You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?

You have no idea how many times I've attempted to write this post. Because Lord knows it needed to be written; I just haven't had the strength or the stamina to be the one to do it. Now I've dissected, studied and successfully attacked some of the most irritating people in our society—Red vests; Playfully Difficult People; Smug Pugs; Backpack Rollers; Meghan McCain—and biting words normally flow right out of my head and onto this blog at an alarming rate. However, every time I sit down and try to analyze those god damn Metro Pole Leaners, I become so overwhelmed with an unprecedented amount of confusion and anger that the only thing I can manage to do is mash my keyboard with clenched fists of rage, attach this picture and call it a post:


But that's not fair. It's not fair to me, it's not fair to you and it's certainly not fair to Metro Pole Leaners. Because they deserve to have new assholes ripped thoroughly and properly and who am I to deny them that? Sigh. Look. What it all boils down to is this:

 Things that are appropriate to lean on:
- Sturdy walls
- Appropriately high safety railings
- Backs of chairs
- Counter tops
- Friends
- Family
- Bill Withers

 Things that are not appropriate to lean on:
- Plate glass windows
- Things made out of trick wood
- Jenga towers
- Stilt walkers
- A one-legged friend
- Me after a few cocktails
- METRO POLES DURING RUSH HOUR

For the sweet love of all that is holy, you can not lean on the poles in the metro during rush hour. You just. Can't. And the fact that people do everyday—morning and night!—boggles my mind and makes me question everything I've been taught about right and wrong and the definition of voluntary vs. involuntary manslaughter.

For those of you who don't live in a major metropolitan city with it's own subway system and have no idea what I'm talking about, allow me to explain. A subway (conversely called a metro, T, El etc.) is a system of transportation in which people are shot through a tunnel underground at high speeds. Having taken high school physics and shown up the day when Newton's First and Second Laws of Motion were explained, the metro car designers were savvy enough to install poles for people to grab onto in an effort to not go flying about and topple all over each other. Now I will give you this: it is genuinely more comfortable to lean against said pole than to just hold on to it with your hand. TRUE STATEMENT, yes. However, during rush hour, commuters are jammed into cars like cattle and there isn't enough room to keep your butt virginity, nevertheless enjoy little luxuries like leaning against the pole. Because when you do that, you render the entire pole useless from ass to neck for your fellow riders. And that, in a nutshell, makes you a piece of shit.

Case and point—check out this guy who graced my morning commute a few weeks ago at approximately 8:45 in the morning:


I mean, I feel like I could just post that picture and call it a day. It does all the work for me. The pole is quite literally being cradled betwixt this man's ass cheeks. Where in the name of Christ was I supposed to grab to steady myself? His ankles? The nape of his neck? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was on a third date, no thank you. Of course everyone around me was in the same predicament, so now not only are we all butt-fucking each other, we're also playing a massive game of human pick-up-sticks with arms going every which way, desperately trying to grab onto anything to steady ourselves. Unfortunately for me, by the time I realized Pole Fucker wasn't going to give up his precious pole real estate, it was too late and there was nothing left for me to grab. Suddenly I was in Lionel Richie's Dancin' on the Ceiling video and I had one foot on the wall, both hands on the ceiling and one leg wrapped around a total stranger, just praying to any and every god that will listen for the metro conductor to ease her into the next station and not jam on the brakes, sending me flying into an Asian man's lap.

Here's what really irritates me about Metro Pole Leaners: you could not find a more irritating, intrusive and inconvenient way to communicate to your fellow man that you just don't give a fuck. That's what MPL's are saying, by the way—"I don't give a fuck." And let me tell you something: in civilized society at 8:45 in the morning, crammed into a tiny tin can being shot through a tube at 40mph, genitals-to-ass and ass-to-genitals— you should give a fuck. I have very little hope left for society and even I feel like that's not too much to ask. I mean, you might as well whip your dick out and do pirouettes while pissing. Because that would communicate the exact same level of Dont-Give-a-Fuck to each and every individual in a 360-degree radius just as well.

I seriously show the above picture off to everybody and anybody who'll look at it like I'm a proud new mother. I am that desperate for someone to explain it to me. I was just showing it to my sister last Sunday at brunch when she brought up the point that most Metro Pole Leaners tend to be tourists who don't know any better. I personally think she's giving MPL's way too much credit because a.) I have experienced many an Executive Metro Pole Leaner in my day and b.) New York is just as touristy and I feel like when I lived there I never experienced this problem. You would have to be fucking suicidal to lean against a subway pole during rush hour in New York. This begs the question—is this yet another commuting problem unique to DC? Are we that much a city of nerds that we can't even get the courage to ask MPL's to ackrite?

It's a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. Because yes, I think we, as a city, are way too easy on MPL's. However, it's been my experience that even if you do point out to an MPL what they're doing, they still don't give a fuck. In fact, when I ask an MPL to move, 100% of the time (and I am in no way inflating that number just to get my point across) they get offended, as if I'm intruding on their space. In their minds, that's their pole and you have no business tryin' to get all up on it. MPL's are a strictly Pole Monogamous people. And that in and of itself is more mind boggling than the fact that they're on the pole to begin with! Because the metro is a mode of PUBLIC transportation. PUBLIC! Meaning for the people! You don't pay rent, asshole! GAHHHHH IT'S JUST SO FUCKING INFURIATING!!!!!1

Which is why I feel no remorse in having sucker-punched an MPL in the back of the head and urge you to do the same. Well, maybe don't punch them, but certainly don't be afraid to stand up for yourself when encountering an MPL! And if they give you shit (and they will give you shit) don't back down! Odds are everyone around you is thinking the exact same thing as you and if Jerry Seinfeld's career taught us anything it's that people have a soft-spot in their hearts for people who say what you're thinking. They'll have your back, don't worry. And even if they don't, I do. FIST PUMP OUT!

WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?!?!?!

I would like to preface this post by stating that I, for all intents and purposes, am an intelligent young woman. I spent 12 years in one of the country's best public school systems. I went to a great college. I graduated with honors. I watch Jeopardy at the gym with the captions on. I'm in a book club. Clearly, I'm a highly enlightened individual.

That being said, I learned something yesterday that blew my fucking mind.

Narwhals. Really. Exist.


WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!??!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! I can't even put into words how completely disturbed and shaken up I am by this revelation. Do you understand that I've spent my entire adult life thinking that narwhals are mythical creatures on par with unicorns, fairies, centaurs and cherubs? My entire fucking life. But guess what? They're as real as you and me! They are real creatures of the sea. They're fucking mammals for Christ's sake! They've been classified—that is how real they are! Do you know what blows my mind? I could be swimming in the Arctic Ocean and feasibly, out of nowhere, I could get impaled by the horn of a narwhal. And when news of my death reaches home, the baffling part won't be that a narwhal killed me, it will be why was I in the Arctic Ocean in the first place?" That's the troubling part. WHAT THE FUCK?! You know that scene in A Beautiful Mind when Russell Crow is standing before his intricate wall of magazine clippings and it suddenly dawns on him that there's no connection between the articles because he made the entire thing up and he's totally Schizophrenic? That is what I feel like right now. I've been google image searching narwhals for the past three hours now and the only thing standing between me and a panic attack is this comical illustration of Barack Obama riding one:


Allow me put you in my shoes for a moment. Let's talk about Dragons. Dragons are not real. Furthermore, it is widely accepted among all of Planet Earth that they're not real. Correct? Correct. Now, imagine that one day a friend casually drops into conversation that Dragons are real! But not only are they real, their population is thriving by the thousands in the Arctic and everybody knows this but you. It's common knowledge. You're the dumb-fuck for thinking they're mythological creatures. You're the weirdo. You're the one people look at with a concerned look in their eyes. You call your parents in shock and they just sigh heavily because this is one more thing that you've managed to let escape you. THAT'S ME! I'M THE DRAGON DUMB-FUCK!

This all started last Saturday night when it somehow came up in pre-Jäger Ball conversation with the Tulane Chris and Co-Blogger Chris that Narwhals "exist." Frankly, I 100% didn't believe them. My friends, bless their hearts, are assholes who think it's hilarious to misinform me about things so I look like an idiot when I repeat it later. Kind of like the time at the Cheesecake Factory when Helena—fully knowing I was on the Atkins Diet—told me that everybody knows whipped cream doesn't have carbs! so I face-raped like three plates full while she watched and silently laughed. Or the time Helena told me a "pundit" was a medieval council of elders who decide the fate of heretics and those who speak ill of the King. Or the time Helena told me it was a totally awesome idea to buy and wear a John Deere baby-tee. In retrospect, Helena is an asshole, but either way I totally thought the Chris's were fucking with me. I was randomly musing about this yesterday, giving myself a pat on the back for being so clever and out-smarting the Chris's when I made the horrible decision to google "Narwhal" for funsies. (And let's not lie, because management is here all week and I'm desperate to look like I'm actually doing something.) I clicked on Images. And there they were: NARWHALS. HONEST-TO-GOD NARWHALS. And thousands of educational websites about narwhals! And videos! And books! And a Twitter account! (@common_narwhal!)

Facts I learned about narwhals that blow my mind:
- They are real
- They can not talk
- Their horn is actually an incisor tooth
- They are predators
- SOME MALES HAVE DUAL TUSKS:
http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/narwhal-hunt.jpg
- There is only a single recorded case of a female narwhal with dual tusks
- They eat shrimp
- They can dive 4,500 feet under the sea and stay there for 25 minutes!
- Male narwhals rub one another's tusks together in an activity called "tusking," which makes me want to vomit
- Their tusks were sold in medieval times as unicorn horns and were worth up to twice their weight in gold
- Nobody knows the function of their tusks; they serve no evolutionary purpose!

BAHHHH WTF?!?!?! But you know what concerns me most? That I managed to get through 16 years of school without learning that narwhals are real animals. That in and of itself is baffling. I mean, I took college level biology and evolution. (Although the lowest grade I got in my entire college career was in evolution. In my defense, I took it with Alex and Helena and we spent the entire class making up comical mini-quizzes for each other about the random personal facts our professor would inject into his lectures and instead of studying, got drunk and free-styled about trilobites...so I guess that didn't help.) And! Apparently there's an entire chapter in Moby Dick on narwhals! I read that in AP Lit! And by I read that, I mean I read selected portions of the Cliffs Notes before giving up and asking my dad to write my paper for me because he loves that book and I'm a stupid, spoiled sack of shit. God damnit! I'm always looking for the easy way out.

I also feel a certain sense of betrayal that nobody bothered to tell me the truth about narwhals. I seriously sat at my computer yesterday slowly scrolling through my gchat contacts thinking, "All of you know that narwhals are real animals and not a single one of you told me...you are all TRAITORS!!!!1" Then I sent an email to my dad about my revelation and asked him why he never bothered to tell me. All I got in return was this incredibly snarky and condescending and email:

We were just talking about Narwhals at dinner last night (again!!!). We were going to get you one for Christmas but we were worried about the horn (in reality a big tooth - paging Dr. Aroyo) getting caught in your clothes when you hugged it. Which you would do all the time because they are soooo huggable. We'll get you a My-Little Narwhal instead.

You never see anything about Narwhals on TV so you just don’t think about them. What a shame.

Next we’ll have to talk about the Jackalope, the mystical half Jack Rabbit and half antelope that roams free around the great American Southwest. Or Vampire Squid! Or flying snakes! Or Voles and Lemmings! Or Tasmanian Devils! And don’t get me started about the Amazonian insects the enter your skin through cuts and lay eggs there and then the larvae starts moving around so you can see your skin ripple. Or an Amazonian fish that swims up your “you know what.” So many great but little known animals that we just don’t talk about over dinner and a drink. Remember when you once thought of badgers like that?

Love,
DAD

God damnit. I did used to think of badgers like that. I also thought that wolverines were just lady wolves for an embarrassing amount of time. But none of my animal enlightenments have disturbed me quite as much as this whole narwhal brouhaha. Why am I so clueless about animals? I've been to the zoo like 900 times. And the Natural History museum. And, you know, 16 years of fucking school. This is just so incredibly unsettling. I called my mom yesterday and told her I felt like I was going to have a panic attack and she barked at me to "get over it." "Why are you being so mean?!" I asked her. "[sigh] Meghan, there are plenty of things in life to get anxious about," she explained, "NARWHALS are not one of them."

I, madam, beg to differ. I leave you now with this education NatGeo video on narwhals that in my mind is just as disturbing as watching a snuff film. Enjoy:

Foot on the Other Shoe.

Yesterday I was in the vortex of heat and humidity that is the Dupont metro station, just standin', mindin' my own business, not putting "g's" on the end of my words when a man walked by me. But this wasn't just any man. No no no. This man looked shockingly like Milton from Office Space. He was rotund, had an impressive comb-over, was wearing a bona fide pocket protector and of course was wheeling a rolling briefcase behind him. As if this weren't enough to ruin my morning, he wheeled his little briefcase directly over my foot and didn't apologize.

Now, I could go easily go into a rant here about the necessary eradication of briefcases with wheels and the a-fucks who roll them, but let me tell you why he didn't apologize to me (because it takes it to a whole nother level of mind boggling): he didn't apologize to me because he was too busy singing "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" from Evita. I swear to all that is good and holy, just picture this guy strolling through the metro yesterday, haphazardly dragging his briefcase behind him, singing show tunes from Evita and you pretty much have my morning down to a T:
A:

+B:

= C:


What boggles my mind the most is that he was shamelessly singing at full volume! He wasn't even wearing headphones and singing along to what he was listening to! Not like that would make it any better, just more understandable. But I will not cry for you, sir. I will not cry for you, for you just dragged the contents of your briefcase across my foot without a shred of an apology.

After work I swung by the FedEx store around the corner from my office to send out a package. The chick at the FedEx store hates me because I always write our company's FedEx account number wrong and screw things up. The middle numbers are 722 and I always write 772. As I approached the counter and handed her my package (that's what she said,) the following exchange went down:

Sassy FedEx Employee: How you doin' today?
Me: I'm OK thanks, you?
Sassy FedEx Employee: Fine. Now you sure you wrote your account number right this time?
Me: Oh yea. Sorry about that. Dyslexia: she's a cruel, cruel mistress. I mean—mistress cruel Dyslexia is!

Sassy FedEx Employee then looked up from entering numbers in the computer and stared at me with a look on her face that clearly said, "the fuck??" I know this facial expression well. I give it to other people on a regular basis. And then I realized—I'm this woman's Milton Perón. I'm the weirdo who ruined her day. Not the other way around. She's probably going to go home and have a good laugh with her friends about the fucktard who referred to Dyslexia as a "cruel mistress." Why did I have to do that? Why couldn't I have just said, "Yes, I wrote the correct number" and moved on with my life? And why did I have to go the whole nine yards and make the "mistress cruel Dyslexia is" joke?

Humbling.

Wait...Kelly Bensimon is a what now?

When I get stressed out or overwhelmed by life, I Wikipedia things. Wikipedia-ing is a very therapeutic act for me, I don't really know how to explain it. Looking for a little Zen this morning, I decided to Wikipedia The Real Housewives of New York City. The following, from Kelly Bensimon's bio, caught my eye:





...Wait...what now? Kelly Bensimon is an aspiring carpet cleaner? Why is that the funniest sentence I've ever read in my entire life? Specifically that she's not just a carpet cleaner, she's an aspiring carpet cleaner.

I'm slightly confused though...is Kelly Bensimon really an aspiring carpet cleaner? And what exactly does that mean? My first theory was that maybe she's coming out with a special line of Kelly Bensimon Carpet Cleaner. Lord knows those bitches are hawking everything else under the sun, it wouldn't be that odd for one of them to have their own brand of carpet cleanser. However, a google search for "Kelly Bensimon" and "carpet cleaner" yielded nothing helpful.

So then I moved on to Urban Dictionary.

Carpet Cleaner:
From "Dick McPlenty:" While banging a girl doggy style, tie her arms behind her back, lift up her hips, and run around the room pushing her face first across the carpet. Not recommended with large women.
i.e. she shur is one helluva good carpet cleaner

I'm going to choose to go with Dick McPlenty on this one and believe that Kelly Bensimon enjoys having her arms tied behind her back as she's gettin' hit from behind and pushed around the room like a vacuum cleaner. In the most amateur way possible.



God bless Wikipedia.