Dear Employer,

Please do not attempt to make me stay late when I have a haircut appointment right after work, as it makes me exceedingly cranky.

Yours Shaggily,

Moose

(This was typed on my Treo earlier this evening – just getting home to post it)

Spring is here, even if it’s not.

The temperatures outside have been hovering in the 30s to 50s for the past week. Snow was seen the Saturday before Easter. Flowers are having problems staying up and in bloom. However, despite all this, I know it’s Spring. Because my default fall-back waiting-for-someone-after-I’ve-just-gotten-my-hair-cut 17th Street bar, 30 Degrees, is busy on a Wednesday at 7:30.

The gays are out in force, they’re chatting away, looking stylish in either work drag (suit) or gay boy drag (jeans, sporty shirt), and drinking like the fish we are. If there were a clearer sign that warmer weather is on its way and that bad swimsuits and tank tops are just around the corner, I’m not sure what it would be.

The array of obsure yet terribly fashionable jeans alone is staggering. Patterns on pockets and pants legs which are hardly ever on display outside of you-have-to-be-introduced-by-someone-in-the-know dark shops are peeking out from under belts which betray the designer hopes of their wearers only in the subtle (or not so subtle) buckles. Boys are comparing power phone Blackberry and/or Treo cases and the latest models, and discussuons of who’s going where for which holidays and the summer months when DC decamps to Delaware in such numbers that Rehoboth and Dewey might as well be referred to as Washington in exile echo off the walls. The social pecking order is being established, and men are found desirable or lacking in the flash of a device or the dropping of a name.

Fancy drinks flow freely, like sap rising in the cherry trees around the Mall, and the definitive sign of Spring has come: the gay boys are out to mate.

Dear random cyclist,

Thank you for your attempted entry into the 2006 Darwin Awards, however we wish to note that your entry, “idiot on bicycle in traffic with headphones,” is far too common an occurance to rate a mention in this contest. Good luck on your continuing attempts to remove yourself from the gene pool, and let us know if you pick something more original.

Sincerely,

Darwin

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Dear 95% of the runners I saw out this morning,

Cotton?!?! WTF? Go get some real clothing that doesn’t weigh 10 gazillion pounds when it gets wet because you’re sweating like mad in this heat. It’s worth it. Trust me.

Sincerely,

Someone who got overheated just looking at you
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Dear Fish Market,

I realize you specialize in dead things, but do you have to smell like a charnal house first thing in the morning? Please at least spray down the parking lot. Thanks.

Sincerely,

A disgusted runner
—-
Dear Mother Nature,

Would a breeze have killed you this morning? Thanks for nothing.

Sincerely,

Overheated in DC
—-
Dear Designers of the DC Waterfront,

Would some more trees, and less concrete, have killed you? I know you wanted magnificent vistas, but damn is all that concrete miserably warm in the summer. Same for L’Enfant Promenade, more trees, less concrete. Idiots.

Sincerely,

A disgusted fan of midcentury architecture
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Dear DC City Planners,

Yes, the Waterfront and Promenade are historic, but c’mon, let’s get with the times. Modern Organic would be so much nicer, and make the areas so much more appealing. More trees, less concrete. Thanks.

Sincerely,

An annoyed resident

Dear Paranoid Co-Worker,

While we appreciate that you don’t want to touch the toilet seat with your bare ass, the building in which we work is kind enough to supply the room with toilet seat covers for just such a contingency. Your repeated use of hand towels in multiple layers to cover the seat, which almost inevitably leads to clogging of one of the three stalls in the restroom, is rude at best. We, your male co-workers, do not appreciate that you manage, on a regular basis, to take out one of the stalls and prevent the rest of us from using it. The seat covers are perfectly adequate to protecting even the most delicate of assflesh, and are designed to be flushed down the toilet, unlike the hand towels you insist upon using.

If you do not mend your ways and get with the program, we will be forced to administer an appropriate public punishment. A swirlie in the currently blocked toilet seems the most likely course of action.

Sincerely,

Your Annoyed Co-Workers

Dear Credit Union,

I appreciate that you still give me the option of requesting funds from your Automated Teller Machines in $5 increments as well as $20 increments, but did you have to give me the entire $60 I withdrew this evening in $5 bills? Thanks.

One Perplexed Moose

Ken gets a makeover, still refuses to come out of the closet, despite new “metrosexual” look.

Boy toy still claiming he loves Barbie, wants to get back with her, says that any and all likeness to John Paulk are purely coincidental.