Sure, we've all read the quotes from President Bush's press conference yesterday. In case you are blissfully unaware, you can piss yourself off here.

Treasure this moment, because it is one of the few times the President will infuse his words with such brilliant extended metaphors as "specks versus logs."

Also, in addition to the President's nonstandard usage of the word "got", Dictionary.com offers another: I got to git me a huntin' dog.

I liked when he said:

...and I'm a liar and gay people are sinners but I'll dodge around my bigotry by making the blanket statement that all people are sinners (even Texans!) and vote for me in 2004!

Hmm. I hope these "lawyers" he's enlisted to stop gay marriage in the name of God are about as effective as the guys he sent into Iraq to find weapons o' mass destruction.

Posted by Toby at 03:00 PM | Permalink

Got a lot of nice emails about yesterday's post on monogamy. Thought I would say "thanks" by posting a few for everyone to read.

"Your last blog was very interesting-- contemplating the nature of a monogamous relationship. As someone who once had a very serious one and now find himself without anything close, I must say, your sentiments are not alone. I too think that monogamy is THE way to go for those that want it... and they shouldn't be outcast because of the conventional nature of their unconventional lifestlye."

"My BF and I have been together for 4 years and we?re getting married on the 16th in Stowe, VT. We met in college..." (Aww!)

"Just an FYI that I hope makes your day -- I just turned 41 and I've lived with my husband going on 14 years (whew!). We said we'd be monogamous, and that's what we've been. Wouldn't have it any other way -- and I find him more desirable and sexy every day. Part of that is because I love him more every day! Keep it just between the two of you, and it only gets better!"

OK, enough of the sentimental shit. I'll be back to bitching later today, mah peeps.

Posted by Toby at 11:16 AM | Permalink

Having already browsed his archives and downloaded his QuickTime strip teases, I am growing bored (stiff?) with GeekSlut dot org. It is a weblog of sex and fucking (there is a difference, apparently) and drugs -- things I am more likely to observe from a safe distance than partake in.

But, you see, the sex is insincere, the fucking leads to nowhere, and the drugs -- well, Geek Slut is at the ripened age where he can (unironically) warn today's tweaked-out queens of meth's crippling stronghold on the gay community, having been there and done that. Much of what he writes flies over my head (you can put K up your ass?), and believe me, I'm not losing any sleep over it.

To make matters worse, Geek Slut is dark and hulky and, indeed, geeky (one Quick Time vid shows him vamping to the camera as if the whole world is watching, though it's painfully obvious he is alone). This turns me on, and if I knew it would mean something to him, I'd invite him to spend the night.

Needless to say, it would mean nothing to him.

I chatted with Geek Slut last night over AIM, and he LOL-ed heartily when I told him my boyfriend and I are engaged in a three-month (and counting) monogamous relationship. According to Mr. Slut, I'll be reconsidering this whole monogamy thing within a year. He said that if I'm uncomfortable with the idea of my boyfriend fucking other boys, then our relationship is based entirely on sex and, subsequently, is doomed.

This, from a man who considers a serious relationship one in which he's been fucking the same guy for two weeks in a row.

Let's get this straight: I don't appreciate being told that the best I can hope for in life is a string of meaningless sexual encounters. I respect anyone's choice to have an open relationship with his boyfriend or no relationship at all, so please respect mine. It's not my fault I was born into a generation that thinks being gay is OK, that doesn't try to mask sexuality with sex, that isn't afraid to find love.

If you think this entry is a knee-jerk rant derivative of my repressed fear of sexual wanting, then think about why you're so opposed to the so-called "hetero" lifestyle I hope to live. Perhaps we're both afraid, just of different things.

Posted by Toby at 12:57 PM | Permalink

If I had to narrow down all that is daunting and horrific about me to a single fault, I would go with "wildly insecure."

This explains why I'll look at a fat person and mope, "Why am I so skinny?"

Or why I'll walk down two flights of stairs to another bathroom in my office building to avoid having my co-workers hear the unsettling sounds of defecation.

Or why I have a weblog.

Posted by Toby at 02:32 PM | Permalink

Bidding on my stylish tank top ends today! Treat yourself to something nice, darling.

Posted by Toby at 12:33 AM | Permalink

Despite its brilliant sun, a surprise visit from my boyfriend, and a liquor cabinet cleaning house cleaning Friday fete, this weekend has carved itself a miserable home in my soon-to-be-written memoir, filed -- along with such other gems as the discovery of my stubborn (but mild!) back hair and that time I vomited on a prospective hook-up -- under the tentatively-titled chapter, "Devastation."

You see, on Saturday evening, I received word via AIM from a member of Brooklyn's New York City's upper echelon that, despite my sparkling wit and effervescent personality, he and I could never be friends, simply because I do not shop at Gucci, Prada, Cartier or the other high-end shops he prefers. Clad (at the time) in worn-out cargo shorts from the Gap and a polo from Express, I stared blankly at his pixel-based declaration, knowing full well that our disproportionate bank accounts rendered our relationship anything but star-crossed.

For the first time in my life, I asked myself, "Are a loving family, a wonderful boyfriend, amazing friends, a fantastic internship, and a generous college scholarship merely ersatz substitutes for material goods? Is there more to life than love, truth, beauty and freedom? Is being happy not enough?"

Needless to say, I concluded that all paths lead to the Fendi flagship store. I mean, why settle for blue-collar contentment when I could have chronic white-collar dissatisfaction?

If you, too, want to rid your life of family, friends, personal achievements and other worthless things, and embark on a fruitless journey towards gluttony, then continue reading! I've fleshed out a list of all the goods I want -- plus ways to get them! The sooner you buy that Mont Blanc pen, the faster you can replace your real, poor friends with fake, wealthy trust fund nihilists.

Item: Small Tiffany Mark bracelet watch, with quartz resonator, in eighteen karat gold.
Nominal Fee: $6,500
Why I Need It: Hmm, I'm not sure if this watch is designed for a man or a woman, but who cares? I may not be able to tell if my friends like me for me or for my watch, but at least I'll be able to tell time!
How I'll Get $6,500: Sperm donation! If I'm accepted into the donor program, I will be paid $50 for every sample that meets the minimum sperm count. Even if I only complete the exit blood test requirement, I'll still get a $200 bonus! Also, if I refer someone who is accepted into the donor program, I'm eligible for a $500 bonus. If I squeeze out a sample every day, I'll be looking at a new watch in just four months!

Item: Dolce & Gabbana leopard print stretch silk spread collar long sleeve shirt.
Nominal Fee: $955
Why I Need It: Why wouldn't I need it?! Leopard print goes with everything these days. I think this will look pretty snappy with my watch.
How I'll Get $955: No one said making money would be easy, nor has anyone said that making money wouldn't require the degradation of dignity and morals. That said, the average call girl does about an hour of work for $300. Do the math.

Item: House in the Hamptons with "windswept dunes", "dramatic views" of the ocean, 3.5 acres of "trees and lawn", and a "pond."
Nominal Fee: $11,950,000
Why I Need It: A convenient weekend getaway for when I need to escape the hustle-and-bustle of city life and get some rest, relaxation, and lines of coke with Tara Reid.
How I'll Get $11,950,000: Hehe, I bet you're wondering how I'll get out of this one. Either I will marry someone rich, or I'll rely upon my gentle readers for support. Let's say that I get 1,000 unique visits every day (because I do). If each of you donate $1 a day, I'll be moving into my new home in 30 years.

Unfortunately, by that time, I'll have realized that life is short, material goods are fleeting, and Vanity Fair sets demand, not trends.

Learn this lesson now, friends, and you'll save yourself some dollars along the way.

Posted by Toby at 03:03 PM | Permalink

A parody based upon the notorious A List, updated two days ago and linked by Gawker.

The following may or may not be true, and is based on hearsay, rumor, and gossip -- most of it from relatively reliable sources, some from more dubious ones, and some based on my own suppositions. I have tried to make this list as accurate as possible, but in some/many cases I wasn't able to verify rumors. I have not put anything here that I know to be untrue. If you want, send me e-mail.

Bart. Nice guy. In committed relationship with French FOD. Failed marriage to and bitter divorce with Burt Reynolds. Wears either a thong or nothing at all.

Bravo. "Good guy in general", but humorless. Continues to be surprised that no one takes him seriously. Into group sex.

Chris. Has large porn collection. Does not write own blog.

Cormac. Neurotic link-bitch. Cokehead. I've received a couple of e-mails from store clerks and cashiers who said that Cormac was "condescending" and "extremely well hung."

Jamison. Size queen.

Jerwin. Described by some as "friendly", by others as "an evil, egotistical martinet." Likes threesomes, and uses hookers for same. Cheats on wife.

Jocko. Used steroids when he was younger. Supposedly a "total top", but I've been told otherwise. Linked to Diane Sawyer.

Jonno. Imperious towards his personal staff. Swinger. Rumored to enjoy pleasuring himself. Has a crude, stereotypically masculine approach to sex. Pothead and addicted to painkillers.

Kian. Hung like a tsetse fly. Very sweet. Former $cientologist.

Nick. Conceited. Born-again Christian. Claims to have sodomized Elizabeth Taylor.

Rob. Refreshingly modest. Likes to be slapped. Closeted heterosexual. Sleeps with bloggers.

Toby. "Arrogant self-centered bitch." Unpleasant. Rampantly insecure yet hideously conceited. Alcoholic. "We love him anyway."

Young Bradford. Has penchant for transsexual hookers. "Friendly to fans." Germophobe. Linked to Toby.

Posted by Toby at 02:42 PM | Permalink

I came home from Clyde's last night just drunk enough to leave bratty, immature comments on random weblogs and attempt to make tater tots. Though I stopped short of putting the frozen potato delicacies in the oven (I don't have time to arrange them on a foil-lined baking sheet! Too many steps!), I did manage to mess around on AIM for two hours before passing out in my bed, teeth unbrushed and face unwashed.

The reason I was drinking on a Wednesday is because it seemed to be the only appropriate thing to do after seeing "Uptown Girls", the new Brittany Murphy vehicle in which she glams it up around New York City and learns a few lessons along the way. Though it won't be released until this weekend (I was at a screening, how cool am I?), I enthusiastically recommend the movie to friends, family, readers and anyone within earshot as I blab endlessly at the bar about my love for Brittany Murphy's wardrobe in "Uptown Girls".

WARNING: KEY PLOT TWISTS FROM "UPTOWN GIRLS" AHEAD

As I said earlier, Brittany learns valuable lessons in the film, such as how to make raccoon eyes seem fashionable again, and ways to not be totally fucking annoying the way you were in every other movie you've been in, with the exception of "Clueless", that totally ruled! Anyway, Brittany also learns to "wipe away the excess and find her center." For Brittany's character, this involves hawking all of your personal belongings on a sidewalk sale and auctioning off your deceased rockstar dad's guitar collection for a couple of thousand dollars. In the end, Brittany finds happiness, albeit in the form of an 8-year-old girl.

OK, NO MORE PLOT TWISTS AHEAD

And so in the spirit of embarking on lofty journeys of self-discovery that I'll never complete, I've decided to "find my center", as well. Tonight, I shall go through my entire closet and remove unstylish, ill-fitting or otherwise gratuitous apparel. Then I will donate it all to charity (after attempting to sell it at a consignment shop). There is simply no point in possessing 90 t-shirts, ten of which I wear on a regular basis. I'm sorry, but the 1998 Youth Leadership Conference XL t-shirt has got to go.

I can't wait to get started on my new project! I just have to get through six more hours of reading crappy weblogs work before I can embark on this exciting adventure.

Remainders: My tanktop is still up for auction on eBay! Check it out, fuckers.

Posted by Toby at 10:45 AM | Permalink

Have you ever read my weblog and wished you could be me? Well, you'll never be me, but you can pretend you are by wearing my clothes!

Simply place a bid on this fabulous tank top and you could be fondling a piece of my extensive wardrobe in just a few short days!

As shown in the picture, I wore this tank top to Velvet Nation, a gay club in Washington, DC. Don't worry -- the stench of cigarettes and meth has been washed away. The tank top is clean and snugly fits any toned, tanned body. (No fatties, please!)

So bid today, darlings. Even if you don't plan on wearing it, you can still throw it onto your bedroom floor and pretend I tossed it there preceding a passionate embrace.

Posted by Toby at 11:06 AM | Permalink

Not surprisingly, the star of Bravo's gay-themed dating show "Boy Meets Boy" isn't too happy about being lead on to think his ensemble of prospective beaus was gay -- when in fact a few of them were actually straight guys hoping to nab a prize of $25,000.

Huh? What? The producers embedded the cast with straight guys because "they wanted straight people to watch"? But... but... just a few weeks ago... the producers said something quite different!

Oh, please. Why watch a crappy dating show to challenge my preconceived notions of what is gay and what is straight when I could just browse the photo galleries of NJGuido.com...

Remainders: My original rant on "Boy Meets Boy."

Posted by Toby at 12:10 PM | Permalink

Want access to my exclusive circle of tragically hip friends? Sign on to Friendster, do a user search using the email address "toby [at] vividblurry [dot] com", and request me as a friend. Mentos!

Remainders: Gothamist on writing a Friendster message -- very helpful indeed.

Posted by Toby at 02:15 PM | Permalink

Do you wear wifebeater shirts and gold chains, slick back your hair with gel after every shower, and suffer from an endearing speech impediment?

And do you also enjoy fucking similarly styled men?

If so, then congratulations, you are a queer guido -- or, alternately, a quido.

With web sites like NJGuido.com receiving unprecedented publicity, it's safe to say that the guido/quido has replaced the metrosexual. In fact, guidos/quidos are remarkably similar to metrosexuals, in that both groups tend to wear nice clothes and maintain severe body image disorders. The difference, of course, is that a guido/quido can kick a metrosexual's pansy ass.

Interested in becoming a quido? Then take a gander at my handy...

1. The wifebeater shirt. Also known as a "guinea t-shirt" or, in more conservative circles, an "A-Shirt", the wifebeater shirt can make or break a quido. Are those pit stains I see? Has the shirt become limp and paper-thin due to a combination of overuse and improper laundering? Bad, quido! Bad! You should know betta.

When selecting a wifebeater shirt, be sure the ribbing clings desperately to your upper body so that little is left to the imagination. Bonus points for the wifebeater shirt that divulges erect nipples and washboard abs. Also, be sure the price-to-fabric ratio is at least 10:1.

2. The jewelry. Gold-plated accessories should not be obtained from your Uncle Joey who knows a guy on Staten Island who can get you stuff for real cheap. Instead, purchase your bling from respectable outlets where gold chains can be purchased for a reasonable $3,800.

Other must-haves: silver bands, ID bracelets, watches, all things ostentatious.

A few must-nots: dog tags, nose piercing, navel piercing, toe rings.

3. The jeans. As long as the jeans cost over $150 and constrict blood flow to the genitals, then you are pretty much good to go.

4. The shoes. Stick to the basics: black Kenneth Cole loafers, or Prada sneakers. No sandals, please. And if your shoe size falls below 11, learn to wear ill-fitting footwear because sexy quidos have big, sexy feet.

5. The car. Guidos drive rusted-out Camaros. Why? Because a Camaro is the only car that can go from ghetto to ghetto-fabulous with the addition of some rims, tinted windows, and a paint job. Rims, you ask? As in the sexual act? No, silly quido. Rims are for cars. You see, a quido -- despite his penchant for all things guido -- is still gay, and therefore knows very little about automobiles. Souping up his dad's Honda Accord is simply not an option for the queer guido.

Rather, a quido needs a ride that shouts "I am a loud and tacky individual!" the moment it leaves the dealership. I personally recommend any top-class model from either BMW or Mercedes-Benz. Insist on having super-sized speakers in the trunk and a Playstation console installed in the glove compartment. Also, Billy Joel should be playing at all times as you cruise the mean streets of Monmouth County.

6. The attitude. Like his straight counterpart, the quido should express bored indifference to everything, with the exception of body image, corny nightclubs promoted on Top 40 radio stations, and getting laid. Quidos are generally straight-acting and refer to themselves self-consciously proudly as "total tops". Though some may argue that this tough guy façade is just an extension of self-hatred, be assured that a quido is simply a product of his environment -- that being a middle-class household outside of Manhattan run by a distant father and an overbearing mother.

And that's all there is to becoming a veritable quido. Badabing!

Posted by Toby at 11:09 AM | Permalink

For the past few weeks, I've been exchanging lovely emails with customer service reps from my host, phpwebhosting.com. Here is an excerpt from yesterday's calm, civil discourse:

Wow, Greg! That's really great! Not only do you blame the customer for being the cause of a problem he couldn't possibly have anything to do with, but you actually tell him to cancel his subscription with your company and to find another provider! Your supervisor must love the fact that you're essentially telling customers to fuck off. Dumbass.

Never one to question authority, I'm going to follow Greg's advice and seek a different provider. Hopefully I can find a service with similar options but that doesn't have crashing servers or asshats for employees. Any suggestions?

[Note: I tried fixing a mistake in this entry just now, but guess what: THE SERVER WAS DOWN! It has crashed three times today. Rock on!]

Posted by Toby at 05:00 PM | Permalink

Wow, with links from Gawker, Gothamist, Queer Day, Jonno and a slew of message boards, I'm, like, totally famous!

Honestly, it's about time people started to realize just how fabulous I am. Yes, there was a time when I thought the most generous compliment I could hope for would be "evil Internet whore" -- and while that sordid reputation has served me well, I feel it is time to cast off the shackles of debauchery and become a veritable member of the gay blogosphere. That's right, bitches! My weblog kicks your weblog's ass!

Of course, the tradeoff of being an Internet celebrity is that your virtual fame will almost always be misunderstood by those that have lives instead of weblogs. For example, I can't go anywhere with my boyfriend without him saying snidely, "Hey, why are we waiting 40 minutes to be seated at the Olive Garden? Just tell them you're Toby, that you have your own web site. You're a celebrity, right?"

But then I remember that my boyfriend still uses AOL and has a Justin Timberlake AIM Expression, which makes me much cooler than him regardless of my retarded web site.

Which reminds me: if Justin Timberlake has his own AIM Expression, why don't I?

Posted by Toby at 11:51 AM | Permalink

While watching Bravo's new makeover show, "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy", I couldn't help but wonder: Which of the "Fab Five" would be the most fab to fuck? And so, I've compiled...

Name: Kyan
Popularity of name in 2002: Not among the top 1,000 names for 1991-2002*
Spice Girl equivalent: Ginger (smart, sassy, most popular)
Flame: Medium
Certification: Graduated from the Aveda Institute New York at the top (teehee!) of his class; has worked at the upscale Arrojo Studio in Soho and for TLC's "What Not To Wear."
Strengths: Knows how to "style from the back," if you know what I mean; probably has an Aveda discount.
Weaknesses: Sleeps with webloggers.

Overall Fab Five Fuckability: Based upon looks alone, Kyan will catch any queer's eye. Amazingly, he is able to recoil at the sight of ear hair and namedrop every product made by Zirh and still not sound like a total queen. My only hesitation: he probably requires a boyfriend that is as high maintenance as he.

Name: Ted
Popularity of name in 2002: #980 in 1996 (has not placed in the top 1,000 since)*
Spice Girl equivalent: Sporty (genuine, tangible, but underappreciated)
Flame: Low
Certification: Contributing editor to Esquire magazine; co-authored four books; dons snappy eyewear.
Strengths: Keeps things red-hot in the kitchen.
Weaknesses: Probably not-so-red-hot outside the kitchen.

Overall Fab Five Fuckability: Having done much more than graduate from beauty school, Ted is clearly the most legitimate of the Fab Five. Sadly, his talents are kept solely on the stove, where Ted blandly teaches Straight Guy du jour to assemble obvious recipes like "flatbread pizza". If he can't spice things up in the kitchen, how on Earth is he going to spice things up in bed? (Then again, we could always ask his longtime partner, Barry.)

Name: Carson
Popularity of name in 2002: #106*
Spice Girl equivalent: Scary (loud, obnoxious, wears leopard print)
Flame: High
Certification: All accomplishments dubious in nature ("independent stylist", "nationally ranked equestrian", Gettysburg College graduate).
Strengths: Verbal bitchslaps à go go; convinces Straight Guy to snap fingers and talk with a lisp.
Weaknesses: Incessantly snaps fingers and talks with a lisp.

Overall Fab Five Fuckability: Though he would make a great shopping pal, Carson is simply not fuckable. I can only imagine bending him over, just to hear him quip, "I've grabbed more ankle than a pair of tube socks!" Remainders: "I've been plowed more times than a cornfield!"; "I've serviced more members than AAA!"; "Let's slip out of these gender roles and into something a little more comfortable!"; etc.

Name: Jai
Popularity of name in 2002: Not among the top 1,000 names for 1991-2002*
Spice Girl equivalent: Baby (Cute, seemingly innocent, but probably a massive whore)
Flame: Medium-High
Certification: Starred on Broadway as Angel in "Rent"; apparently a "fixture among the hip NYC social set".
Strengths: Firm handshake; really firm ass.
Weaknesses: Tries to speak poignantly but sounds like a dumbass, e.g. "Stick out your chest and have a hint of a smile!" (Is he trying to win over the critics at Straight Guy's art show, or cruise the crowd at a gay bar?)

Overall Fab Five Fuckability: His naiveté boyish charm makes Jai extremely fuckable. If the first two episodes are any indication, Jai will let you have your way with him without emitting unsolicited barbs or patronizing you endlessly. Also, his alleged social skills will come in handy when you introduced him to your mother.

Name: Thom
Popularity of name in 2002: "Thomas" ranked #36*
Spice Girl equivalent: Posh (Well-dressed, purposeful but conspicuously random)
Flame: Low-Medium
Certification: Holds a B.A. in Interior Design from Syracuse University; founder of his own interior design company.
Strengths: Uses all the tools in his tool box, wink wink.
Weaknesses: Owns house, er, "controversial, 100,000-square-foot compound", in the Hamptons that is supposedly inspired by the Palace of Versailles. (Perhaps grooming guru Kyan can give Thom an ego massage?)

Overall Fab Five Fuckability: Appropriately, Thom's redeeming qualities can be found mostly within his "interior", as opposed to his exterior. This is not to say he is unattractive. Rather, Thom would make a better boyfriend than a fuckbuddy. And with his own interior design company, the girl has plenty of cash to pamper you with!

Personally, I'd pick Kyan and Jai, but the choice is entirely up to you.

* [Source: Social Security Administration]

Posted by Toby at 01:01 PM | Permalink

I won a camera attachment for my cell phone from eBay a few weeks ago. I sent the guy his money right away, but as of yesterday, I hadn't received anything in the mail. Fuck, I was robbed of $33! Just as I was about to bitch-slap him with some negative feedback, I journeyed to the package room of my apartment building, just to see if it was lying around. To my delight, a box with my name on it was eagerly awaiting my arrival. Orgasm!

Still, the fact remains that I never received a package slip. Either the retards that run the package room failed to place one in my mailbox, or my roommate threw it out by accident. The latter scenario would be understandable, since she is so busy sitting around the apartment all day, jobless and alone. Oh well, mistakes happen.

For more about camera phones, read this article from the AP.

Posted by Toby at 12:23 PM | Permalink

Gay journalist and esteemed weblogger Toby Halliwell was spotted all over the East Coast this weekend, allegedly jet-setting between his home in Washington, D.C., and New York to spend his vacation among friends, family and his three-month companion.

One source saw Toby navigating through the crowd Friday night at the Washington Monument to catch the fireworks with his boyfriend and a female friend. Moments before the show began, the trio plopped themselves in a patch of grass, and all three seemed to enjoy themselves. Toby and his boyfriend held hands throughout the entire show, kissing and cuddling intermittently.

The next night, Toby was seen with his boyfriend at Nation, the District's largest and most exclusive gay nightclub. Friends and fans chatted up the couple at the door and commented that the two seemed "totally sober." Could the boozing Toby be changing his ways? Perhaps! Toby seemed in high spirits as he made his way from the dance floor to the outdoor patio to the VIP room, all the while laughing and smiling and enjoying his boyfriend's company.

One onlooker says Toby and his boyfriend were conversing with famous drag queen Cookie Buffet beside the bar, only to dash for the dance floor when Beyonce's new hit, "Crazy in Love," began to play.

Mr. Halliwell was incognito until Monday afternoon, when he was spotted at the Soho Grand in New York, sipping coffee with an unidentified male friend. Is Toby having an affair? Most likely not, says our source. The two seemed entirely platonic and exchanged not even a hug before parting.

This morning, Toby emerged from a limo in front of New York's Penn Station, clad in sunglasses, polo shirt, shorts and sandals. Is he destined for the Hamptons? Not so. Toby reportedly took an early train back to D.C. and is likely to return to work later today.

Mr. Halliwell has suffered a string of bad press recently. Close friends say his weekend vacation will help put the gay icon back on track.

Posted by Toby at 12:37 PM | Permalink

Phew!

Hey, kids, I'm back in D.C. I took the holiday weekend off and spent time with my boyfriend, then jetsetted to New York on Monday to visit my sister's new baby. I took the 6:35 a.m. train from New York City to Washington today, so now I'm back in the office, ready to go.

I'll post something a little more interesting later tonight. Peace out, nigs.

Posted by Toby at 11:25 AM | Permalink

I need to get out of this city. Washington, D.C., is filled with imbeciles, and I never fail to mutter "moron" or "idiot" or "fuckhead" under my breath whenever I pass an offending mongoloid roaming free. And believe me, they are everywhere. In the streets. On the subway. Some have even managed to infiltrate my apartment, on occasion.

But the biggest freakshows I've encountered have been on the Metrobus. Just the other day, my roommate and I hopped onto a bus heading towards Georgetown. Normally the ride is only 30 minutes, but due to the inexplicable number of mentally defective individuals on the bus that day, I knew it was going to be the most tortuous Metrobus experience of my life.

Let me begin by describing the three Rodes scholars that sat in their seats clutching 72-hour survival kits. Survival kits! This woman sitting next to them -- who, as I would soon find out, was equally retarded -- was totally mocking them for having the kits. They explained that the "terror level" (um, OK) was high. Should an incident of terror actually occur, these asshats would apparently live off their kits until help arrived.

First of all, those kits would not last 72 hours -- at least not for the fat-asses that were holding them. One bitch was so fat that she could probably scarf down the entire kit during her daily viewing of "General Hospital." Also, the food inside the kit was not exactly what I'd call "savory." I think I caught a glimpse of a Slim Jim. Barf.

Second, if you are going to be one of those paranoid freaks that wears a SARS mask whenever you leave the safety of your trailer park, at least be discreet about it. Not only will you avoid the condescending stares from sane and well-adjusted individuals such as myself, but when fucked-up terrorist shit actually does happen, the sane and well-adjusted individuals won't know to knife you for your 72-hour survival kit. In other words, don't sit on a high-risk Metrobus with a fucking survival kit on your lap. If we get bombed, the first thing I'm going to do is punch you in the face and steal your Slim Jims.

Third, the so-called "terror level" is the last thing you should be worrying about. Ironically, when walking the streets of Washington, D.C., you should be fearing your fellow Americans. Fuck the survival kit, bitch! What you need is some Mace and a shiv. There have been over 120 reported homicides this year, and the number continues to climb. Sadly, the District is home to thousands of gypsies, tramps and thieves; chances are that if you carried a survival kit on your person, it would get mugged from you anyway.

On a final note, let me just say that if Washington gets attacked, I would not want to reemerge 72 hours later, only to find a city that's even more tattered, dirty and chaotic than it currently is. And people are surprised when I say I hate D.C.

Posted by Toby at 04:38 PM | Permalink

Ah, yes. Time for another dumbass article on weblogs, this time from Slate!

Um, right. Have you read some of the blogs listed on the D.C. blog map?! Half the blogs the author namedropped are tedious LiveJournals that haven't been updated in months. I clicked on my Metro stop to see if there was anyone with which I would "exchange e-mails, meet up for drinks, and then generally do the same things as neighbors who stumble upon each other in the real world" -- but frankly, nearly every D.C. blogger scares the shit out of me. Weird, unstylish, obsessive -- that's a summary of what I've found.

But the author did get one thing right: if I accidentally ran into a fellow blogger, I would, indeed, "do the same things as neighbors who stumble upon each other in the real world." That is to say, avoid eye contact and press my wallet to my side.

If you're unable to navigate the poorly designed blog map (I nearly choked on my chocolate milk this morning after seeing the site's creator described as "industrious"), then skim through some of the links mentioned in the article.

DC Blows, for example, hasn't been updated since March, but Slate claims this piece-of-shit blog offers "revelations to those with the patience to unearth its secrets." Another bizarre link lead me to the strangely-titled ...With the Rest of Our Jewelry, which supposedly features "rants and raves from four fabulous queens." I actually know these guys and like them a lot (loved the 2001 Christmas party, darlings!) but to say they are "fabulous queens" pushes the boundaries of journalism ethics, to say the least.

Anyway, the real problem I have with this article is that I wasn't mentioned. But whatever. I don't really blog about Washington or politics or anything of remote significance. I just blog about myself. So if Slate decides to publish an article on self-absorbed weblogs with no cultural relevance, THEN I HAD BETTER BE MENTIONED, BITCHES.

Remainders: Check back later for the Prescription Medicine o' the Week. Also, very little is stopping me from downloading "I Want It That Way" by the Backstreet Boys.

Posted by Toby at 10:05 AM | Permalink