Thursday, July 21, 2005

Morning Haiku

Fucking aluminum coffee mug had soap residue, so an entire hot yummy cup of 100% Columbian fancy pants coffee maker brewed coffee was ruined.

Moron radio “personality” Mathew Blades (welcome to DC’s morning radio!) irritated the hell out of me with his lazy, arbitrary, “cool” vocal intonations as in, “Welcome to the Z104 lowwwwwwwnge,” and his inability to say “four” with an “r” on the end, so it sounds like he says, “Z One Oh Faw,” like a kid who can’t say “drawer” and instead says “draw.” It is not a speech impediment; it is some kind of bizarre affectation that is meant to sound whacked out “hip” or something.

He is SUCH A NERD. This is how much of a nerd. One time when they were coming up with “fun” things to talk about in the morning he had a “pet peeve,” as radio “personalities” are wont to have, as a convenient and “spontaneous” conversation starter. His pet peeve? Why won’t a restaurant let you take your UNFINISHED bottle of wine home with you. There are so many things WRONG with this peeve I hardly know where to begin. First and foremost, what kind of lame ass loser orders a bottle of wine at a restaurant and can’t finish it? Second, how much of a low class rube do you have to be to know that this isn’t Chuck E. Cheese and there is NO SUCH THING as a doggie bottle bag because dogs don’t drink wine, but humans do, and when they do, they need to be man enough to knock that puppy back and not ask for the remains! And finally, uh, ever thought about wine by the glass? Or just having water—what fish fuck in—as Tallulah Bankhead put it so disdainfully, since you are too lame to…. OK. I am better now. Mathew Blades: the wrong man for DC radio, as if it weren't bad enough already. He is our penance for the Greaseman and Howard Stern.

Some fine Car Karaoke with the jumped-to-in-frustration oldies station playing “Brandy.” All together now, “The sailors say BRANDY such a fine SUCH A FINE GIRL/What a good wife WHAT A GOOD WIFE you would be/ But my life, my love and my lady is the SEAAAAAAAA……..”

Pull up to the pink granite cube atop the Goose Rancharoo, apply Aveda Purple Sage (Riders of the Purple Sage?) lipstick and quickly assess damage in rear view mirror. Hmm. I look just like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane. Not a good look. Corral the errant Purple Sage smears and tidy up overall look—blush is a little unsubtle, mascara is all tweaked and weird. It’s gonna be a Bette Davis day!

Walk in, grumpy, dodge the cooked-to-the-surface goose poop, commune with the tall guard from the Ivory Coast, Cote d’Ivoire sounds better.

ME: Is it hotter here or on the Ivory Coast?
Tall Guard: It is the same, but here it is humid and there it is dry.

Toldja I had some major interlocutor skills, didn’t I?

Come in and face the tower of power paper siege at my desk. Become sullen, overwhelmed, deflated. Go fer a Splendafied Diet Coke—a nice cold brown carbonated splash of caffeine to make up for the soapy metallic coffee fiasco in the car. Write to you.

Now start the perilous, thankless task as hand. Zero hour and we’ve already had one annoying phone call from a nice woman with one of those ACCENTS that is all over the map-- Finnish, Australian, Scottish---ARGH. I asked her where she was from and she said, “Alabama.” ARGH! I mean, where are you REALLY FROM with that Euro-weirdness accent, not where are you right now. South Africa. G’bye nice lady. DON’T CALL ME AGAIN. Go throw some shrimps on the barbie or something. Mine a diamond. What is it that you South Africans do anyway? Is it hotter in South Africa than it is in Washington DC right now?

I wonder if I can go borrow a stun gun at the zoo. For myself.

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