Warm Weather: Game Over

Friday afternoon I donned a pair of shorts and sandals for the first time this year. Well, not for the first time, but for the first time outside. In public. And I listened to Kenny Chesney. It's officially summer.

Every Spring I wait until the thermometer breaks 60. I stare at it like a kid trying to stay home from school, urging that mercury to creep over the Awesome line. For the kid its 98.7. For me it's 60.

Unfortunately for me, this is a boundary that once crossed cannot be uncrossed. Recrossed? Whatever. Next week it could be forty degrees. I'm still in shorts and flipflops.

Unfortunately for everyone else, come mid-October my minimal melanin retreats faster than your penis after seeing a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker and is replaced by anti-melanin, which makes me whiter. By the time the Summer Boundary is crossed, you can see the veins through my skin. On sunny days my skin glimmers like a vampire (dammit...that a Twilight reference. I blame my girlfriend), and you better wear sunglasses when you look at me. Last summer I didn't have a summer. I was in Iraq, and basically wore long sleeves the entire time. That means two years with no sunlight. I'm almost invisible.

The other side effect of crossing the Summer Boundary is an increased desire to achieve nothing and drink everything. These two I will have to fight, because I really need to be employed, and I'm kind of fond of my liver.

DMV Recap

Last weekend I decided I finally had to go to the DMV, and no matter what, I wasn't coming home without accomplishing my mission. I didn't expect the mission to take two hours.

Luckily for me, there is a DMV within a five minute drive of my apartment. Unluckily for me, it's located right next to Ellis Island.

I knew there were foreigners in Alexandria, but do they all have to go to my DMV? When I got there the line was out the door. I say again. OUT THE DOOR. I've NEVER seen that at a DMV. But, I've been driving with DC tags for too long, and I need to change to VA. So I sigh, make the sign of the cross and join the fray.

Once inside the doors, past the Indian security guard, I see what the hold up is. The check-in dude is making sure everyone has what they need to do what they're there to do. What makes this difficult is he doesn't speak Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Pashtu, Dari, Mandarin Chinese, Korean, Swahili, Russian, and Klingon. Shame on him, he only speaks English.

Anyway, I make my way up to him, who is all the while booting immigrants left and right because they have no clue what they're doing. This guy is actually pretty squared away. He prints me a number and tells me to take a seat.

I look for an open chair, but there's not many choices. Damn. I can either sit next to this:

Or this:

Ugh. Are my shots up to date? Yes. But there's no accounting for diseases that come out of the highlands of Burma.

Quick, there's gotta be something else. Ah, there's a normal looking person. I sit. But I still slide the way-too-close chair away a couple inches. Survival of the most paranoid.

A tone sounds, and the lady who tells me to leave a message at the beep informs me the DMV is now serving Number A064. I look at my ticket. C3,454,678. Damn. I better open up this National Geographic that I'm damn glad I brought.

About this time I hear someone shouting. Why not, I think. I look up when he yells at someone to "Wash yer hands! Wash yer hands, please!"

What in hell? How do you know he didn't wash his hands? I mean, sure, he looks dirty, but how do you know?

-"I want more, more please!"

-"I like Barny!"

Oh. This dude is loopy in the head. Tourette's? Likely. Hilarity? Definately.

Sigh. Why not. It never fails with the DMV. Except I didn't expect this many immigrants. Which got me thinking: I don't remember this many immigrants at the DC DMV. Do immigrants live in DC? I think they all live in Northern Virginia. Within a mile of my apartment, apparently.

-"Wash yer hands! HahaHAAA!"

I look to my right. That guy might be a skin head or a Neo-Nazi. Definately a white supremacist. How hasn't he killed anyone yet? Maybe I should lighten up on the whole foreigner thing. I don't want to be like this guy. I don't dislike foreigners THAT much. Just a little. Please don't carve a swastika into my forehead. Quick, look away before he makes eye contact.

Phew. That was close. What number is up right now? C218. Soon. Soon.

Let's see, what else do we have here? Somebody tell that thing to sit down, it's going to be a while.

Bing! "Now serving number C224." That's me! So long, suckers.

I get to the window. "How are you doing today?"

Yikes! Quick. Say something. Say anything! Before it eats you!

"IneedtogetaVirginialicenseandregisterandtitlemycarinVirginia!" Phew. In the words of Lando Calrissian, that was too close.

The licensing went fine. Then I went to take the picture. The woman in line in front of me stood up to get her picture taken with a wide, toothy smile. "Don't show your teeth!" Said Ms. Cambodia 1972 from behind the counter. The woman closed her mouth, but still smiled. "Neutral expression!" The woman looked a little hurt, and slightly depressed. Flash, click.

So, your picture should look like you've just spent two hours at the DMV. That's going to be easy. Done.

Then we got the the title.

"Do you have your Pennsylvania title?"

No. I have my DC title. How the hell could I have my car titled in two places at once? That's impossible. Shouldn't you, as a DMV employee, know that?

"I need to talk to a manager."

Fine. You do that. I'll just sit here and enjoy the Barnum & Bailey Freak Show that's going on around me. It reminds me of the Wendy's in Carlisle, PA, near where I went to high school. There was one shift there that I called the Side Show. The guy at the register was shaped like Grimace, had a porn mustache, and sounded like a ten year old girl. The woman on the grill was eight feet tall and sounded like Carl Weathers. The woman on drive through recently celebrated her 300th birthday. And the rest of the crew were extras from the Thriller video.

But they made a mean burger.

I'll admit it. The reason I don't lose my mind at the DMV is because the freaks and geeks here keep me entertained. There's always some weirdo to look at, and even more to make fun of in a highly inappropriate and usually mean wa-

Jesus! Get that away from me!

"Here's your Virginia title, registration, and plates." Thanks. Can I leave?

"You're all done."

-"Wash yer hands, please! Wash yer feet!"

Good call, buddy. These smelly oafs should listen to you.

McDonald's is Racist, and You Don't Care

As the mediocre comedians of our time remind us again and again, black people and white people are different.

I know. Wow.

As you're reading this, all the white people are saying, "Pardon me, what was that?" and the black people are saying, "Say whaaaaat?"

There's a huge difference between acknowledging those differences and discriminating based on those differences. The former is funny. The latter is racist. And sometimes funny.

Most people who aren't white and from Mississippi will say they don't like racism. So why don't you care that McDonald's is violently racist?




Differences between people doesn't have to be a bad thing. Sometimes all they are are differences. But McDonald's has been segregating their commercials for years. Maybe you don't notice because you only go to Wendy's, you racist bastard.





There are two types of McDonald's commercials. Let's compare two radio ads. The first is set to rap music, and some dude, obviously black, is rapping about the egg-based breakfast sandwich he's going to slam. It's upbeat, vibrant, and makes me want to crush some McDonald's. But of course, in this commercial it's "Mickey D's," because black people are so much cooler than everyone else.

Miggity-miggity-Mack Donald's

The second has no music, but features the voice talents of the whitest people on earth discussing the merits of McDonald's new oatmeal. "Gee, McDonald's (not Mickey D's, because white people are boring) has new oatmeal. Isn't that neat? Let's take our station wagon and get some!"

Let's do the whitest thing possible

These two commercials, both for McDonald's breakfast, tell us a few things:
1. McDonald's only wants to sell food to white people and black people.
2. McDonald's thinks white people are losers.
3. McDonald's thinks Latinos only eat tacos.

Number 3 makes McDonald's racist to a third ethnicity. Although, they once tried to bring in the Latino market with their fajitas of a few years ago. But Latinos realized they sucked as much as the rest of the restaurant's food and said no dice.





As for number 2, a little googology turned up some revealing information. Type "mcdonalds black" into Google and you get this. Wait, what the hell!?!? McDonald's has a whole website entirely devoted to African Americans! That alone deserves a separate post at a later time, when I can fully soak in how possibly offensive that is.

At least I think it's offensive. Maybe.

I'm confused. Is it racist to not pander to the majority? Is that reverse racism? Is it racist to cater only to one minority and ignore all others? Is it racist that McDonald's assumes black people want to eat McDonald's more than anyone else? Is it racist that McDonald's thinks white people suck? Is THAT reverse racism? Do Asians like Big Macs?

Who knows. I just know that I feel a little offended, and not because I may or may not be white. I'm not offended that McDonald's has a website specifically for black people. I feel that black people should be offended a fatbody-producing slop house like McDonald's tries so hard to appeal to them. I feel like that shows McDonald's has a lower opinion of black people. Maybe I feel that way because I hate McDonald's because it's evil and it makes people diabetic.

The "F" stands for "Foxy." Or "Fat." It's probably "Fat."

What's that, marketing major? You say this is just an example of target audience advertising? Then I guess that's why Wal-Mart advertizes so much to white trash hillbillies. But I think I'm getting off target. Back to the fact that McDonald's makes white people look like this -

and black people look like this -





while eating their food. But to be fair to McDonald's, it does treat all people the same in one regard. It makes all people look like this:

Lay off me, I'm starving

DMV

I know, I know. It's cliche to make fun of the DMV. All the jokes have already been made, and they weren't that funny the first time. We all know the deal: it takes forever, people there are stupid and/or foreign, etc, etc. I have no jokes about the DMV. In fact, most of my DMV experiences haven't been too bad. Matter of fact, the DC DMV was the best I've been to. I've also dealt with DMVs in Pennsylvania and Virginia, and Virginia by far was the worst.

So it is with much dread that I am facing my return to Virginia license and registration. To work there you need proof that not only were you born in a third-world country, but that English is your eighth language. Of course, that can only help when 92% of the stinky hooligans in line are also garbage-can-born Anglophobes.

Last time I was at a Virginia DMV I saw a woman who learned how to apply makeup from a circus clown. Despite her best efforts, she managed to get not a drop of color on her actual lips. She did, however, cover the rest of her face. I remember a commercial or movie from years ago, not sure which, where a woman was trying to put on lipstick in an airplane bathroom during massive turbulence. The result was lipstick all over her face. I was reminded of this, although I had a sneaking suspicion this woman applied hers in a house that experienced zero turbulence. The best part was her daughter (?) was there. She HAD to know that was not the proper way to apply makeup. But she said nothing. She said nothing.

Which brings me to my favorite game to play while at the DMV: Why Is He/She Retarded. The above example is obvious. And easy. But everyone is retarded in some way. A lot of times it's visual. A Member's Only jacket. Shirt tucked in with no belt. Velcro shoes. But other times you don't know they're retarded until they open their mouth and prove it.

And I don't mean retarded as in Down Syndrome. I mean retarded as in these people suck at life.

Anyways, I have some good times ahead of me. Can't wait.

Abbreves: When It's Gone Too Far

Look, I'll be the first one to admit that I love abbreviations. So much that I abbreviate "abbreviations" to "abbreves." Most people look at me like I have a dick growing out of my forehead when I say it. But that's their fault.

Certain abbreves are completely acceptable, and frankly awesome. Take Tecmo Super Bowl, the greatest video game ever (that's the one with a New York Giants player on the cover, for NES). That name is way too much to say. Instead, it's Super Tec. Simple. Obvious. Sexy.


Others are questionable, but not entirely annoying. When I was in junior high we'd play basketball and a friend of mine would make a shot then say, "Hey get my reeb." As in rebound. See that? Not great, kind of gay, but not completely annoying.

But there are rules to creating abbreves. You can only shorten the word by removing syllables from the end of the word. I thought that was obvious. There are two false abbreves that make me want to kick a cat (which I really wanted to do anyway).

The first is the abbreve of "parents" as "rents." Use "rents" in a sentence. 'I saw my rents today.' Wait, what got rinsed? Did you clean it first? What the hell are you talking about?

Then there is "za" for pizza. Look, I know two syllables is a lot to ask for these days. But does a five letter word really need to be shortened to two? Are you a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?

At the bottom of the pile of useless human beings are the ones who legitimately use instant messaging syntax in normal conversations. "OMG" is gay enough; don't bring it from text to speech. Any time I hear "BFF" I assume it was spoken by a fourteen-year-old girl who has covered her bedroom walls with "Twilight" posters because "OMG, vampires are just so hot." When I turn around to see that it was spoken by a 30-year-old woman, I know God has forsaken us. LOL, LMAO, BTW, OISMLGSXIIUZNRIGKFLSDDFIJOVPVPV.

GFY.

(Go fuck yourself). That one's for me.

Damn You

Alright, dammit.

I had thought for the last few (seven?) months that I was locked out of this site, thus corking my outlet for hating everything and everyone. Turns out that my Gmail password is the same as 90% of my other passwords, and it worked. I've since changed it. Thanks, Google.

I've a lot of crazy going on in my head lately, and I've been lamenting at the lack of a "public" (by definition, only if more than two people see it...so, not really) forum with which to display said crazy. I went through the involved password recovery process, finally made it back to the site, and realized I have nothing to write.

Damn.

But given time, enough shit will rise to the surface of the settling pond of my brain that I can write again. And then everything will really start to stink.

Meet the Band: Europe

Aren't these the bad guys in Superman?

Recently a good friend and Polish immigrant, Gorski, had a conversation with Wick. Apparently Gorski had been skeezing around YouTube and came across the video for the "The Final Countdown" by the band Europe. As is inevitable while perusing YouTube, he ended up where he never expected. Namely, the video for "Cherokee," also by Europe. Wick had emailed the transcript, which included his exclamation of, "Is that a keytar?"

That line in and of itself left me crying with hilarity. Not only for the fact that yes, indeed, the IS a keytar in the video, but the fact that Wick knew the nomenclature for a keyboard guitar. You can see the video here, and I highly recommend it.

Is my hair teased enough? No, seriously, is it?

If you don't know Europe, you should. Everyone should at least recognize the song "The Final Countdown" from Arrested Development, as Gob's theme song when he was doing magic ("Illusions, Michael"). Europe is a Swedish glam-rock, hair metal, Eurotrash rock band that formed in 1979. Growing up with teenage ansgt at national health care, a sustainable population, and low crime, these guys found the inspiration they needed to rock.

"But, what kind of Eurotrash band names themselves the most Euro-trashy name possible, except for the name 'Eurotrash?'" you might ask.

Good question. I don't know. But who cares, they use a keytar.

Europe actually sold a lot of records. To who, I have no idea. The Final Countdown, Europe's third album, went triple platinum in the US. That's not counting the countries that usually love weird shit, like Japan, where they're still gods.

Next, check out their website (yes, they have one!). Enter the site. Be prepared for the usual bizarre shit that you associate with Swedes, like Ikea. They call their site "Secret Society," I'm guessing because to publicly admit to being a Europe fan generally results in insults, hate mail, and stonings.

This band still rocks. Browsing their site, you can see proof (pictures!) of their rock-tastic shows in rock mecca's like Minsk, Skellefteå, and Niagara Falls. I couldn't pull any pictures from their site (Sercret Society only), but these guys learned the finer art of shampoo, scissors, and big sunglasses. They are out to prove, along with Poison and Montley Crue, that middle-aged dudes with STDs can still rock.

And it's all about the music.

David Coverdale alert! Straight from Wiki: "On July 23, 2008 Europe did a co-headlining concert with Whitesnake in Padua, Italy. During Whitesnake's performance of their encore "Still of the Night", Joey Tempest joined David Coverdale on stage for the last chorus."

Rock.