From "Waiting for Word Edition"

Morning Roundup: Waiting for Word Edition

So it's the Examiner who fires the first shot in the latest "War on Hobos." First of all, it wasn't a "throat slashing." He was merely offering to give his friend a close shave. And second of all, he wasn't trying to offer him a close shave, he was trying to slash his throat. And finally, he wasn't trying to "slash his throat," he was trying to start a fight over a porkchop. Get it straight.

This is just one in a series of attempts to frame Poopy the Magic Hobo for a crime he didn't commit. First the FBI blames him for the murder of his wife, when actually it was the mysterious One-Armed Man and second, he ended up with retrograde anterior amnesia where he can't form new memories, covers himself with tattoos, and has to avenge the murder of his wife by the mysterious "John G." All I have to say is, "remember sammy jankis."

[Band of candlelight vigilers?] Come to think of it, when I was dating my pinko ex-girlfriend in the 1980s, we were always running into the same people at the Rock Against Reagan/Racism concerts, pro-choice rallies, and NORML smoke-ins. I guess they all grew up, bought candle making kits, and need ways to use up all those leftover candles.

[Picking up chicks at candlelight vigils?] There's always CRYFEST: The Cure vs The Smiths Dance Party at Black Cat. Also, I object to your sexist use of the term "chicks." Acceptable substitutes would include "gashes," "hatchet wounds," and "that which bleeds for a week but won't die" if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

From "Man Up, Gray Edition"

Morning Roundup: Man Up, Gray Edition

Ted Loza should run for Mayor. Life in DC was much simpler, predictable, and entertaining with a convicted felon in the Mayor's office. As it is now, a bunch of frat boys get 90 option-year contracts to do absolutely nothing for a billion dollars, and the whole mess gets rubberstamped by a wishy-washy vampire and his aberrant coterie of cannibals, necrophiles, light pollution fetishists, and Blame-Jumbo-Slice-Firsters. I'm ashamed to be an American today. It must be Tuesday.

So if at some later date, it's determined that those $1 billion in contracts actually went to Peaceaholics to purchase ambulances, child porn, roundtrip air fare to the Dominican Republic, gold lamé Luis Vuitton handbags, and peaceahol, who gets the blame? Fenty? Gray? Nickles? Or will it be conveniently placed on the head of a certain hirsute illegal immigrant who has taste for bamboo and public sex? Because I'm pretty sure Marion Barry has an alibi.

From "No Snow Day for You Edition"

Morning Roundup: No Snow Day for You Edition

I thought obscenely expensive real estate was supposed to be a good thing? Y'know, an indicator of increased market demand for a finite resource? The only problem is when you end up with block after block of sterile office high rises that go empty after 7pm with zero ground-floor retail and even less foot traffic. But the name of the game is generating maximum tax revenue per square foot, not creating livable, walkable, mixed-use environments. Gotta fill those tax coffers so the Council can spend money on... on... whatever it is they're spending money on. I forget. Something about rainbow-farting unicorns and gold-plated bidets.

Almost 600 staff and teaching positions would be cut, general education summer school wouldn't be an option, and students at 32 elementary schools no longer would participate in a program that verses them in languages from Arabic to Chinese and Latin.

No, not Latin! We're running out of dead languages to study! All that's left are Mayan, Cretin Linear B, Esperanto, Klingon, and 1337. There is no emoticon for what I'm feeling!

In another hit to athletics, participants would pay a $100 fee per sport next year.

Why not make it $200 per sport, but throw in all the Latin geeks they can beat up? This would generate more revenue for Jockey McJock's precious alpha male monkey programs and discourage geeks from learning obscure latinate phrases. Maybe if they'd had these programs in the 1950s, George Will wouldn't be choking the papers with his "casus bellis" and "Honi soit qui mal y pense" and "Well."

From "Georgetown Traffic Mess Edition"

Morning Roundup: Georgetown Traffic Mess Edition

If they were to close every bridge that just happened to have a dead body under it, they'd have to shut down most of downtown DC which, come to think of it, isn't a bad idea. Just so long as they keep the bike lanes open and put out the occasional out-of-control hobo fire.

In a statement, the WHS said "most of the allegations" in the report were investigated and "proven completely without merit."

Translation: We hired a former investigator and full-time hobo arsonist and paid him three dead gasoline-soaked dogs so we could whitewash the story, only to have him confirm that 49% of the allegations were true.

The Director of the Washington Humane Society moved to have the hobo's investigator's license pulled. However, the Migrant Investigators Union (Pyromaniacs Local #187) filed a protest. During negotiations with the union, the hobo in question was re-hired at double the gasoline-soaked-dog rate. The Director's office was subsequently destroyed in a mysterious dog-related fire that investigators blamed on faulty wiring. PEPCO Electricians Union (Bunch of Guys Just Standing Around Local #187) moved to have the results of the investigation stricken from the record and replaced by "force majeure."

From "Perfect (Seasons) From Now On Edition"

Morning Roundup: Perfect (Seasons) From Now On Edition

Catalytic converter and R-22 freon theft are going to be growth industries. It cost me close to $1,000 to recharge the AC on my '62 Lincoln Continental Convertible. And no, I'm not going to trade it in because it's the only place I can have sex while re-enacting the Kennedy assassination.

The car crash is a fertilizing rather than destructive event. Ask anyone who's pooped their pants after t-boning a policecar.

Best. Date Movie. EVAR.

After "Emperor of the North" and "Nekromantik?" Maybe! Still, "Blue Velvet" holds a special, cherished place IN MY PANTS. Nothing compares to cuddling up with that special someone and slugging them in the jaw while screaming, "DON'T YOU F**KING LOOK AT ME!"

The Post reports the latest on the case of Reginald Jones, the MPD officer accused of participating in robbery and murder.

I can vouch for Reginald Jones being alone in his squad car. I was with him in the backseat and I'm a witness. It's also sad to see that the Council moves to penalize sidewalk smoking, yet the punishment for sidewalk defecation remains a guaranteed Ward 8 Council membership seat. But that's communism for you.

Also, that is without a doubt the sexiest iron lung [pictured] I've seen in at least a week. I'd definitely put my peter in it.

It's an old movie projector. (Not a great place to put your peter. The bulb inside is very hot and bright and there are a lot of gears.)

Meh. I've done E-stim that could handle higher voltage than that. Although I am intrigued by process of fornication with outdated technology. How does sex with this projector compare to doing it with, say, a Nixie clock? Maillardet's automaton? Is any special technique involved, or can you just slip it a roofie? Most importantly, where is the g-spot? Because I don't want to spend half an hour fondling a rivet.

From "Out with the Aughts Edition"

Morning Roundup: Out with the Aughts Edition

So garnishing that $7.50 an hour to pay back the people they robbed would be "cruel and unusual punishment," right? What do you call guys in wheelchairs robbing people at shotgun point then rolling slowly away from the cops? "Monday night on H Street." Maybe we can retrofit this guy's wheelchair with a plow so he can shovel off H Street. Maybe we can put Poopy the Magic Hobo on an all Taco Bell Volcano Taco diet and turn his soilage into muy caliente de-icing fluid. They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father or President Truman. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipice until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth-talkers... and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.

My New Year's resolution? To put on a Molly® mask, Rorschach Underoos, and a diaper and drive around in a van with a talking dog and a stoner and solve mysteries.

No capes!

Now, a FRIED bologna sandwich, that's good eating. Almost as good as fried salami. It's like cylindrical bacon, all crispy and greasified. With extra mayo. Mmmm-mmm. If they served that three times a day in prison, the population would drop three-fold. Hell, just serve those deathrow last meals every day: burgers, pizzas, steaks, scotch eggs. You wouldn't need a death penalty.

From "Progressively Scarier Edition"

Morning Roundup: Progressively Scarier Edition

I miss H20 and Platinum. Where do all the cool, skanky, hair-trees go to wait in line for table service? Because I can't get past the stench of Drakkar Noir and hooker heel failure at Park at 14th. Actually, they should call the place Double-park at 14th because it's practically a Eurotrash roadblock on Friday nights. But at least it's good to know that the Aryans don't have a monopoly on LNS douchey behavior. Vive le Douché!

Who remembers jello wrestling on 14th street?

I remember the tranny hookers on 14th, but not jello wrestling. Are you talking about the strip clubs along NY Avenue? Near where the old Greyhound Station used to be? The ones a certain baby-gobbling ex-mayor used to frequent? If so, my lawyer told me not to comment on the grounds it might incriminate myself.

The history of 14th Street NW is the history of migratory disease patterns and deviant sexual practices. In the late '80s-early '90s, the hookers that worked 14th north of Massachusetts were crackheads and occasionally junkies. Further south, closer to the "gentlemen's clubs," you had a broader range that would include trannies who would proceed to isolated areas like the Old Children's Hospital Site on W to tear off a quick one.

As for jello wrestling, you are probably correct. Drove past This Is It many a time in the 1970s, but we spent most of our time in Dr. Johnson's Marital Products Emporium on 9th, where the Spy Museum is now. Staring at the dildos was something of a traditional time-waster before shows at the old 9:30, and prepared me for club life in the 1990s.