Days till Halloween: 2 (!!!!!!!)
CONGRATULATIONS TO THE RED SOX, THE 2007 WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Second Series Sweep - "We Will Fuck Your Shit Up"In case you weren't aware, because you're an antisocial freak or are locked in an epic battle of D&D (okay, same thing) the Red Sox are fucking WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS! We swept our second series since 2004, proving that we have the biggest, most succulent balls in the entire MLB franchise. We're like the Chuck Norris of baseball: The Red Sox do not wear condoms. Because there is no such thing as protection from The Red Sox.
Sox babies aside, the final game was a great one (though I nearly had an aneurysm when Atkins hit that 2 run homer), with Papelbon brought in to spank the Rockies within an inch of their lives, and clinch the series for us. The things that I would do to that man are far too graphic to be printed in this public blog (which, knowing the things I usually say, is really saying something.)
Merry Fucking Christmas, BitchesThe rest of the weekend was just as magical, as it was the famed Nightmare on M Street (as you can tell, I've found the color button) on Saturday night. The great thing about Halloween weekend is that as adults, we are completely entitled to go outside in as little clothing as possible, and no one is allowed to even blink an eye. It is the one night of the year (or several nights, depending on how many parties you go to) where you can saunter out your front door in a bra, garters and booty shorts, and you're not considered a complete maniac. Or Paris Hilton.
I decided to put a shirt on with that ensemble, but pretty much left very little to the imagination. And you can't say shit, cause it's a holiday. At least I don't do it on Christmas, though Red Sox Santa up there might approve. Being the original and creative genius that I am, I went as a "pirate" with - get this! - a belt, some knee high black leather boots, some gold hoop earrings, and a sash tied around my head. Genius! If that's not forging a new path, then I just don't know what is.
The crawl hit a number of big DC bars, including Rumors, The Madhatter, McFadden's, The Front Page, Ozio, Porters, and several others that I forget and don't feel like looking up. It probably should've been called a bar stop, however, as it took close to 45 minutes to actually get inside a bar, and at that point you were stone cold sober again and so in need of a plethora of alcohol that you couldn't bear to even think about leaving for another place.
I have no witty caption for this flyer
I decided to put a shirt on with that ensemble, but pretty much left very little to the imagination. And you can't say shit, cause it's a holiday. At least I don't do it on Christmas, though Red Sox Santa up there might approve. Being the original and creative genius that I am, I went as a "pirate" with - get this! - a belt, some knee high black leather boots, some gold hoop earrings, and a sash tied around my head. Genius! If that's not forging a new path, then I just don't know what is.
The crawl hit a number of big DC bars, including Rumors, The Madhatter, McFadden's, The Front Page, Ozio, Porters, and several others that I forget and don't feel like looking up. It probably should've been called a bar stop, however, as it took close to 45 minutes to actually get inside a bar, and at that point you were stone cold sober again and so in need of a plethora of alcohol that you couldn't bear to even think about leaving for another place.
I have no witty caption for this flyerWe ended up at Madhatter's, a place usually described as a "meat market" for the single-and-twenty crowd. I really hate the term "meat market," because it makes me think first of movies like Hostel, in which people are butchered for the sole joy of human butchering (much like my upstairs neighbor's nightly activities), and then of gay porn. Because seriously, when else do you use the term "meat" besides in those two genres?
During our wait in line, we were privileged to see a wide variety of fascinating costumes, including - but not limited to - these following gems:
Used Tampon: A guy wore a white one-piece long underwear suit, stuck some rope on his ass, put on a red swimming cap, and voila! Soiled female sanitary object! If that doesn't rake the ladies in, then there's no hope for mankind.
Chlamydia-Riddled Vagina: In keeping up with the night's female reproductive organ theme, a girl literally wore a giant vagina strapped to her chest, with an overflow of white, cheesy-looking discharge spewing forth from the fake orifice. She took particular pleasure in shaking it around at us, while joined - no lie - by Crabs, and her other diseased friends.
Legends of the Hidden Temple Teams: Thankfully, not everyone indulged in disgusting shows of the female form. We actually saw several people (mostly in teams), dressed up as the duos from The Legends of the Hidden Temple, complete with pendants and everything. It rocked so hard, I can't even explain.
Okay, so everything after that was pretty standard fare: naughty nurses abounded, cops and robbers walked hand-in-hand, carrots and bananas roamed the streets, and pimps and their hos made the rounds. It really was a magical night.
Where the magic happens, baby
During our wait in line, we were privileged to see a wide variety of fascinating costumes, including - but not limited to - these following gems:
Used Tampon: A guy wore a white one-piece long underwear suit, stuck some rope on his ass, put on a red swimming cap, and voila! Soiled female sanitary object! If that doesn't rake the ladies in, then there's no hope for mankind.
Chlamydia-Riddled Vagina: In keeping up with the night's female reproductive organ theme, a girl literally wore a giant vagina strapped to her chest, with an overflow of white, cheesy-looking discharge spewing forth from the fake orifice. She took particular pleasure in shaking it around at us, while joined - no lie - by Crabs, and her other diseased friends.
Legends of the Hidden Temple Teams: Thankfully, not everyone indulged in disgusting shows of the female form. We actually saw several people (mostly in teams), dressed up as the duos from The Legends of the Hidden Temple, complete with pendants and everything. It rocked so hard, I can't even explain.
Okay, so everything after that was pretty standard fare: naughty nurses abounded, cops and robbers walked hand-in-hand, carrots and bananas roamed the streets, and pimps and their hos made the rounds. It really was a magical night.
Where the magic happens, babyAfter learning my lesson from last week, I decided it would be smarter to drink less (5 beers as opposed to 10 mixed drinks - man, am I evolving or something?) and hooch myself out more. Wait. Fuck. Bad decisions were made, pictures were taken, and I had the most romantic thing whispered in my ear: "Don't worry, baby, I won't tag you in these on Facebook." So now I'm certain that if you visit www.DumbCostumedWhores.com you'll probably find my head photoshopped onto a naked body. Or several naked bodies, 'cause some of those sites are outta control. Let's just say that I still have a long road ahead of me, loyal readers.
I did not, however, leave with anyone besides Erin, which in-and-of itself puts me light years ahead of the rest of the gyrating crowd. I made her switch shoes with me on the walk home, as I was both too sore from wearing the boots to continue the trek, and too drunk to properly put one foot in front of the other, and not break an ankle in the process. Those boots have like, 4 inch heels. They're dangerous.
We were stopped by a seemingly normal looking man (this was after 3:00am, mind you), who first tried to pick our brains about bars in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am and that's last call), then about packies in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am"), and then tried to see if we had any beer that we might graciously bestow upon them ("No, it's 3am, and if you touch my beer I'll fucking rip your jugular out.") Always classy, DC. Always classy.
Sunday was spent recuperating, eating giant servings of lasagna and fettuccine alfredo (and chocolate frosted donuts, the awesomely tasty ones that come in those boxes and are about $1.50 at 7-11), watching a Supernatural marathon, and then cheering on the Sox as they steamrolled over the pitiful pussies that are the Rockies.
All-in-all, a fabulous weekend. Even if I did return a Zipcar late and got charged $50, but that's okay: I can put on my pirate costume and work the corner to get the money back. Like I said, always classy.
I did not, however, leave with anyone besides Erin, which in-and-of itself puts me light years ahead of the rest of the gyrating crowd. I made her switch shoes with me on the walk home, as I was both too sore from wearing the boots to continue the trek, and too drunk to properly put one foot in front of the other, and not break an ankle in the process. Those boots have like, 4 inch heels. They're dangerous.
We were stopped by a seemingly normal looking man (this was after 3:00am, mind you), who first tried to pick our brains about bars in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am and that's last call), then about packies in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am"), and then tried to see if we had any beer that we might graciously bestow upon them ("No, it's 3am, and if you touch my beer I'll fucking rip your jugular out.") Always classy, DC. Always classy.
Sunday was spent recuperating, eating giant servings of lasagna and fettuccine alfredo (and chocolate frosted donuts, the awesomely tasty ones that come in those boxes and are about $1.50 at 7-11), watching a Supernatural marathon, and then cheering on the Sox as they steamrolled over the pitiful pussies that are the Rockies.
All-in-all, a fabulous weekend. Even if I did return a Zipcar late and got charged $50, but that's okay: I can put on my pirate costume and work the corner to get the money back. Like I said, always classy.
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