Spending the winter in Washington is like pissing into a stiff motherfucker of a breeze.
I have lived here for thirty years and have only just recently learned this.
I'm lying, of course; being facetious, as it were.
I wouldn't say they were necessarily remarkable, but thirty years is a damn well respectable amount of time to be doing anything.
Well, that isn't even true...and respectable is a bit of a stretch.
In plain unadorned fact, there are plenty of things that aren't admirable in the least, whether one spends a second or a century doing them.
This has been a damn fine year so far (January is a good month during which to make such a blithe statement of fact):
Last year at this time I would have woken up in the dark at 4:30 AM to don black clothing and hat and handle food. Sometimes 6:00 AM would find me elbows deep in raw chicken breasts and grab 'n' go salad fixin's.
I would imagine that I changed gloves in between those particular tasks, no? I may even have washed my hands.
I have trimmed the fat from (an estimated) 300 lbs of the aforementioned chicken breasts and baked (an estimated) 2000 cookies whilst wearing an extra large white chef's coat that closely (and appropriately) resembled a straight jacket. The result was a rather informal teriyaki banquet event during which (an estimated) 300 lbs of rice was cooked and (an estimated) 150 lbs of cooked rice was thrown away (by me) afterwards. I made (an estimated) $200 overall and at least $15 throwing away enough food to feed a score of people for two weeks. Because I was told to. Because I wasn't allowed to take the food home or share it with others. Because of liability. Company policy. Standard food service policy. Because because, because because, because because because because.
God bless America. We're the best! The rest are the rest. You don't like it, die in a fire, assholes. We throw away more calories per year than comprise the typical annual diet of several dozen countries and we like it. So there.
Manifest destiny. God's chosen people. The salt of the sea and the red of the rose.
I really mean to keep my cynicism at bay, to effect a certain subtlety, a sort of muted critical edge that builds imperceptibly in sharpness until it incises little waypoints into any issue like so many tiny mouths to perhaps. But instead I pull out the headsman's axe.
We are doing so well.
Google surely filters my posts for seditious insinuations.
But it must know in its algorithms that in reality this is feces being thrown.
It's the writing on the bathroom wall along with the obscene depictions of women with the wads of toilet paper stuffed in the orifices. It's the grout puns written between the tiles. It's the paper towel dispenser emptied onto the floor and the sticky puddle under the urinal.
It's derisive metaphorical interposition.
In short: it is gold. My gold.
Pan for it; mine it; adorn thyselves with it. For it is what makes us most human of all.
Just so long as we have someone else to muddy their feet for us. Aught else simply wouldn't do!