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?

Short and Sweet

Check out this story on child obesity, told as only a Brit could tell. My favorite part:

Mr Duncan said: “This is different to someone just being overweight. These are firm female breasts, something that any woman would be proud of."

We love a tale with booze, rodeo girls and shotguns. Who says stereotypes are outdated?

It might be uncouth to say, but Japan is officially fuckin' bonkers.

The crack staff at The Morning Times is at it again. Jenn Magnussen attempts to write the Worst. Sports. Story. Ever.

Starbucks: A Dilemma

There are plenty of reasons to hate Starbucks and Howard Schultz and hate them I do. Aside from ruining the Supes, Schultz also contributed the eight-word coffee order to modern culture and turned coffee into a fashion statement, a ubiquitous accessory in the hands young Hollywood (after all, what better than caffeine to ease a coke hangover?) What happened to a straight cup o' joe, Howie?

"I'd smile, but I'm using all my energy to carry this giant cup"

I prided myself on successfully avoiding Starbucks entirely when I lived in Seattle, except to go into the original to purchase Pike Place Blend, only available at said location, for friends and family. Only available there until today that is. And there, folks, is the dilemma.

The famous, formerly unique, blend was rolled out at stores across the country today with great fanfare. The original, randier logo even adorns the cups. I ordered a cup with great enthusiasm, but later faced a question that has shaken me to my core; with the recent addition of Top Pot donuts (another Seattle favorite) to the menu, is Starbucks making irrelevant the few local touches it still possessed?

Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Part of the charm of the Pike Place location was being able to get something you couldn't at one of the thousands of other soul-sucking outposts. Now anyone can bop down to one of the four Starbucks on one's block and get a cup of PPB fresh-roasted that day in York, PA (as mine was today). To put this into perspective, it would be like Giordano's offering deep-dish pie in Charlotte, by way of Raleigh. There is something inherently wrong with that. And Top Pot? They serve their own coffee, why oh why would they get into bed with Schultz? I can only assume that Starbucks has a horse dong that is both gentle and satisfying at the same time, metaphorically speaking.

We live in an age where people want what is hip and trendy and famous, without having to leave their comfort zone for the experience. Guess what, nob goblins? An old-fashioned and a grande half-caf soy latte with whip from a strip mall in Flint, MI will never be as good as on the Market steps (even if the drink order makes me want to smack you). Until I can wrap my brain around why you, the collective, think otherwise, another piece of me will blacken and die.

Castro Steps Down! 80% of the Planet Says, "Who?"

Fidel Castro has stepped down as dictator, ruler, and Supreme Douche of Cuba. And we here at Gorgeous could care less. It might have something to do with how little effect the man has on, well, anything.

Fidel's brother is taking over. Will Cuba's government change? Will the Cuban people be granted more rights? Will pink become the new olive drab green? Raul is a Latino Communist generalissimo. So, no.

"Does this beard make me look douchey?"

Who knows what this reassignment of power means for the planet. As far as Cuban-US relations, the embargo is still on. This does not, however, prevent the exportation of shitty music. Or I Love Lucy reruns. Or the fact I still have to smoke shitty cigars from bootleg Caribbean islands.

What this does mean is that Miami will remain infested with Cubanos. Now, I've never been to Miami (probably because it's infested with Cubanos) so I can't really say if they're good or bad for the town. All I know is that they all cried about this picture, while I laughed.

"Say what again, motherfucker! I dare you! I double dare you!"

Personally, I'm not excited by this news. It means nothing. Raul is Fidel with less facial hair. Besides, if you think Fidel is going to spend the rest of his days on a beach in Fiji drinking Bay Breezes and ogling European chicks, you're wrong. He'll be sure to have his hand up his elbow in Raul's ass, trying to play him like a puppet.