Fuck Comcast

They’ve fucked up my home phone somehow and in a completely unrelated occurrence, happened to fuck up my home internet in the process. I am too tired and stressed agitated to deal with this after being up since 4 am, but I am ready to raise hell if their constant fuck ups have fried my router. But until then, no LoL or internet at home. Fuck Comcast.

I’m probably going to get killed by a brown recluse tonight


Since I was yet again unable to make it out of my personal purgatory, Washington Reagan National Airport, I’m stuck at my parents’ house for an extra night. I sat around for a few hours once again baffled at the endless array of employees putting their families through standby hell, unable to move up the list myself, before debating on whether or not to punt on the rest of the day and try to salvage some non-airport sanity and spend some time with the parents alternatively. When I saw a girl throw up directly into a trash can, I knew it was time to bail. I’m guessing she might have been preggers, but it also happened to be in front of McDonald’s.

Since if all went according to plan, I wouldn’t be here, I’m guessing this is the night one of the brown recluse spiders in the basement, kills me.

Now that I have this unexpected free time, I’ve been musing about this most recent trip up to the old home. I’ve decided that officially, Virginia is a worse place to drive than in Georgia is. Georgia is far, far, far from perfect, but I’ve decided that I can tolerate driving with insanely aggressive black drivers a lot more than I can tolerate driving with petrified and passive drivers from all reaches of the Eastern hemisphere.

Furthermore, the endless array of road projects that the old Commonwealth undertakes guarantees that Virginia drivers never have a reprieve from worrying about what part of their commute is going to be plagued with orange cones and barrels littering the shoulders and causing congestion and standstill, crippling traffic. In the span of three days, I endured traffic on both ends of 495 that happened in the morning, afternoon as well as the unexplainable evening. Local roads that I thought I once knew weren’t much better relief.

Virginia has an estimated $5 billion dollar road budget annually, and regardless of what needs to be done or not, like any functioning department, they see fit to use all that money on monotonous and redundant road projects no matter what. It’s like if Dr. Who hopped into the tardis and went into Virginia circa 2154 AD, there would be no doubt still be crippling traffic on the roads and for the flying cars and shit. It’s like its what Virginia is destined to be known for, forever and ever, if it continues like this.

Sadly, after all these trips where I get stranded and have to deal with bullshit from time to time, I sometimes feel like I’m really beginning to resent Virginia. It’ll always be my place of birth, and the place where I was born, raised and educated, but I’ll be damned if I don’t feel disgusted and aggravated with this place more often than used to with each passing trip.

A funny thing happened the other day


Some of my friends and I went to the Vortex to support our friend Chrissie at an open mic night. She was fantastic, by the way, and I’d love to see when she performs again in August.

Anyway, in the middle of the show, we were notified of when the night hit the halfway point, and the emcee came out and admonished everyone who were incapable of putting away their cell phones and incessantly checking their twitter and Facebook accounts. But then out of the blue, she introduces a special halftime guest who just happened to be in the area on this night: Chris Tucker.

It was funny at first, because the name “Chris Tucker” isn’t uncommon or anything, so nobody really thought much of it, but after he got on stage and people slowly realized it was the Chris Tucker of Rush Hour and the Fifth Element fame, the applause grew immensely.

He did somewhere around seven minutes of good stuff, naturally touching on the racist jokes, relationship jokes and sex jokes that the Vortex crowd tends to favor towards.

Considering the last time I was treated to a celebrity bonus improv set, Richard Jeni ended up eventually failing to kill himself before dying from his self-inflicted wounds, I sure hope Chris Tucker has a far better and longer life ahead of him. But damn, that boy looks to have been hitting the weights pretty fervently since the Rush Hour days.

Do not want


Since I’m going to be up in NOVA this weekend, so that I can watch baseball, meet Hacksaw Jim Duggan, be reminded of how old as fuck I am at Otakon, meet the Green Ranger, and watch more baseball, I thought about hitting up Malibu Grill, for old times’ sake. The good one, the one in Falls Church, the one that really started it all. Not the one in Fair Lakes, the one that used to be the Bertucci’s where I used to work when I was 16, the one that ultimately ended up turning into half a Chinese restaurant.

The good news is that the one in Fair Lakes is dead. It’s better that way. I wished death upon them than being half of a Chinese restaurant anyway.

The bad news is that I just discovered that the Falls Church Malibu Grill is also dead. Their website is still up, but is merely an obituary, a headstone to what was once quite possibly the greatest restaurant in my entire life.

This upsets me greatly. This was the churrascaria to end all churrascarias. Where the phrase “ten different meats” and “Silver Kings” were born. Where between at least Huzzard and myself, we ate close to an entire farm’s worth of animals. Throw in all the people I’d brought to them on 25+ people excursions, and we could effectively have fed Zimbabwe twice over.

But now, they’re gone too. With both Malibu Grills dead and buried, it really is all over. All that’s left are a bunch of overblown, inane, falsely fancified husks of restaurants claiming to be churrascarias, where they charge twice what Malibu charged, for sub-standard meats and products. Texas de Brazil. Fire of Brazil. Fogo de Chau. Boi na Braza. Etcetera, etcetera.

It is a sad day, even if Malibu had been dead for months, maybe years before I learned this today. When I’m at Pickle’s Pub on Saturday, I think I need to pour a little bit out for my dead homies.

If this is what I think it is


I don’t think I’m going to come to parents’ house, like ever again. I don’t even think I’m going to be sleeping in my old bedroom tonight, for that matter. Jesus Christ ain’t got nothing on this demon from hell.

Whether or not it was a brown recluse or not is irrelevant. I actually think it was one. Regardless, I still beat it to death from a safe distance, with a baseball bat. A metal one. Silverfish, deer crickets, spider-crickets, I can deal with those things. But brown recluses? With their poison that dissolves canyons into human flesh??? No way, no fucking way. I love my old bedroom and my old bed, but I’m having some serious second thoughts about sleeping in that potential death trap now.