Sunday, Monday, Happy Days

· I’m thinking of taking steroids to improve my hitting power for the Pretty Damn Lame baseball league. Right now, I have infield-fly-rule power. If I ‘roid up, I might be able to attain routine-flyball-to-left power.

· I’m a little concerned about the abruptness of the plot line in Sunday’s episode of ‘Entourage’ in which Vincent Chase’s agent, Ari Gold (played by the hilarious Jeremy Piven) invokes the nuclear option and breaks away from his agency to try to form a new one. It feels like it was too much happening in such a short time frame, and perhaps they should have allowed it to build for a few more episodes.

Hopefully, the producers wanted to rush through that part so that they could get to some funnier stuff in upcoming episodes. I hope people don’t refer to Sunday’s episode as the point when the show ‘jumped the shark.’

· Biloxi, MS Mayor A.J. Holloway described Hurricane Katrina as “our tsunami.” Get some fucking perspective, you stupid hick. The December tsunami in the Indian Ocean killed OVER 200,000 PEOPLE, while less than 100 people have died as a result of Katrina.

It’s tragic when anyone dies (except maybe right wing wackos), and the death toll from Katrina could rise, but let’s not be ridiculous Let’s leave all the stupid, hyperbolic statements to me.

He Pitches Like He Fucks, Sorta All Over The Place

I regret to inform you that the Ponce de Leon fall baseball season has begun, so I can regale you with details of the games.

This season began where last season left off in that our stagnant offense wasn’t able to help out decent pitching and defense (again, by Ponce standards), and we lost 8-3. What’s very astounding about the game is that it lasted only 2 hours and 20 minutes. Usually, we’re lucky if a Ponce game can go the full nine innings within the three hour time limit.

I was the starting pitcher, and I gave up four runs, three earned over five innings. Because it was the first game, it took me a little while to feel comfortable on the mound and I felt erratic in the first two innings. I settled down and retired the side in the fourth and fifth innings.

In going 1-for-3 at the plate, I executed a perfect hit-and-run play during one of my at-bats, hitting the ball toward where the second baseman would be when he went to cover the bag. Unfortunately, it did not lead to a run because they were able to retire the next batter.

Good news for those who are bored with baseball stories. I will be missing the next two games because of the aforementioned beach vacation, so enjoy the brief reprieve.

Tearing Down Bariffs and Terriers

I was in a Ritz camera store ordering reprints of pictures of DC-Giant v. 2.0, and an employee pointed out to me that I could order “up to 10 reprints” for 37 cents each, or “less than 10 reprints” for 59 cents each.

She seemed annoyed when I explained to her that ‘up to 10’ and ‘less than 10’ means the same thing, and had the temerity to say that it did not.

Clearly, a Shrub voter.

Speaking of the Shrub, I think his brother Jeb is trying to eat his way to the presidency. Have you seen him lately? Jeez. Looks like he’s been eating those Gus-made Italian Store sandwiches. If he continues, a majority of his fundraising will go toward re-stocking the buffet table on the campaign trail. Uh, Jeb, that's for the reporters and staff.

Who's For Land Mines?

Yesterday, a friend of mine hooked us up with primo tickets to the Nats game. These so-called ‘Diamond Club’ tickets allowed us to enter a roped-off area and engorge ourselves with free food and soft drinks. Free food and soft drinks also gets tossed to us in our seats during the game.

Ain’t no better way to attend a baseball game.

In order to gain admittance to this trough area, you are affixed with a wristband (yesterday’s color was red) so that you can be identified, to paraphrase Hungary Man, as a member of the fucking fabulous.

For some, the wristband is just one of many, as they already are wearing other ones that demonstrate their support for various causes such as cancer research or opposition to land mines.

So, based on one’s wristbands, one simultaneously could be anti-breast cancer, anti-testicular cancer, anti-land mines, and anti-general admission seating.

Dewey, Cheatham & Howe

Let’s first take care of a couple public service announcements before we get things started.

The Milano sandwich at Lawson’s in Dupont Circle is not nearly as good as the one at the Italian Store in Arlington.

Look for the San Francisco 49ers to have a good season, mainly because new coach Mike Nolan and I have the same pair of sunglasses, so wager accordingly. Remember, this inside information is for recreational purposes only.

Now back to our regularly scheduled post.

Traditionally, August in Washington is very slow and mellow. Congress is on vacation, and since practically everyone’s work is associated with Congress, a lot of offices are empty for an extended period.

Revenues for my company are generated by billable hours, so when things are slow, a lot of hours are left on the shelves.

In order to move this excess inventory, we are having a special sale. From now until September 6, you can get work from an actual partner for the low, low rate of a senior associate. If you act now, meaningless research from a legislative information specialist will be thrown in for free.

Wait, there’s more.

If you act this week, you will receive a discount on the firm’s usual retainer fee. It’s usually completely outrageous, but the special rate this week would reduce it to just slightly outrageous.

But There Are No Pictures In Them

One of the biggest farces each year is the release of the Shrub’s summer reading list. Like the fucking moron knows how to read. I’m not even going to humor the dumbshit by listing the books.

However, the best part of Shrub’s so-called reading list is the reaction by the authors. They often recoil in horror because they don’t want a dumbshit being associated with their intellectual undertaking.

This year was no different and one author’s response was particularly entertaining. When Mark Kurlansky was informed that the Shrub supposedly was reading his book ‘Salt: A World History,’ he quipped, “Oh, he reads books?” You know damn well, he was tempted to omit the last word.

Meanwhile, I love that the shine on the Shrub’s vacation has been dulled a bit by the war protestors. Isn’t everyday a vacation when you’re a moron? What are you taking a vacation from when you have no brain?

Over the weekend, when the Shrub’s motorcade passed by the protestors, someone held up a sign that said, “Honk if you have a child in Iraq.” There’s no way the fucking draft-dodging Shrub would send his children to war when he chickened out himself. The Shrub twins could be sent over there as comfort girls.

Stupid Wagon Wheel Roy Rogers Garage Sale Coffee Table

For some reason, several people lately have felt compelled to boast to me about their eclectic collection of music on their iPods. I usually get some variation of the statement: 'If someone were to ever see my playlist, they would think I was strange.'

I hate to tell these people that we all feel that way about our taste in music and the playlists on our iPods. While people feel compelled to brag about their wide range of taste, they neglect to admit to anyone about the wretched Air Supply or Anne Murray songs that take up precious megabytes on their iPods. Where's the bragging about that?

It's like Carrie Fisher said, we can't all have good taste or a sense of humor. If everyone had a good sense of humor, nothing would be funny because every time someone cracked a joke, others would think, 'oh, I already thought of that one.'

It goes without saying that I have a very eclectic mix of music on my iPod. I have everything from Duran Duran to Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys. It's a very broad range.

The Cuervo Gold, The Fine Columbian

I have begun the sad, inevitable process of scoping out my mid-life crisis car. I won’t be getting one in the immediate future, as I still have a while to reach mid-life, but it’s nice to start thinking about what kind of fun car I will driving.

Although it’s a horrible cliché, my mid-life crisis car is going to be a convertible. I can’t help it.

Aside from the family car, Mrs. Giant and I have a Jeep Wrangler that we drove around with the top down all the time before the arrival of DC-Giant v. 2.0, and we will resume once he gets old enough. I endorse driving with tops down whether you have a convertible or not.

I am enlisting my wife’s help in picking out the right car, so I can avoid having people make the following observations about it:

• Could his mid-life crisis BE anymore obvious?
• That is such a chick car;
• He must have just come out of the closet; or
• I wonder which high school his girlfriend goes to.

Mrs. Brown, you’ve got a lovely daughter.

But I’ve Never Been to Me

A big shot in my company took a group of us on his yacht to celebrate the ending of a project. He just bought it and I think he was using the end-of-the-project celebration as an excuse to show off the new boat. He’s a fairly decent guy as Washington power players go, so I’m not going to begrudge him too much for doing this.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have to fall out of the boat to hit water on this day. It rained hard all day, so the trip was very brief.

There was no going to Nice and the Isle of Greece; no sipping champagne on a yacht; no moving like Harlow in Monte Carlo; and no showing them what we’ve got. No being undressed by kings; no seeing some things that a woman ain't supposed to see.

The Wagon Queen Family Truckster

We are supposed to escape on a beach vacation the first week in September that originally was supposed to include just my wife’s family members. They all are great and I get along with everyone, including the spouses, so I was looking forward to it.

Then, havoc struck.

My wife’s sister is organizing this holiday and her husband found a nice big house right along the water. His brother caught wind of the trip and pleaded for an invitation for him and his wife and kids, which was extended. I understand that; it’s hard to say no to family. I figured it would be fine because it’s a big house, and there probably would be plenty of space to get away from people if necessary. But then, it got worse.

The wife of the brother who pleaded for the invitation went ahead and invited her parents, without clearing it with my wife’s sister, the one organizing it. Not only that, she also invited her sister and her husband! WHAT THE FUCK?!

Suddenly, there are a bunch of strangers going to this house, and thoughts of traipsing comfortably around the house in our pajamas remain just that – thoughts that will go unrealized.

Maybe we’ll get lucky and Hurricane Irene will level the house.

We're 10 hours from the fucking fun park and you want to bail out?

Please Don't Report This to Greenpeace

I committed an environmental faux pas this weekend.

It was brutally hot in the Washington, DC area this weekend with the heat index reaching the 100+ degree mark. It was hot, humid, and disgusting.

The Giant family sought refuge in the form of malts at Silver Diner. Instead of going in, my wife stayed in the car with DC-Giant v2.0 with the car running so that the a/c would keep them cool. Keeping a car's motor running on a very hot and humid day is not very good for the environment.

However, it turns out that I happen to be very anti-heat stroke, particularly when it comes to subjecting my wife and son to it.

We Gonna Rock Down To

The local shopping malls conspired recently to get more customers by arranging for some thunderstorms to knock out power to a lot of homes in the region. They rightfully thought that, without power, people would flock to the malls to cool off and have something to do.

Of course, with Pepco, the utility serving most of the people in the Washington area, it doesn’t take much for the power to go out; usually, cloud cover is enough to knock out power in some areas.

I wrote a silly little ‘Letter to the Editor’ a couple years ago to a local weekly community newspaper complaining about how power goes out when somebody sneezes, and noting that I was suffering from a malady I dubbed ‘Pepco-Induced Stressed Disorder’ or PISD. Demonstrating just what low standards this paper has, they actually printed it.

A neighbor of mine had an interesting theory about the loss of power. Because of the extremely hot weather the area experienced in the days preceding the strong thunderstorms, the demand for electricity was very high, creating stress on the grid. My neighbor contended that as soon as the storms rolled through, Pepco imposed a rolling brownout to alleviate some of the stress.

If you are aware of some of the things utility companies lobby for in Washington, you certainly would not put it pass them to attempt something like this.

In addition to the loss of power, we had a bit of a scare involving our central air conditioning system in the house when it began leaking water last week. Visions of spending several thousand dollars on a new system were dancing in my checkbook. Thankfully, it was repaired easily and we were able to avoid a cruel, cruel summer.

Goddamnfuckingmoron

In a recent Pew Research Center survey, 751 people were asked to describe the Shrub with one word, and the most frequent response was “honest.”

I wish I were black, because then I could say, “Nigga pleeze!”

Fortunately, only 31 stupid people described him as honest. Speaking of which, 12 smart people said “stupid.” Other appropriate responses included “arrogant” (24 people), “liar” (13), “idiot” (11), “weasel,” and “con-artist.” I would argue that he's too stupid to know how to be arrogant.

I’m sure profanities were not allowed so the following responses would have been discarded: dumbshit, dumbfuck, fucknut, and stupidfuck.