You Didn't Build That. Your Stupid Meme-Builder Did.

Sometimes - okay, often enough that you wonder if it's some sort of elaborate bet - politicians say dumb things. And, because this is the Internet of the America, those dumb things haunt you like the time you mixed crushed-up Ritalin into a glass of red wine.
Which brings us to Obama, who your thrice-married sistercousin has probably informed you is out to destroy America and was only elected because he's black. (Saying that is apparently NOT racist. Huh?) But, yes, he does hate America and loathes business and wants to reduce our country to a Commietopia. Here's the smoking gun:

"If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help. There was a great teacher somewhere in your life. Somebody helped to create this unbelievable American system that we have that allowed you to thrive. Somebody invested in roads and bridges. If you’ve got a business -- you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen. The Internet didn’t get invented on its own. Government research created the Internet so that all the companies could make money off the Internet. The point is, is that when we succeed, we succeed because of our individual initiative, but also because we do things together."

These are all perfectly valid things to say. If you think your achievements come exclusively by bootstraps and brilliance, then you're living in a fairyland where you never went to public school, never used a road, and never got a lick of help from anyone. Now, I'll be fair and say "you didn't build that" was a gaffe. All he had to do was say "You didn't build that by yourself," and the political narrative would have stayed in the land of magical tax break dressage ponies, vacation spots and whether it's racist to compare the Obamas to monkeys. (Answer: yes. So very, very much.)

Saying "You didn't build that," scares the crap out of people. That's because it is human nature to externalize failure and internalize success - as in, if something goes well it's because you're awesome, and if it goes poorly it's because somebody (usually the President, an ex, or your parents) screwed you over. It's all very human and normal. After all, if it wasn't for the fables we tell ourselves, society would collapse into a puddle of fetish porn, trans fats and despair.

But there's a silver lining: conservative memes. They're right up there with rapping little old ladies and dads using hipster slang on the Awkwaaaard Scale. Unlike liberals, who amass abundant time to dream up their memes during barista shifts, conservatives have to just sort of throw things against the wall and hope they stick. Like spaghetti made of one-liners. Mostly it's just a rehash of the Most Interesting Man in the World, Willy Wonka...yeah, I'm snoring already.

Sometimes it's semi-amusing, like this one:

Sure, using Footprints is only slightly less embarrassing than trying to make a meme out of Desiderata, but it's an attempt and it's even slightly cute.

But sometimes, in their girlish enthusiasm to pick the least-flattering Obama photo, they kind of prove the other side's point. To wit:

First off, yes, that is a freaking awesome expression on his face. Like the little girl suddenly grew fangs, and only he can see it.

But, well, the little girl didn't build the tower. She was helped by the good people of Lego, who molded the plastic to make the bricks, by the teachers and parents who nurtured her motor skills, and so on. The only way she could have credited herself with "building" the tower is if she worked in a Lego factory. If that were the case, most of us would be up in arms about child labor, while the rest of us would hope this meant cheaper Legos. (I'm Team Cheap Legos.) So, conservatives, thanks for helping Obama prove his point.

To continue the nitpick, I bet Obama helps out the other side by making those ridiculous faces. That expression? You didn't build that, either. (Doesn't feel so good to be on the other side of a nitpick, does it?)

So let's figure out what we've learned, before the narrative takes us to the next gaffe or creepy uterine obsession. The American political process is like that married couple you know who just never stop bickering. Either side will bring up a tiny quote out of context for the express purpose of damning the other, and in the Age of the Internet any quote can become a meme. And our society has elevated ignorance to the point that whoever wins this election will most likely do so by creating a meme that brings together Mordor, cats, Willy Wonka and a political gaffe in a glorious crescendo of all that's wrong with America.

Also, when the best you can do is a Footprints parody, it's time to wonder if your party's half stuffy/half crazy image isn't at least partially earned.

Courtland Milloy: D.C.'s Very Own Tea-Partier

By now, we all know how much I admire Sally Quinn, and her amazing ability to hang onto a job despite her utter lack of talent. Well, kids, there's a new contender in town for Washington's Worst Journalist:

Courtland Milloy

He was previously known for filling up the news hole with the reasons women wear wrap dresses (so we can show our bits), or discussing his annual "blood fast" (whatever the heck that is). Sometimes, he even says it's fine when 80 kids brawl on the Metro, because at least nobody was carrying a gun. Yesterday, he sank to new levels. In Milloy's world, once you hit the bottom of the taste barrel, it's time to grab a shovel and see how tacky things look in China.

Read this. I'll wait. Then I'll start ranting, hopefully a mite more coherently than Mr. Milloy did.

First, I'd like to point out that the original title was "Ding dong, Fenty's Gone." Classy.

But let's take a page from Vincent Gray, and let's start healing and uniting and joining hands and buying the world a Coke. Let's get past Milloy's sore winner bleating, the flights of fancy, and the writing that reads more like a 13-year-old girl's journal entry. ("Adrian pushed my cafeteria tray out of my hands and then Michelle laughed at me! Mom says they're jus jellus. I'll show them tomorrow in study hall!")

Let's try to discuss his essay on its merits.

Lordy. What merits?

The argument: Adrian Fenty is a mean bad man because he didn't show proper deference to little old ladies, because he fired city employees (who occasionally happened to be black women), and because he just wasn't a nice enough guy.

Also, if you voted for Fenty, you're pretty much a racist.

Mr. Milloy, we get it. You really, really don't like white people. And you hate Facebook and Twitter, and wish the clock would stop and we wouldn't have to use those newfangled things called tellyphones. And white people who use "social media" (quotation marks courtesy of Mr. Milloy) are "myopic little twits."

Of course, if you object to his inflammatory rhetoric, it doesn't matter who you voted for. You're a racist, too! You're saying "You blacks, always playing the race card." (Milloy's words.) You also want to return to a "plantation-style" of government. Oh, and Fenty is a "fascist," which makes you a sympathizer if you voted for him. Personally, I can't picture myself as Scarlett O'Hara Butler Mussolini, but I do think it would make for a nifty Halloween costume.

Does anyone else get shades of Glenn Beck/Sarah Palin when they read this? A throaty sing-song of, "Only those who agree with me are the true patriots, so let's all demonize the enemy and shake our tiny fists at the heavens"? Just me? Ok.

I was an undecided voter right up until I walked into the booth, but in the end, I voted for Fenty. If that makes me a honky interloper and a "myopic twit," so be it. This city is my home, I love it here, and I'm not going to listen to anyone who tells me I don't belong because I enjoy the occasional cappuccino and think bike sharing is sort of neat.

I voted for Fenty because the city's school system is criminally inept, and it's been shortchanging kids for generation after generation. The best D.C. jobs are held by suburban imports because the locals don't get the required training, which excaberates poverty and hopelessness. We need real schools where kids can learn.

Michelle Rhee managed to get a new contract with the Washington Teachers' Union, a body mostly known for stonewalling, advocating tirelessly for the downtrodden and incompetent, and egregious financial scandals. Tenure for life after two years of service? Not any more. I'm forever grateful. That alone gets my vote. And if the WTU endorses and campaigns for you, like it did with Gray? You better believe I'm voting for the other guy.

I'm willing to give Gray a chance. I'm all for healing and progress and scooping up those who have been left behind. What I'm against is the likes of Courtland Milloy, "responsible journalists" who gloat and excaberate tensions just for the sake of settling scores and slinging metaphorical monkey poo.

In the comments, tell me if I'm a racist. Or run a find-replace and republish Milloy's essay swapping the words "white" and "black," if you need to further understand what an offensive piece of schlock it truly is.

The Vuvuzelas of the Blogverse, or, Tell Me Your Peeves

I'll admit to being a persnickety, peevish old crank. I'll also admit to being a bit of a blowhard when it comes to, well, all sorts of things. And I'll admit I'm not perfect, or even merely extraordinary.

Enough disclaimers for you? Ok, then, let's rant n' roll. In particular, let's rant about Annoying and Grody Internet Stuff That Makes Me Bonkers. The vuvuzelas of the blogverse, so to speak. Here's my personal top ten blogverse and internet peeves:

1. Any variation of "nom nom nom." Eating noises, are, frankly, gross (I personally can't abide the sound of crunching or slurping). So why on Earth are we imitating those noises? What's next, literary interpretations of fart sounds? (Please, no.)

2. "I peed my pants," to indicate merriment. Beyond trite. And I really don't want to picture a bunch of incontinent people whizzing onto their laptops.

3. "I threw up in my mouth a little," to indicate disgust. Gross. And even more trite than wetting yourself.

4. "I just spat [hipster liquid] on my keyboard," to indicate amusement. Why are you still typing? Shouldn't you get up and get a rag or something?

5. "Nosh." Yes, I know it's Yiddish. You know what else it is? An annoying word.

6. Any variation of "Squeeeee!" or "Eeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!" Yes, I've used the latter. But that was to indicate that I was recently engaged, not that Miller High Life was on sale at Giant or that lavender was my new favorite color. It's annoyingly cutesy, like the Vera Bradley handbag of the blogverse.

7. Not really a word or phrase, but excessive quotes of any of the following: Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Family Guy, or, well, really, if I could get a one-hour break from Always Sunny references, I'll lump any number of other TV references.

8. Gchat transcripts as blog posts. Really. We know you have friends. Simply posting a transcript comes across as "Look how funny and awesome my friend @hotstuffblogger is! Eeeee and squeee!" It's also lazy - either ask your funny friend to do a guest post, or at least condense the transcript.

9. LOLcat speak. It's kind of cute when kittens and lizards do it. You're a grownup. Write like one. (Unless your blog is intended for an audience of kittens and lizards, because well, that's awesome and makes you really cutting-edge).

10. People who self-righteously complain in list format like persnickety and peevish weirdos. Like, uh, me.

In the comments, get it all out. Tell me your peeves. It'll feel good. Or try to tick me off.

Also, welcome back to Lemmonex.

The Frogger Dilemma

Clearly, bus drivers in Washington are a special breed. They do things like punch out McGruff the Crime Dog* (though I have my own issues with McGruff). Then they are reinstated, with back pay for clocking a Crime Dog. Because anyone who punches a mascot is completely mentally stable and ought to be trusted with the safety of Washington's citizens.

And those are just the official drivers. In summer, the city gets flooded with all flavors of tour bus operators, most of whom have no experience with city driving and have never observed a pedestrian in its natural habitat. My daily walk home has gone from pleasant diversion to high-stakes Frogger.

The primary issue is that these tour bus troublemakers have never learned how to yield to a pedestrian. So I get stuck playing this game of chicken where I have the light, put one foot in the crosswalk, and stare down the driver until he stops the bus and lets me pass. Sometimes, instead of stopping, he'll nudge me out of the intersection. In a game of Tour Bus vs. Mighty Munchkin, there are no winners.

I'm fighting back, though. Every day, I carry a pen and a piece of paper. I also keep my cameraphone handy. I write down the bus company, vehicle number, intersection, time, and date, and call their employer as soon as I get home. I don't know how much it does, but it feels pretty good.

In the comments, tell me how you deal with homicidal tour bus drivers. Or just bitch about tourist season in general.

*Am I the only one who kind of wishes the police officer dressed as McGruff had been a woman? Because then the driver could have said, "The bitch set me up?" Just me? OK.

Cluck You Very Much: A Chicken Bus Travelogue

Everyone knows the routes from D.C. to New York. Planes are for the people who haven't figured out that flying is an overpriced time suck, Amtrak is for the people who are willing to pay the "Dahling, I don't do buses," surcharge, Bolt and Megabus are the province of the hipsters, and the Chinatown bus is for, well, the sort of humanity generally only experienced via film and television. Me? I like a good freakshow, and I love the Chinatown Chicken Bus.

Why do I call it the Chicken Bus? Because all that was missing from last weekend's ride was a live chicken, and perhaps a dice game in the aisle and an albino banjo player.

The ride began with various bus company employees gesticulating wildly, trampling one another in their haste, sorting us into a line, and hurling luggage into the bowels of the bus with resentful venom. The driver had a trendy mullet and a phone that blared snippets of dreadful pop music as we lurched our way through a hailstorm.

The women behind me yapped their way across the miles, question talkers both, with nary an oxygen break. One complained bitterly to the other about being pushed out of her family's business. Of course, the fact that she was the sort of person who would loudly air private family information on a crowded bus might have branded her as unprofessional, but I'm not one to offer free career advice. (If I was, I would have told the intern I shamelessly eavesdropped upon during a previous Chicken Bus journey that yes, interns do answer phones, and no, that did not mean their work was "unfulfilling.")

After the first few hours, I thought to myself, "Oh, well, at least it can't get worse." A moment later, both women popped in some globs of chewing gum so they could slurp and smack their way across New Jersey.

The best part was the journey home. The two Question Talkers were in our bus line! I turned to my travel companion and, between clenched teeth, stated that I would lose. my. MIND if those women sat anywhere near us. I said a little prayer to Getoff Mylawn, the Patron Saint of Curmudgeons. My prayers were answered and the yappers moved to the back of the bus.

The victory was fleeting, however, as my new neighbor turned out to be a woman who ranted in sub-Saharan French, while shoveling noxious-smelling kebab into her mouth with nary a break to chew.

In the comments, tell me if you've ever ridden a Chicken Bus.

Filed Under: Things That Only Happen to Me

I would like to start by pointing out that all three Metro incidents occurred within a 24-hour period.

Incident One:

Morning commute. 8:22.

A woman (mid-fifties, fuzzy pants, posh hippie, white) got on the train and sat down next to me. She tapped the (mid-forties, professionally dressed, African American) woman seated in front of her and said, "Dr. Dorothy Height died."

At first, I assumed the women were coworkers discussing a mutual acquaintance. However, when the African American lady looked at her in bafflement, the white woman clucked a little chirp of falsely compassionate condescension and said, "I'm sorry, maybe you've never heard of her, she was a major civil rights leader."

I can only assume that this lady had been circuiting the metro, tapping random black people and informing them of Ms. Height's death in some wildly misguided educational mission.

This makes me wonder if I should have made it a personal mission to track down every aging hipster in Washington to inform them of the death of Alex Chilton.

Incident Two:

Evening, headed home after a Target run.

A (rather substantial) woman sat down next to me, gradually inching her way into my space. By which I mean, her book was practically shoved under my nose (sidebar: she was reading lesbian erotica which used a honey metaphor at least three times per page).

When we came to my stop, I gathered my packages and said, "Excuse me." She sighed and tucked her legs to one side, clearly expecting me to clamber over her as if she were a Old Navy-clad jungle gym. I smiled brightly and said, "I'm carrying packages, and will need some more room please." She gave me a look of death, aggrieved at my expecting her to stand up like a person who lives in a society, and moved over another fraction of an inch.

I eventually struggled my way to freedom, but she may or may not have taken a shoe rack to the knees in the process.

Incident Three

Morning Commute, 8:19 am

A woman boarded the train, and in a calm, clear voice said, "Could I get everyone's attention please?" I assumed she was either selling something or off her rocker, so I kept my nose buried in my newspaper.

After a moment, she began to explain that God had woken her up early that morning (really, God is her alarm clock) and called upon her to testify to commuters. The gist was standard street preacher - repent now, find Jesus, cast off Satan, Jesus is awesome, repent or you're gonna die. (Bad form to mention impending death on the Metro, btw.)

This struck me as being a tad intrusive, but, moreover, pretty dang ineffective. Commuters are professionals at creating their own private worlds. Hey, if we can't even recognize a world-class violinist* before coffee, there's no way we're going to recognize the onset of Armageddon.

In the comments, tell me about your favorite Metro weirdo.

*For the record, I frickin' hate that article. I don't think Pulitzers should be given for an article that could have been summed up as, "People on their way to work tend to be in a hurry." And, moreover, the condescending "People have sad lives because they didn't stop for music" thing is way overdone and insulting. People have jobs and obligations and mouths to feed, and as much as we'd like to enjoy a little music, we gotta be on time for work.

I'm Not Really Looking for Anything Serious Right Now...Except Maybe the Check

Most restaurants are good to me. They usually don't give me chlorine gas poisoning, for starters.

However, I have a weird jinx with waiters. I always get the over-familiar, kind of creepy ones who practically invite themselves to pull up a chair and join in on the fun.

A week or two back, I was dining with my friend J. at what could be generously deemed the Highly Honored Window Seat, but was more likely to be the Put These Two Weirdos in the Farthest Corner Table Before They Infect Us with the Crazy Section.

The waiter was a piece of work. I wonder if he hadn't been hugged enough as a child, or if his inner rainbow needed a tuneup. Or perhaps his restaurant's training program had included extensive rebirthing and isolation therapy, and he was desperate for human contact.

Hey, the food was great, and I was happy. I'll take a side of creepy with a good meal anytime. (How else would I have survived multiple decades of dating?)

Eventually, it was time for dessert. J had let slip that he had never had a McFlurry, so we made plans to head over to McDonald's after dinner. When our waiter asked us if we wanted dessert, we demurred because, 1. we wanted McFlurries, and 2. We were worried "dessert" might be a thinly veiled reference to the waiter engaging in a sex act with today's gelato.

At that point, J made a fatal error. He told the waiter we wanted McFlurries.

I think we would have gotten out faster if J had said, "No thanks on dessert, we have a Sarah Palin/Dick Cheney striptease to attend. I've emptied my life savings to properly tip them."

The waiter took our McFlurry craving rather personally. He mock-harangued, then real-harangued me over not ordering the restaurant's dessert. Then, he informed me that McDonald's is a chain and if I had the proper community spirit I would at the very least pay an astronomical amount for a trendy gourmet cupcake.

Nothing would dissuade him. We skulked out of the restaurant, ashamed of our pedestrian taste in sweets.

Afterwards, I wondered about the motivations for his behavior.

Theory 1: The waiter had read about pickup artists and was "negging" his way to an upsell.

Theory 2: The waiter was prescient, and was warning me of an upcoming Sugar Apocalypse.

Theory 3: The waiter was kind of an over-familiar douche.

I'm gonna go with Door Number Three.

In the comments, tell me about a waiter who just wanted to be friends.

Don't Mess with a Bloody, Buddy!

You are now entering the Bloody Mary Zone, where fantasy meets reality, and the celery is only limited by your imagination. Here we have two weekends, two events, and one message.

Weekend One:

The scene: Capitol Lounge, brunch, a quiet time populated mostly by the deeply hungover, bickering couples escorting an overbearing matriarch on a tour of local haunts, and the occasional lone drinker, rocking gently back and forth on his stool.

I do what I do almost every weekend: order a Bloody Mary. I am handed a glass with ice and vodka, and told to fix my own drink from the Bloody Mary Bar up front. I scoff and snort - why would I come to a bar to prepare my own drink? Wouldn't I just do that at home?

All that derision makes me thirsty, so I reach for my glass of ice water and take a long pull. Which turns out to be from my Bloody Mary starter glass, meaning I just sucked down a mass quantity of rail vodka through a straw.

I spend the rest of the day mildly buzzy and smelling like the school nurse's bottle of iodine.

Weekend Two:

The scene: Ruby Tuesday's. The last stop before suburban oblivion, 2.4 kids and suing the neighbors over their ugly landscaping and cluttered driveway.

I order the house Bloody Mary, a portal to a damned dimension, known here as the Cajun Mary. I figure it's just a Bloody Mary with some extra cajun seasoning, a favorite add-on for me at home. I was wrong. I had taken a wrong turn into the Land of Everything That Could Possibly Go Horribly Wrong with a Relatively Simple Cocktail.

It was (and I shudder as I type...) sweet. Sickly sweet. With a funky aftertaste and the aroma of a grand experiment plunging toward bizarre and laughable failure. I was drinking the Chris Gaines of the cocktail world. I put the drink aside in pity and disgust.

The waitress noticed, and I sent the drink back for revision. The fix, the boozy lipstick on the drunken pig, so to speak? More Tabasco. Well, at least the sinuses got a hefty workout! So now it was sickly sweet and undrinkably spicy.

That's when I found out the secret ingredient in the Ruby Tuesday Cajun Mary. Hint: It's not love. Hint: It totally doesn't belong in any mixed drink, ever.

THE SECRET INGREDIENT IS BARBECUE SAUCE.

I haven't been so appalled since I found out that To Serve Man is a cookbook. The bartender came over and apologized, and brought me a new barbecue-free drink. By this time, I felt like a boozehound Goldilocks, but I was able to pronounce it "just right."

The Lesson?

Most people would assume the lesson is to stop drinking Bloody Marys. But that's not a lesson I'll ever listen to. After all, I had to be forcibly dissuaded from inventing Velcro Riding Breeches after I was (due to my own incompetence) thrown from a galloping horse at Camp Wingaroo.

Instead, the lesson is not for me. It's for all restaurants, everywhere:

Don't mess with a Bloody, Buddy!

(Hat tip for post title: Ric. Hat tip for writing style: Rod Serling)

Wacky Neighbor Update

You know my neighbor, the crazy hoarder lady? With the boxes and the five bicycles for two kids? I found out her name, and it's marvellous.

I mean, literally. It's "Marvellous," spelled with two 'l's. I cannot begin to tell you how thrilled I am to live next door to an adjective. This is beyond terrific, and hurtles toward awesome. My curiosity is running away with me. I bet whatever she does for a living, it's fantastic! And as a tenant association floor captain, I'm sure she's pretty darn superlative.

This is beyond excellent.

In the comments, tell me what sort of adjectives you would use to name your child.

Turkey Dinner with a Side of Awkward

Dear Shannon,

I am having Thanksgiving dinner at my boyfriend's (we'll call him Steve) house this year. He and I have been dating for over two years. About six months ago, his ex (Lila Fowler) with whom I am not friends, sent me an email alleging that she had slept with him sometime around our first anniversary. As she is not particularly credible, that blew over relatively quickly.

As it happens, I have met his parents before and got along with them fairly well. I have not met his sister (Jessica) before - with whom he does not get along and who is still good friends with Lila (which leads me to think Jessica believes that her brother did, in fact, cheat).

So... what do I do here? Other than bring a hip flask of Patron for myself and a nice bottle of white for everyone else, I mean. I'd just like to be prepared for any eventuality, including snide remarks from the sisterly peanut gallery.

Thanks!

Billie Winkler

Dear Billie,

I think if someone invented the Truly Perfect Comeback that worked on every snide remark, advice columnists around the world would instantly go out of business.

Also, never mock the trusty hip flask. It has seen many a guest through many a disastrous event (proof: Foggy Dew brought one to my wedding). Finally, there is no way to be prepared for “any eventuality” – life just doesn’t work that way. All you can really do is carry yourself with dignity and hope for the best. This situation is about 60 percent under Jessica's control. Here’s the breakdown of where the rest of the control lies:

20 percent: Your boyfriend. Does he normally back you up when there’s a dispute with his family? This is important for two reasons: 1. if you’re considering marriage, this is HUGE, and, 2. if his family sees him as someone who sticks up for you, and won’t be a pushover, then his sister will feel less tempted to make snide remarks because she knows he won't put up with it.

15 percent: You. You’re going to have to hold your head high, be friendly and interested in what she has to say, and give this woman a chance. If you’re shy by nature, this is going to be a challenge. But it’s totally necessary: if you show up for dinner all defensive and ready for a fight, you’ve already lost. You’ve gift-wrapped an excuse for her to go nuclear on her brother’s bitch queen stuck-up girlfriend.

5 percent: Random chance. Maybe something will happen before dinner that puts Jessica in a good mood, making things easier, or bad news could turn her into the haranguing devil sister from hell. Or maybe she'll catch the swine flu and miss dinner. Who knows?

In the end, all you can do is show up as your best self, and hold your head high. She may make a snide remark, in which case you have two choices: the etiquette-approved subject change, or, for the truly daring, playing dumb. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Could you please explain what you meant by that?” can make even the most toxic person fumble. But in the end, this is about how well you and your boyfriend team up to deal with outside drama...so a spat with the sister may be a good thing after all, as it can help you figure out whether your guy is a keeper.

Good luck, and let us know how it goes!

PS – I do hope, whether the cheating allegations turn out to be true or not, that you got yourself thoroughly checked for STDs. Never take chances with your health.

Have a sticky etiquette question? Send it to scannerjockey@gmail.com!