For pooping, silly

The family Gorgeous was in town for the weekend so we went to see Cincinnati, minus Ken Griffey, Jr. and YOUR Washington Nationals square off on Saturday night, since pops is a native of southwest Ohio. I only went because I really like the color red.

Our night of ups and downs started shortly after the Metro doors closed at Waterfront station. It was then that a fellow passenger unleashed a gas so foul on our sardine can of a car that the paint on the walls didn't just peel, it ran for cover. One youngster near ground zero described it a cross between "fried chicken and feet." The air quality in Beijing would have been welcome respite from ass-fog in which we were stuck.

Things got worse before they got better, unfortch. I stood in line for half an hour so my dad could enjoy the spiritually radical experience that is the Ben's half-smoke "all the way." It would not have been so terrible had I simply had to endure employee incompetence and malaise. While that did contribute to the first 15 minutes of wait, it was the abandonment of register sans explanation that really boiled my potatoes. The cashier simply stopped what she was doing, grabbed a satchel full of cash and left for the adjacent stand. I should mention said satchel was sitting on a soda machine, well within arms reach of anyone that had a heist on the mind. None of the other cashiers acknowledged the situation, outside of glances at the ever-growing line. No effort was made by other customers to institute an alternating style line merge. I stood in front of the register for a few minutes out of principle, hoping to make a statement with my non-violent protest. Trust that while I was Gandhi on the outside, my brain was awash with visions of Watts. After signaling my frustration with loud, passive-aggressive sigh, I broke the line, resigned to idea of a Nationals Park that will never get it right.

It wasn't all piss and vinegar. The Nats rallied for eight runs in the last three innings against the woefully ineffective Reds' bullpen, Daniel Stern's cinematic masterpiece, Rookie of the Year, was shown on the scoreboard after the game, and I discovered, while looking through the viewfinder on my sister's camera, that by crossing my legs just so, I can make them look like a heinie. Doesn't it always come back to butts?