December 22, 2005
Speaking of strikes
I would like to officially announce that I have not abandoned my bloggy blog. I am just on strike until the shenanigans come back. I’ll be back in a month. Maybe sooner if I get inspired to post pictures.
Leslie at 12:59 am
October 14, 2005
Guns and PMS: A family conversation
Anonymous: You better be careful. The Million Man March is this weekend.
Me: No. I’m totally gonna go run around in the middle of it.
Anonymous: No, I’m serious. I’m sure some of them are bringing guns.
Me: Hey, you know, not all black people have guns and like to shoot people.
Anonymous: Look, I’m just saying…
Me: It’s like that time I went to the women’s march, and all these women were just like… PMSing, and then they started…
Anonymous: Flinging pads at each other?
Me: Yes! It was mass chaos! Blood everywhere!
I have found that the best way to combat racist remarks is by making fun of people for saying stupid racist things. It works wonders. Old people say weird things.
Also, in related news, Bush’s approval rating among black Americans is a whopping 2%. Way to reach out to the people, George.
Leslie at 2:22 am
October 3, 2005
But what about the resulting surplus of watermelon and kool-aid?
Dear Kitty,
Let’s face it. Frequently the news is boring, and sometimes it’s a whole lot of fun when people say ridiculous, offensive things. My favorite example of this is the recent brouhaha starring moral theorist, gambling addict and former Secretary of Education William Bennett.
CALLER: I noticed the national media, you know, they talk a lot about the loss of revenue, or the inability of the government to fund Social Security, and I was curious, and I’ve read articles in recent months here, that the abortions that have happened since Roe v. Wade, the lost revenue from the people who have been aborted in the last 30-something years, could fund Social Security as we know it today. And the media just doesn’t — never touches this at all.
BENNETT: Assuming they’re all productive citizens?
CALLER: Assuming that they are. Even if only a portion of them were, it would be an enormous amount of revenue.
BENNETT: Maybe, maybe, but we don’t know what the costs would be, too. I think as — abortion disproportionately occur among single women? No.
CALLER: I don’t know the exact statistics, but quite a bit are, yeah.
BENNETT: All right, well, I mean, I just don’t know. I would not argue for the pro-life position based on this, because you don’t know. I mean, it cuts both — you know, one of the arguments in this book Freakonomics that they make is that the declining crime rate, you know, they deal with this hypothesis, that one of the reasons crime is down is that abortion is up. Well –
CALLER: Well, I don’t think that statistic is accurate.
BENNETT: Well, I don’t think it is either, I don’t think it is either, because first of all, there is just too much that you don’t know. But I do know that it’s true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could — if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down. That would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down. So these far-out, these far-reaching, extensive extrapolations are, I think, tricky.
Here’s to offensive statements. Thank you, Mr. Bennett, for spicing up my work day with your antics. Because we all know that only black babies grow up to be criminals.
Maybe if more white women had abortions, the number of retarded conservative radio hosts would go down? Just a thought.
Leslie at 6:31 pm
September 14, 2005
Oh, what a drag (queen)
Recently Dylan and I had been lamenting how long it had been since we’d seen a drag show. So when we heard that there is a drag queen bingo night in town, there really was no question as to whether or not we would be in attendance.
When we got there, we were greeted by the smell of fried foods. The place, Chaos, is this restaurant/bar-type-thing in the basement of a building in Gayville USA. aka the Logan Circle area of DC. There were rows of tables with plastic chairs set up, but by the time we got there we were relegated to sitting in one of the circular tables with obstructed views. As a bonus, though, we did get a leopard print table cloth with some cigarette burns on it. I liked it, it was Klassi.
The drag queens were busted and vulgar, and there was a lot of banter going on as they lead the bingo games. It was like some really busty 12-year-old boys put on their mothers’ clothes and came up with dirty jokes and not-so-witty reparte. But it was amusing. The prize for the first round of bingo was a dildo, which ended up going to a very large lesbian. I think the prize for the second game of bingo was a Disney Princess Barbie doll, which none of us were upset to lose.
But then things got even more John Waters-esque when they announced that the next prize would be porn, and that we were going to watch some of it together. I was thinking… maybe it’ll be some hott man-on-man action. But we were all in for a surprise when they put on some black-on-white threesome porn, featuring an older white lady and two big black men. Which was, of course, accompanied by some tasteless jokes about how she’d be pressing charges in the morning. Good times.
We left not too long after the next bingo game, but I expect it delved further into Pink Flamingo territory. Maybe some sex with chickens, or eating bodily fluids… I’m not quite sure.
Well… it was interesting.
Leslie at 11:01 pm
September 11, 2005
Alcoholic Non-anonymous
Dear Kitty,
Going out with my sister is a lot like getting a Big Gulp at 711, better in theory than in practice. This does not mean I don’t love my sister, I think my sister’s great. But I have nothing in common with her friends and I never know what to talk about. So how do I deal with this? I drink. A LOT. So there’s a good chance my sister thinks I’m a raging alcoholic. I’m not an alcoholic, though! I just like getting waaaasted!
Last night there were two celebrations: my sister’s birthday party and my roommate’s graduation party.
The graduation party was at 4. I’m not sure who throws a party at 4 in the afternoon, but there was free beer, which I desperately needed to distract me from the surrounding nastiness. The huge, bloody hamburgers; the freak baby running around with spit on its face and really fat legs; the flies that kept swarming on the food… Who eats food that has flies sitting on it? I don’t. Whatever. Also, Pink was playing in the background. At one point, she was singing a duet with Steven Tyler of Aerosmith and giant mouth fame.
My sister and I escaped around six, picked up her birthday cake from the two-story Harris Teeter (you cannot refer to it as “Harris Teeter,” you must refer to it as “the two-story Harris Teeter”), ran to get dinner at Luna Cafe, and scurried off to Ozio.
Where… I was reunited with my former roommate Natalie, aka NATTLES! But see, this night I was determined not to drink myself silly, but I was deterred by Nattles. I’d had about six beers and decided that I was done for the evening. But then… peer pressure happened.
Which reminds me:
Me: “Hey, drink this.”
Dylan: “No, that’s ok.”
Me: “C’mon, peer pressure, drink it.”
Dylan: “Look, I don’t know if peer pressure even exists anymore!”
Me: “DRINK IT DYLAN!”
Dylan: “…Ok.”
And then some guy bought us drinks. So six beers, two bodka tonics and a fruity shot later…. well, to the recipients of me and Nattle’s drunk dialing, I salute you via blog.
Anyway. Needless to say, I woke up at my sister’s with a giant headache, came home, and passed out until 6. This is probably not normal, but I am ok with that.
On the agenda for tonight: Watch more Sex and the City, pass out. I just finished watching the episode about how dating is like visiting a freakshow. Which makes me wonder… who was the freakiest person you ever dated? Stories, anyone?
On the agenda for tomorrow: First day on new job, wish me luck.
Leslie at 9:23 pm
September 10, 2005
Inappropriate fetishes, anyone?
Dear Kitty,
So everyone has been linking to Overheard in New York the past few days, which has lead me to rediscover my love for it. While I was perusing it, I noticed this one:
Gay teen: I told her that while she’s over there she has to find me a German boyfriend.
Girl: Why?
Gay teen: So he can dress up like a Nazi and we can play concentration camp fetish games.
Girl: Oh, right.
–Odessa, Ave. A
Which of course reminded me of a certain someone with a penchant for genocide jokes who will remain anonymous. Anonymous shout-out! Actually, now that I think about it, it reminds me of several people I know. So, anonymous shout-out times three!
Shout-outs aside, though, I have some disturbing news.
On last night, Friday, September 10, 2005, I went to sleep at 6:30 p.m. and woke up 15 and a half hours later. It’s no surprise that I slept more than 15 hours, because I have to refuel every once and a while from a bajillion 5-hours-of-sleep-a-night nights, this is how I roll. But, still, asleep at 6:30 on a Friday? Yes, it’s true, I am officiallly lame.
Oh well.
Here’s another classy quote from Overheard in New York:
Salesgirl: How’d you get that bruise?
Customer: I was jumproping and I fell.
Salesgirl: Aren’t you a little old to be jumproping?
Customer: Aren’t you a little fat to be working at The Gap?
It’s like the people who think you’re too old to celebrate Halloween. I, for one, will never be too old to celebrate candy. Two Halloweens ago, I took around a puppy from the Humane’s Society and raised money. Last Halloween, a drunk Dutch man slobbered on my face and tried (unsuccessfully) to convince me to go home with him while I waited for someone who was dressed up as Tom cruise in Risky Business to find her pants. Oh, my life’s goin’ uphill.
But here are some wise words of advice from mama Leslie: If they’re bad at kissing, they probably aren’t good at much else. Spit-on-face action is not my idea of hott. I mean, sure, we all have our off days, but still. No excuses.
<3 Leslie
Leslie at 1:52 pm
September 1, 2005
FROLICKING!
Dear Kitty,
Last night Dylan and I attempted to go to the Xiu Xiu show last night, but failed spectacularly because we were too lazy to get there on time and it was sold out. We ended up going to Fox and Hound, where we made a disturbing discovery: I am going to New York this weekend with my sister and next weekend Dylan is going home for his sister’s wedding. Which means that we will spend two whole weekends apart. We decided this is clearly a tragedy on the scale of 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina.
I was lamenting the fact that I haven’t really been a part of any notable hijinks since relocating here. Dylan replied with a comment that made me question the future of our friendship:
“Well, Leslie, you are a young professional now, it was bound to happen!”
First of all, I am not a young professional, I’m a 22-year-old unemployed girl. And secondly, since when does graduation signal the end of hijinx? I say boo to that. He knows how to get me riled up. When I want to piss him off, I say things like, “You know, I don’t understand why we even have cockroaches, we should just exterminate them all” and “You know, Dylan, I don’t even know if global warming exists anymore!” That’s always fun.
Speaking of hurricanes, though:
* “No one can say they didn’t see it coming”
In early 2001, the Federal Emergency Management Agency issued a report stating that a hurricane striking New Orleans was one of the three most likely disasters in the U.S., including a terrorist attack on New York City. But by 2003 the federal funding for the flood control project essentially dried up as it was drained into the Iraq war. In 2004, the Bush administration cut funding requested by the New Orleans district of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers for holding back the waters of Lake Pontchartrain by more than 80 percent.
* Finding v Looting? (or, White or Black?)
The news makes me sad, the world makes me sad.
But sad things aside, I have to go pack for a long weekend of frolicking in New York City. I am ridiculously excited, because I haven’t been there since I left in August of 2003.
Leslie at 7:15 pm
August 31, 2005
The wrath of God!!!!!!!!
Dear Kitty,
Since this whole hurricane Katrina fiasco ensued, the question on all of our minds has clearly been:
Is Katrina God’s punishment for abortion?
Lord knows I’ve given it a lot of thought.
“The image of the hurricane . . . with its eye already ashore at 12:32 p.m. Monday, August 29, looks like a fetus (unborn human baby) facing to the left (west) in the womb, in the early weeks of gestation (approx. 6 weeks. Even the orange color of the image is reminiscent of a commonly used pro-life picture of early prenatal development […] Louisiana has 10 child-murder-by-abortion centers […] five are in New Orleans.”
Which lead me to think about why other hurricanes have happened. Take Hurricane Andrew, for instance, which has been brought up frequently recently in comparison to Hurricane Katrina. If you take a good look at the satellite image for that one…
… the only conclusion a girl can draw is that Hurricane Andrew was God’s way of punishing us for breast enhancement surgery. I mean, doesn’t that look like a giant red flaming breast to you? And to further strenghten my case, let’s think about where Hurricane Andrew did the most damage. Miami - one of the silicone capitals of the world. I mean, I’ve been to South Beach, I’ve seen the proof.
So watch out, DC & San Francisco. If you don’t cut back on the gayness, a giant tongue and/or penis-shaped hurricane will come and wipe the hell out of you. God is not fond of your little shenanigans.
<3 Leslie
Leslie at 1:26 am
August 4, 2005
The commute is KILLING me! Or: Public Transportation, my one true love.
Dear Kitty,
While those who talk to me on a regular basis have heard me whine about commuting and living in the hell that I refer to as home (or, the home that I refer to as hell), I thought I would take some time to reflect on the finer moments of public transportation. Of which there are many.
As I was getting on the train to come home from work, I took my iPod off long enough to hear the wonderous sounds that were coming from the train’s PA system. Yes, it was my favorite metro driver, the Barry White sound-alike. Most of the time the announcers mumble, and you hear things like, “next stop, Galasflgasdgery-Chigadngsdagtgogwsdan PdI.” But this guy, this guy I love. He does the announcements in this low, honey-like bedroom voice, like he’s seducing you to get on and stay on the train.
I’ve had him before, and every time I hear his voice, it makes the heinous train ride somehow worth it all. I could sit all day and listen to him purr, “In light of recent events in London, metro would like to take this opportunity to remind you to be cautious of your surroundings. Let’s be prepared, not scared.” (That last line is a particular favorite of mine, it’s like pure poetry. Pure, rhyming poetry.) Barry White sound-alike, let it be known that I applaud you for going above and beyond the call of duty.
But the bus rides, those are a whole different flavor of crazy. My favorite bus station event so far occured only yesterday. As I walked up to my bus stop, I went to sit down on the bench until I noticed a crazy man sitting there. He was feeding pigeons, which seems normal enough until you take a second look. What he was actually doing was crumbling up some sort of food-like substance, getting the birds to come over and eat… and then after there was a crowd of pigeons, he would fling his arms up and scare the shit out of the pigeons. Lather, rinse, repeat. It went on forever.
Until… there was competition. This pocket-sized lady, perhaps noticing the plight of the pigeons in the hands of the deranged bum, decided to feed the pigeons the rest of her leftover sandwhich. So the pigeons started gathering over there and ignoring the bum, because let’s face it, sandwhich makes for much better eatin’ than some crumbly nastiness that looks like the stuff janitors put on vomit when they clean it up. Plus, she never assaulted any pigeons in the process. So for the pigeons, this was a win-win situation. But it seemed to really piss the bum off because he glared at her the whole time and kept trying to get the birds’ attention by crumbling around the “food” he had. I stared at this for about 10 minutes, and enjoyed every second of it.
The bum was wearing a Dell shirt, and I wonder if maybe he was a failed dot-com-er or if they gave him the T-Shirt at a homeless shelter. Or maybe that’s how Dell is doing their advertising now that the “Dude, You’re Getting a Dell” guy has been exposed as a pothead and, therefore, is no longer suitable for marketing campaigns. Whatever.
I have also learned that I am a rarity in DC. In a sea of J Crew and pearl necklaces, I am running around in my normal outfits that consist of short skirts, skimpy tops, legwarmers and heels. Which of course paves the way for countless nasty come-ons by undesirable men. A creepy bum started saying creepy, creepy things to me when I was out in my Hanson tube top, waiting for the subway. At one point, he walked past me, Dylan and Mark, and yells, “Hey Hanson, just so you know… they call me Bin Laden.”
I don’t know what that means.
One man told me that he had been waiting for a girl like me his whole life. And I have to tell you, I have not been waiting for a man like him my whole life. But if I had been waiting my whole life for a middle-aged, black homeless man who smells like booze and buttholes (the bifecta of ideal man-scents), I would be knee-deep in dick right now. I mean, who knows, maybe I’ll give it a try. But let’s be real, Kitty - I’ll probably just start sleeping with gay and practically-gay men again.
TTYL!
Leslie at 5:30 pm
August 1, 2005
Inaugural post.
Dear Kitty,
The late, great Tallulah Bankhead once said: “Only good girls keep diaries. The bad girls don’t have time.� Apparently, I am a good girl now. I know this quotation only because it is included in approximately 1/5 of all facebook profiles written by girls. Which begs the question: Do bad girls really have time to take a drunken, slutty picture of themselves and put up a well-crafted facebook profile? Maybe. I know I do.
But I will say this – Tallulah Bankhead, I like that lady. And not just because she’s from my homeland of Alabama, or because she’s sassy. No. I like her because she would do coke and do naked cartwheels at parties. Parties attended by celebutantes. And if there’s one thing I love, it’s naked cartwheels in front of celebutants. In fact, I think that really may be the only thing I truly love. All the rest, it’s just gravy. Or grits. Whatever. I don’t know.
There’s not a whole lot going on in D.C. at the moment. A few gay bars here and there, some job interviews. But in the mean time I’m temping, and let me tell you, temping… That’s good stuff.
My favorite part of this whole temping thing. I go to work at this job, and I’m told that they’re sending two temps, me and this guy. I was hoping he’d be really hott, and then we could share some good, somewhat romantic times (you know I love romance, above all) while slaving away and working for the man. But he turns up at work in a three-piece suit. Oh, yes. Three pieces. His motto is DRESS TO IMPRESS. Mine is DRESS TO IMPRESS, too, but I want to give off bad impressions. I show up every day with no makeup on, looking like buttholes.
I think he’s hoping to parlay his temp work into a full-time job, which, given the tasks we’ve been assigned, is akin to turning up at the gates of hell, witnessing the agonizing pain of souls condemned to an eternity of fiery suffering, and saying, “Hey, mind if I join the party?�
I mean, part of me really wants to make friends with this guy, because who doesn’t love being friends with “special� people with interesting tastes in fashion, but I just can’t. He doesn’t talk, he just shows up at work and slaves away. I think he’s trying to compete with me. And we all know how competitive I am. Like, REALLY competitive. Especially about important things about temp work. But I do admire his stamina and commitment, because it can’t be easy wearing a three-piece suit to work every day. Especially with the D.C. weather, because every time I walk outside, my face starts raining. It’s unpleasant.
I’m hoping by the end of my time there, though, that he’ll add something to the three-piece ensemble. A paisley cummerbund, perhaps. Or maybe a railway watch, I like those. They look distinguished.
Well, Kitty, I guess that’s it for now. I’m going to go watch infomercials and masturbate. TTYL!
<3 Leslie
Leslie at 10:50 pm
