Every City Sucks: D.C.

Ah. At least. The final installment of Every City Sucks is here. I know no one asked for it or wanted it, but it’s here. And look, I didn’t even format it right, because I stopped giving a shit.


Poor George Washington. The man saves our asses from the British and serves two terms as President, and we name Washington, D.C. after him. A simple lugi in the face would have sufficed, but no, we soil his name by slapping in on a nest of crime and corruption so nefarious that no state will lay claim to it.

No good deed goes unpunished, I guess.

I was first dragged, kicking and screaming, to the District sometime back in the late nineties. I can’t remember the year. I was a kid, and the asshole elementary school I was going to at the time decided it hated our guts and shipped us to Washington.

As far as I remember, it was cold during our banishment. I distinctly remember seeing a grimy hobo lying on a grate and greedily sucking up a constant geyser of steam. Fucking thief. I ordered the bus driver to run his lazy ass over, but she demurred, and, as my minions were too busy gawking out the window, I withheld retribution. Let her sweat a little, you know?

One thing I can say about D.C.: They have a fucking awesome children’s museum. I can hardly remember it, but it was sweet. Had all sorts of shit to fucking around with, elaborate playsets and all. Man, I dug that place so hard.

Oh, yeah, I think we also swung by the Smithsonian. Don’t hold me to that, though.

Other than that, all I remember is standing on a sidewalk and looking up at the Washington Monument (?) and wondering while in the hell D.C. had a hard-on. Probably something Clinton did. He was King Turd back then, and if there’s one thing Willy boys digs, it’s perverted shit.

The next time I went to Washington was 2005. I was living in West Virginia at the time, and the school I was going to decided it hated my guts, so it sent me back. Only this time around, I didn’t get to play at the children’s museum (damn!). No. This school really hated me, so it made me go to the Native American Museum (or what the hell ever they call it). Indians have never really been my thing (though I loved their work in Dances with Wolves), so I was pretty fucking bored.

There was a bright spot, though: At the end of the tour, we stopped at their little foodcourt for lunch. Imagine this: It’s a café that serves authentic Native American cuisine, each tribe being represented by its own little kiosk.

Because they hated me so much, my cruel overloads gave me only a fiver to work with. Hello, McFly: This is a museum food court. You can’t even get a soda for five bucks.

Somehow, I managed to find something at one of the Plains counter: Buffalo meat chili. Yeah, because Indian chefs a thousand years ago were preparing Spanish-influenced fare. Dumbasses. It was good, at least.

The highlight of the whole pitiful trip was passing by the Watergate. For those of you who aren’t in the know, the Watergate is a hotel where Forrest Gump ended the Presidency of Richard Nixon in the early seventies. I know all that happened more than thirty years before I showed up, but geez, the place was seedy. No wonder Nixon’s goons were hanging around; it practically screamed “Lowlife.”

Finally, my third trip came in early 2009. The school I was attending at the time decided they loved me, so they sent me to visit the Center for Exploited Children, where John motherfucking Walsh keeps an office (when I found that out, I sprang the biggest boner of my life. The whole trip, I was looking for him, hoping against hope that I’d round a corner and come face-to-face with Him, but, of course, I didn’t. Story of my life).

Later that day, I moseyed on over to the DEA headquarters, and wandered wide-eyed though a little museum they had dedicated to the War on Drugs. I’ve never seen so many crack pipes and used needles in my life.

While my various trips to the most corrupt city in the nation didn’t entirely suck, I don’t plan on going back. And if I ever do, I’m taking the President with me. Whoever he or she may be. (J/K, Secret Service guys).