Announcing the Oath of Non-Douchebaggery

Now that I fancy myself a political blogger, I'd like to form the Civility Party. We will wear cool uniforms and have tea and crumpets on the veranda. Or beer and nachos. I haven't quite made up my mind.

Our political action squad will be known as Americans for Everybody Growing the Hell Up Already. Our first order of business will be to put Ronald Reagan's name on every airport and outhouse across America. Oh, wait, that's Americans for Tax Reform.

However, like our friends at ATR, I'd like to encourage our politicians to sign a pledge. Instead of an anti-tax pledge, let's call it the Oath of Non-Douchebaggery. Here are the tenets:

1. I solemnly swear to remember that God (or evolution, if that's your bag) gave us all two ears and one mouth for a reason. We are supposed to listen twice as much as we talk.

2. I will not disrupt the proceedings of our democratically elected government with inane outbursts, particularly anything along the lines of baby killing, lying or any party being in favor of anyone dying of neglect. This is because my mama taught me how to act. Moreover, if a member of my party engages in said disruption, justice will be swift, and will hopefully involve free doughnuts for everyone.

3. Should supporters of my cause disrupt said proceedings, and be escorted off the premises, I will not hoot and holler like an eighth-grader witnessing a cafeteria slapfight. This is because eighth grade was a very long time ago.

4. The buck stops with me. If any supporter of my cause engages in morally repugnant behavior, such as racial epithets, spitting or acts of terrorism against my fellow elected officials, I will react immediately with something a little less pansyish than referring to said repugnant actions as "isolated incidents."

5. I will not invoke the words socialism, communism, fascism, or any other -ism without a rudimentary understanding of what those terms actually mean. Also, I recognize that the word "Nazi" is not to be taken lightly, in fact, its use should be avoided. This is because I'm not a red-baiting McCarthyist douchebag. Though the term "red-baiting McCarthyist douchebag" is probably also best avoided.

6. I will assume that everyone is just doing their best and their disagreement with my principles is not malicious in intent. In fact, their ideals and views are probably just as heartfelt as my own.

7. I will recognize that the statement, "Yeah, but the other side acts like babies, too," is a total copout. Poor behavior, no matter its source, should be condemned.

8. I will recognize that there is at least the tiniest sliver of a chance that I could be wrong. Moreover, if I am demonstrably wrong, I will say so, instead of hiding behind spurious or flimsy arguments to the contrary.

9. I will recognize that I have been entrusted with a tremendous honor: to help govern a great nation. With that trust comes responsibility.

10. I will laugh at idiotic, senseless and misspelled protester signs, no matter their source. This is because stupid people are awesome, no matter their political views.

Does anyone have anything they would like to add? Or is everyone just hoping for free doughnuts?

I'm a Gun-Toting Rapist Slavemaster!

In between a flurry of highly observant, "It's Monday and it's raining!" Facebook status updates, I noticed a fellow Hylton alum had posted his views on health care reform. It was thought-out and interesting, so I added a comment basically saying I hadn't totally made up my mind, but would be willing to pay higher taxes so more people can have access health care. I also expressed a wish that both sides of the debate would engage in more civility.

My viewpoint, according to the next commenter, makes me handmaid to the political traditions of basically everyone who has ever been evil.

Actually, it's even better than that. I'm a gun-toting slavemaster rapist who, in the words of the great political mind of our time:

"You fail to realize that in order to help person B you must rape person A."

I don't know about y'all, but every time I send a donation to UNICEF, I like to make a stop along the way to rape the mailman.

There was also a lot of language about holding a gun to his head to enslave him and his family via his financial dealings with his doctor. Plus, I'm stealing from him so I can feel self-righteous about other people getting health care. Because taxes are theft. Or something. I don't get it, either.

See, I don't speak "Willfully ignorant screaming crazy teabagger man." But I suppose next time I'm out raping and enslaving, I'll have to bring my gun along for emphasis.

Or, maybe, just maybe...we could all chill the hell out? I'll take back my accusations of "willful ignorance" and teabaggery if we can all agree that there are many ways of seeing the world...and not everyone who disagrees with you is a gun-toting rapist slavemaster.

I would have been happy to listen to a conservative viewpoint on health care reform, if it was presented calmly and fairly, with a minimum of insults. But calmness and fairness are all too rare these days.

Demonizing the opposition does not add to a discussion. It only stirs in more vitriol and negativity, which in turn makes more moderate (and less frothingly angry) people less and less engaged in the political process. I'm a former pollster, and every election I worked on that involved attack ads saw depressed turnout. Folks get skeeved out by the nastiness and stay home, tipping the scales to the incumbent - which is one of the reasons over 90% of Congressional incumbents win reelection. New blood and fresh perspectives become more and more scarce.

Eventually (and this is what I believe the current political scene has come to), it's just a room of people seeing who can scream the loudest. Nobody's listening any more, nobody wants to give an inch, and nothing gets done. All we're left with is shouted threats, fingers waving in faces, and Obama-as-Hitler posters.

People, we can do better.

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)

Someday, Somebody's Gonna Fix this by Installing a Wet Bar at Gymboree

Apparently, the good folks of Park Slope, Brooklyn, have their skinny jeans in a bunch over whether it's ok to bring babies into bars.

Well, Brooklyn, I can answer that for you: No. It's not OK.

Really. It's that simple.

Despite my tendency to take a random and intense dislike to strangers' children (especially ones with whiny voices), I really do like and enjoy the kids I know. They're usually fun and adorable. Hey, I even like it when the neighbor kids play tackle football in the hallway. Their high spirits are endearing, and they quiet down whenever I ask them to.

But that doesn't mean I want to sip a Manhattan next to your squawking brat. Bars are places where adults go to be with other adults. And I can't imagine being a parent out on their first grownup date night in ages...only to be confronted with a boozy version of Babies R Us. The anti-kids in bars folks in Brooklyn complained about mega-strollers blocking the exits, and being shushed or told not to curse, all while the parent holds a weeping, overstimulated kid who probably just wants to go somewhere quiet. Oh, MAN. I have yet to see that in DC, but I would probably lose my mind if somebody told me to tone down my language to suit their crotchfruit's tender sensibilities.

I get that it's lonely being the parent of small children. Really, I do. It's a relentless series of demands and compromises. But that's a choice you made when you spawned. You don't undergo a change as major as parenthood without anticipating that your life is going to be very, very different from here on out. You're not going to have the exact same social life for a long time to come. Is it so hard to ask your friends to stop by on a Sunday afternoon, or meet for coffee instead of drinks? Just for a few years?

In the end, it's about courtesy. There are so many confined spaces that cram the child-free up against children when they're at their most most miserable: airplanes, transit, casual restaurants, Camelot (just kidding)...so what's so bad about a few adults-only refuges, like bars and R-rated movies?

Oh, heavens. Don't even get me STARTED about kids in R-rated movies.

In the comments, say, "You have a baby! In a bar!" Or tell me what movie that comes from.

PS _ If you're one of my friends, and you're reading this, I really do like your child. Kids I know are awesome - it's just the random ones who tick me off. And you can bring them over anytime. Just please, don't bring them to Recessions!

PPS - I predict this will be a big controversy in Columbia Heights in 5-10 years.

The First Annual Snowmageddies

I'd like to issue awards to all those who gave Washington's week of Snowtastrophe that special tang of fumbling absurdity:

The Any Port in a Storm Award goes to the Irish Channel, which was open and serving...even though they really, really should have gotten off their keisters and shoveled their walk. Drunk people plus a sheet of ice? GENIUS.

The Are You Freakin' Kidding Me? Award goes to....the woman blocking Mass Ave in her stalled-out big ol' Mercedes. Why anyone would see a big pile of slush and ice and drive straight into it is beyond me. It's sort of like horror movies, where you always want the dippy blond to kick off her shoes and run, instead of breaking a heel, losing her will to go on, and hyperventilating her way to a grisly death.

Honorable Mention: Metro. Holy hell.

The Graciousness Under Pressure Award goes to the four men who, upon seeing the woman in her stalled-out Mercedes, tried to push her out despite her limited grasp of English, reality, and basic driving skills, and her assertion that she under no circumstances would call a tow truck. (At that point I gave up trying to help and told her I'd check in on her in the spring.)

The C'mon, Folks, Is That the Best You Can Do? Award goes to the two yuppie women in the RAV-4 who, upon seeing the stranded Mercedes lady, flipped her the bird and tried to get around her by jumping the sidewalk.

Honorable Mention: The Smithsonian, for not doing a damn thing to dig out any sort of pedestrian pathway on Fourth Street. My walk to work was a very slippery game of chicken with some very cranky motorists.

The Power to Say No Without Laughing Outright Award goes to the Associated Press reporter I ran into on the aforementioned Fourth Street slushfest. His SUV was stuck, so I stopped and offered to help. I'm sure he looked at me all, "Well, here's the strapping, muscular Colossus who can shove a two-ton truck out of a snowbank!" But he kept a straight face regardless, and even interviewed me for a story he was working on.

The All Life on Earth Would End Without You Award goes to the maintenance crew of my apartment building, who have been sleeping onsite for the last week to keep the walks shoveled and the residents safe. Way to go, guys!

Honorable Mention: Mint Chocolate Bailey's.

In the comments, award some Snowmageddies.

Snowchismo

Snowmageddon has brought us many wonderful things. OK, for a day or so, it was wonderful. Now that I have hit the fifth straight day of my confinement, I'm kind of over it. I have run out of clean elastic waistband-oriented clothing, my social skills have eroded, and my stock of Bloody Maria fixings are perilously low. I've flipped out, and flipped into the negative.

So let me tell you all the things that tick me off about big snowfalls. Sadly, none of them have anything to do with actual snow. Heaven's dandruff is cool with me.

1. Snowchismo. That's the macho idiocy some faux-rugged types exhibit in any major snowstorm. Monday, I overheard the statement, "I would just like to point out that I made it to work in my two-wheel drive sedan." Want a cookie? How about a medal, or possibly a parade? (Somewhat related note: those last few sentences took much longer than usual to type, as even now my right hand makes involuntary wanking gestures at the mention of the two-wheel-drive sedan.)

First off, these faux-rugged Snowchismo types tax precious resources because they just HAVE to get to work, so they run off into ditches or otherwise get themselves in trouble. Then the government has to swoop in and rescue them. Unless lives are on the line, be smart and stay home. Otherwise you are just creating more hassle for the rest of us.

If your boss is a Snowchismo, then you've learned that your safety isn't the priority - so your priority should be looking for something better. Oh, and there's a special place in hell for bosses who make their employees report to work, but fail to show up themselves. What would that be, Snowchismo-by-Proxy Syndrome?

Second, whether you believe in God or not, every human has the instinctive knowledge that nature is far, far bigger than what we can imagine, and sometimes nature is going to make herself known. Stop thinking of the world as something to be subdued for the sake of your convenience. Kick back and experience a little awe.

2. SNIMBYs. Snow, Not in My Backyard! These people kick up an enormous stink because they haven't been plowed out yet. Really? You had notice, you knew that this storm was big, that it was coming our way, and it was going to knock us on our butts. You also knew that every local jurisdiction bled its budgets dry cleaning up after December's Snowpocalypse. Did you really think you'd see pavement anytime soon? Besides, the road crews are unfortunately busy weaving around the Snowchismos, and it's causing delays. Toss a slug of Bailey's into your hot cocoa and chill the heck out.

3. Metro Whiners: Aboveground stations close when there are more than eight inches of snow. Why? Because back in the 2003 blizzard, they didn't close...and the tracks and cars sustained damages that crippled the system for a week. Kudos to Metro for keeping even limited service running, and offering plenty of notice before closing aboveground stations on Friday night.

However, if John Catoe would like to make it up to me by pushing me around town in a wheelbarrow, I would happily take him up on that offer.

4. Flinty Carpetbagging McShowoffs. These people combine snowchismo with a heaping helping of Yankee hot air. Yes, you're from somewhere that gets a lot of snow. And you'd like nothing better than to beat your chest and bray about how Minneapolis/Buffalo/Nunavut would have cleared this out in no time flat. Except? They wouldn't. There is nearly three feet of snow out there, and that would cripple even the flintiest of Flintsters. (Also? Washingtonians amp up the hysteria a bit so we can get the day off. Sometimes we even like to wail at the sky for emphasis. Don't mess with our local tradition.)

This is a once-in-a-lifetime winter, that you can brag to your grandkids about. ("We walked uphill both ways, in the snow, only to discover school was cancelled for the week...") So I wish all of Washington could quit with the braying and the whinging, and experience the history and excitement of it all.

In the comments, tell me that in Upper Yankonia, everyone gets to work in two-wheel drive sedans after 80 feet of snow, the plows are made of diamonds, and nothing ever goes wrong.

Excuse Me, Would You Like to Make a Donation, or Are You a Complete Douchebag?

As a nonprofiteer, I can tell you that charity is a wonderful thing. I can also tell you that I am sick to death of being hit up for money everywhere I go.

Fresh, eerily zitless young fundraisers for Human Rights Campaign and Greenpeace have an ongoing turf war outside of my office. I simply cannot run out for a sandwich without some preternaturally cheerful kid asking if I have a moment for gay rights or the environment. The implication is that if I cannot spare a moment for their sales pitch, I am a horrid person who hates the Earth and all the gays upon it.

But, oh, it gets worse. I can't buy nacho cheese dip at the Safeway without being asked for a dollar for breast cancer. (I'm sure they mean the prevention/treatment of breast cancer, but I like to picture a tumor holding a tin cup.) So I guess I hate boobs, too.

Last night was the final straw: a very nice cashier at Borders hit me with the nickel bag tax (aka, the absentmindedness surcharge), and then asked if I wanted to buy a bag of coffee for the troops. I demurred, because, THE HELL? If Borders wants to support the troops, they should do so on their own dime. Don't make me out to be un-American because I want to buy a few puzzle books and get on with my life.

I told the cashier that I don't throw donations around willy-nilly, instead, I make a budget and a plan, research charities, and give wisely. His response was along the lines of, "So, you're broke. Hey, it's cool."

No, I'm not broke. I have enough money that I can afford to give some away. I just want to do so on my own terms, instead of being shaken down for loose change every time I make a purchase.

So that's the state of modern charity: You're either a selfish uncharitable douche; or you're too broke to support the troops, but you can still afford to buy vacuous fashion magazines. So, you're still a selfish uncharitable douche. Douched if you do, douched if you don't.

In the comments, tell me if you have a moment to leave a comment. If you don't, you hate me, my blog, and everything it stands for.