now imagine the exact opposite of that. My feet are somewhere in that region of pain.

All in all, I spent four hours walking around the hill delivering mail. At the end of the day, I definitely felt part of something bigger than myself. Some vast organization of power where mankind determines it’s path into the future. It was at this moment, that I realized my role in this machine was utterly pointless. Oh well, climb the ladder! Can one lowly intern make a difference? I don’t know. But I do know one thing: he can deliver a shitload of junkmail.

Motorcade

D.C. is like Hollywood for people who don't give a fuck about pop culture.

Whereas LA has Mann's Chinese Theater, that stupid Hollywood sign, and countless handprints in its sidewalks (who are those people anyways?), DC has the White House, that stupid phallic Washington Memorial, and countless people in suits doing important things.

I saw a motorcade today. Six black SUVS with tinted bulletproof windows, led by two police motorcycles. If I had been in LA, I would have thought, "huh. Paris Hilton is going back to rehab. What a stupid whore."

But I am in Washington D.C. That means motorcades typically transport important people. Just before the motorcade came around the corner I felt the wind stop. The sky became dark but not because of gathering clouds. Oh no, dear readers, it was because the sun literally lost some of its ability to shine. A police horse shate itself, bucked its rider, and galloped down the street nashing its teeth and screeching like a banshee. Infants began to wail, and I'm pretty sure I saw a squirrel willingly leap off a high branch, plumetting to its death. Men that looked important suddenly realized an urge to call their wives and desperately confess their transgressions with their mistresses. It was incredible.

The motorcade passed by, and then around the corner again out of view. Only then did I feel breeze on my face. It was as if God himself was gently cooing in a soothing voice, "It's ok baby. He's gone now, no one's going to hurt you. I'm here. I'm here," as he gave me a shoulder massage. Tears I didn't even realize I had been shedding were drying thanks to the sun's newly triumphant and restored brilliance. All was again right in the world.

It's just a guess, but I think that was Cheney.