The Game

Mulder was getting married. This called for long time UGAnime and Team Greenwood amigos to come together and celebrate with lots and lots of alcohol. The destination? No other place would be able to handle such an intense concentration of pure awesomeness than the nation's capital: Washington, DC. The time? The middle of the hottest goddamn heat wave the city's ever seen since FDR let loose a methane explosion that blew out all the White House windows and crippled his ass back in '36. The reason? I just explained it to you, you goddamn retards.

The Players

Me (The Rossman)	Captain Rugged
Mulder	Bloodberry
Mehve	Mr. Bloodberry
Psycho Weasel	Foxfur

The Warning

No animals were intentionally harmed during the making of this production. Well, except for Captain Rugged — though he's been telling us he's "not an animal... [He's] a human beeeeeeeeean!" for years now, so I guess that still stands. Legally.

Anyway, do not try any of these stunts yourself, unless you find yourself in DC with some time to kill and an open bar on a Saturday night. We are all professionals (some of us professional drinkers, some professional badasses, and I, the Rossman, am a professional asshole when I need to be).

The Tale

It all started in April of 2009. Mulder called me up out of the blue and said, "Dude! What're you doing? I mean like in July, around the end of the month?" I said, "Maybe going down to Tijuana again, my supply of cheap prosti-- Nothing that can't be changed. Why? What's up?"

"Holy crap!...... I'm getting married, man! You're coming, right?"

The first thing that hit my mind was of course what I immediately said: "Suck me sideways! That's awesome! Congratulations! Fuck yes I'll be there! I wouldn't miss that for a Gamma Ray concert!" The second thing that raked across my brain (that I was smart enough to not say out loud) was, "Goddammit! I'm the fucking last of all the original crew of UGAnime fuckers to get hitched! Fuck me!" But that was just me being a little bitch.

Soon though, when I asked what the whole rush was to getting to the altar in 3 months time I was told, "Umm, no, dude, it's July of 2010." Then I almost asked what the non-rush was, but I kept that thought to myself and told him, "Yeah, I think I can get a day or two of time off by then."

Then time slipped through the hourglass like ice-cream through the fingers of a retard on a hot summer day, and before I knew it I found myself listening to Denny Crane and booking my flight and shit through Priceline.com for the upcoming nuptials. Everything was to happen just outside of Washington, DC, and I was ready to tear the holy capital a new one with some metaphorical anal plugs I'd been saving! This would be a Greenwood/UGAnime gathering to shake the heavens with a raucous festivity, and flood the hells with alcohol-tinted pee! This I command!

So the day of travel arrived (the Friday before the big day), and I made it to the capital city by around noon with absolutely no kooky shit happening to me or my luggage of about 80 pounds of Dutch wives, whips, chains, candles, masks, pepper spray, packages of Jell-O instant pudding, and Judy Blume books. Then I waited at the airport for 45 goddamn minutes for the shuttle from my hotel to swing by and pick me up. I was told by the hotel the day before that they do the round trip from the exit gate to the front door of the Crowne Plaza every 10 to 15 minutes. I finally got fed up and said, "GODDAMMIT! Fuck you sonovacockinAAAAAAAAAARRGH!" and marched over to the taxi stand and prepared myself to get butt raped by the local non-English-speaking cabbies.

"Whatchoo where to going now?" asked the first taxi driver as I approached. I walked past him.

The next one said, "How far to the brothel for you to go?" I was tempted to check to see if I heard him correctly, but continued to the third cabbie.

"Where to, mac?" said the surly Middle Eastern man. I got in and slammed the door behind me. I noticed that his meter was already at $3.50 (plus a $2.50 "airport fee"), but I didn't care.

"Crowne Plaza, amigo," I stated. "It's not even 2 miles from here." 42 minutes later, after a short side trip to Williamsburg, he dropped me off, and after checking in I proceeded to call up Mehve and Psycho Weasel, who were driving up together. No answer. I was hungry as hell, and looking for somebody to eat lunch with, so then I called up Captain Rugged/the Chief, and had Foxfur (the Mrs.) tell me that they were still in Atlanta and hadn't even left for the airport yet, but to check to see if Bloodberry and Mr. Bloodberry had arrived. No luck. Their phones were either off or at 30,000 feet. Then I said "fuck it," and decided to tour Crystal City (a system of malls and hotels, all connected via underground tunnels) for myself and find a nice restaurant to have a drink and a sammich at.

I'm making a postcard out of this image. It's the least I can do for my whore.

It was a very strange experience — walking through Crystal City that is... It felt very familiar, but I just couldn't place it. Anyway, soon I found this trendy Italian place called Kora. It had a big bar. I was sold.

I had three pints of Peroni waiting for my salmon meal to come out, and by that time my lightweight alcoholic metabolism was pretty fucking sloshed (Seriously, I hadn't had anything more than 2 small glasses of wine in a 24-hour period since "The Great Blackout of '09" when I woke up 3 days after I hit that kegger, in Ecuador covered in bat guano... I was very much out of practice). I kept laughing outloud and slapping the bar with my palm at the hilarity I was listening to on the Opie and Anthony Show I had recorded on my iPod. It was a "Worst Of" episode where the radio personalities had on a friend from Mad TV (some guy named Bobby Lee) who was absolutely tripping balls on the air. Opie, Anthony, and Li'l Jimmy Norton were making him think that they were in the middle of an earthquake in New York City, and he was just about to lose it when some goddamn brilliant genius of an intern found and put on a bunny costume and started dancing in the window of the studio where they were broadcasting. Bobby pretty much shit himself when nobody else claimed to have seen it. Oh my GOD was it hilarious! O&A and Jimmy Norton kept pushing him, and when Bobby ran out into the hallway and started checking all the offices on the floor he couldn't find one trace of the bunny suit! While trying to shovel forkfuls of fish into my mouth I kept blurting things out like, "Holy shit! He can't find the bunny outfit! *Gya ha ha ha ha!* Whoever that intern was, they need to give him a fucking giant bonus! Holy fuck, I think I peed my pants!" They added on an extra 40% to my bill for "gratuity and beer and spittle mopping fees" and kicked me out, but I was flying high so I didn't care.

As I stumbled around town I came across the Crystal City Metro train line and figured "what the hell!" Like the late MegaPlayboy said before getting eaten by that dog and hit by that train, "When you're in a goddamn new town, bitch, you do the HELL out of it! Now where's my pr0n?!" So I bought an all-day pass and jumped on that motherfuckin' train without knowing where the hell it was going.

Luckily it was the Yellow Line, and I got on the car heading towards DC Prime. I chose to get off at the Pentagon stop though because A). I really had to pee, and B). that guy with the sunken cheeks, dead, staring eyes, and open and mumbling mouth kept staring at me and licking his lips. I think he kept saying "Pretty boy... Oh yeah, you a pretty one, ain'tcha!... Mmmmmmm, love to grab that sweet meat," but I never did ask. Instead, I walked out of the underground train stop at the giant military complex that is the heart of our nation's armed forces, and I have to tell you, I was a bit awed. The Pentagon is fucking HUGE, and holy fuck does it look secure (even with shitloads of tourists around it). The only complaint I have about the whole Pentagonal experience is just how tiny the 9/11 Memorial there is. It's a slab of granite with pretty much just "Nevar Forgit" written on it, and then there's another stone a foot or two away with the names of those lost on that day. And the worst part about the whole thing is that it's SO frickin' far away from the Metro entrance, and there are NO goddamn bathrooms anywhere near it or along the outside path too it. Oh, and the guards really frown upon pissing in generals' gas tanks.

I eventually made it back to the train station (after wandering around the Pentagon parking lot for around 15 minutes unsuccessfully looking for a place to relieve myself under the 105 degree blistering July sun) and luckily found that the next Yellow Line that came didn't have Crazy Mouth-Breathing Larry (or any of his kin) on it to stare at my crotch. The Yellow Line took me to L'Enfant Station, and I got off at Museum Row. The National Mall, and all of the Smithsonian Museums surrounding it, is a pretty amazing sight to see. But even more amazing is just how useless the Native American Museum is. It's this HUGE building on the Eastern end of the Mall, and it looks quite stately from the outside, but it feels all empty and, well, stereotypically lame inside it's impressive facade. The biggest exhibit was the one dealing with the Hekawi Tribe from F-Troop. Yeah, the wax sculptures of the Sioux warriors drinking the blood from the decapitated head of Custer while raping the dead bodies of the rest of the US Cavalry at Little Big Horn was interesting, but a trifle melodramatic for my taste. The ONLY redeeming factor about the whole place was it had a bathroom that wasn't too hard to find. That was the most fulfilling 5 minute urination session I'd had in a long time.

Who the fuck DOESN'T love giant Indian crotch?

After coming out of the loo, I began to actually look around at the crowd, and I noticed one strange thing: there were WAY too many boy scouts around. The whole place (not just the Native American Museum, but the whole of the Mall) was CRAWLING with them, like cockroaches with badges clambering all over a diseased pile of feces... Which one slightly slower-looking scout was doing on top of the droppings left by some enormous dog under a shady maple tree right outside of the building I just exited. I did not pretend to hide any of my disgust at the scouts. Hell, it's easy. I practice looking sick at people 9 hours a day. I win competitions. Don't try to out "sniffing-baby-diapers face" me. Anyway, my hatred towards the scouts goes way back to the 3rd grade, and my arch nemesis declaring that "the Boy Scouts of America are the first line of defense against Satan and [her] forces." I think that was the first time I actually called upon the dark one to swallow somebody's soul [disguised as mine] in exchange for a red hat. We've been inseparable ever since.

After that quick stop in the men's room/Native American History Museum (same difference), I marched on to the US Capitol Building.

Here I am doing something that I waited years to do! Yeah, I've seen the Capitol Building before, but always from a distance, and the last time I was in the DC I really didn't follow politics at all, and had no real hatred for bloated governmental spending or the wishy-washiness of all politicians, so I never did get this perfect shot that totally captures my personal feelings for all who work inside this glorious structure. Oh, and it also captures my feelings for Dan Brown and his retarded retellings of American history.

Anyway, the gentleman who took this picture for me was just sitting against a concrete pole on the other side of the small reflecting pool directly in front of the Capitol Building. He had a large professional-looking camera, with a HUGE zoom lens on it, though he looked almost like a homeless vagrant, just sitting there in sweaty, old clothes, scruffy hair and face, and a backpack covered in grime. It wasn't until after I got my picture and left him that I noticed why he was a little annoyed at me asking him to stop staring off into the distance through his camera zoom screen and picturize me: the fucker was spending his day staring at (and probably photographing) all the annoying fuckers in boy scout uniforms on the other side of the pond while smirking to himself like a starving man when faced with an all-you-can-eat Ryan's Steakhouse buffet. I had to wash my camera in gasoline when I stopped dry heaving.

The Capitol Building is pretty cool to see up close (after seeing it on TV and in movies for my entire life), though totally lifeless. I don't know if it was because all the senators and representatives were flying their private jets home already at 3PM on a Friday, or if they were in lockdown or something, and being wrangled into the sub-subbasement panic room. I DID see the DC police yell at a man, and then tackle the shit out of him, after he left his hatchback open in a parking spot right outside the domed building when he tried to walk away from it. No pictures from me though... I didn't want to spend my weekend under a bright spotlight in a dark room with good and bad cops asking me who I was spying for, and if I was in cahoots with Mr. Hatchback Guy or the Ruskies. I mean, I am good looking enough to be a Russian spy, you know. Seriously, did you see that hot chick who they caught spying for the Bolsheviks last month? I'd bang her in a Moscow minute! Hot like Chernobyl!

I wandered around the Mall for a little while longer, dodged some creepy boy scouts who tried to rub up against me while waiting at some crosswalks, and grabbed a liter of water outside the Aero-Space Museum... Then I remembered that I was tired and had been up since 4AM that day, and I headed back to L'Enfant Station to get back to my hotel in Crystal City, promising myself that I'd do the rest of the touristy shit in town on my free day on Sunday.

I made it back into my room at 3:55PM, and was woken up from my nap at 4:05 by Mehve and Psycho Weasel, who had just checked in and wanted to know if I was up for a drink while we waited for Bloodberry and Mr. Bloodberry to arrive, wherein we'd then all go out and get some fancy DC dinner worthy of us most excellent travelers. I said "Sure. Beer good," and joined them in the hotel bar where we drank and shared some of the Weasel's Gummi Bears that were in his pocket so they were real warm and soft.

Soon enough Bloodberry and Mr. Bloodberry showed up, and HOLY FUCK! My first impression upon meeting the Mr. was "This is the coolest man alive!"... And I couldn't figure out why. Yeah, he was confident. Yeah, he was smooth... But there was just something really, really AWESOME about him that I couldn't place my finger on. Then somebody pulled up their cell phone with a picture of the greatest character on the greatest sci-fi show of all time on it...

Bloodberry married Firefly's Wash. Zoe's gonna be pissed when she finds out, but Bloodberry can handle her, and that is so beyond awesome.

After that revelation we all jumped on the Metro again (well, after a few more drinks) in order to make it over to some trendy, chic Celtic restaurant, over on 11th and New York Avenue, called Againn (pronounced "Ah-gweh-hai-neh-loch-haggis"). Bloodberry had the foresight to book us for an 8:15 reservation, but we ended up getting to the packed restaurant at 7:30 because we are just so awesome that we don't need clocks and shit! At first the maitre' d was all like "WhaaaaaaaaAAAt? You're not on the ticket till 8:15! Sacre bleu! You are going to keel me with your incompetence, you filthy Americans!" (I don't know why there was a French maitre' d at a Celtic restaurant either), but then he looked up and saw Firefly's Wash and he said, "Mon dieu! Monsieur Wash! I had no idea it was you! (He then turned and clapped for his staff's attention) Vous petits bâtards, get the private dining room ready for le dieu connu sous le nom de Monsieur Wash! Chop-chop!" And so it happened that we got an entire fucking room to ourselves. The "private scotch room" no less. And it was good.

True, the waiters forgot about us and didn't really keep the drinks coming, but that was okay; the wall behind Firefly's Wash and Mehve was FILLED with bottles of scotch being stored there for regular (rich) customers, and the best part was they were each only locked with the same key, and I was able to find the correct pick from my stash in about 45 seconds. I always wanted to know what a 60-year-old Macallan tasted like. The answer? Apricots.

We ate, we drank, and we pondered life, the universe, and if one could eat a lion if one was allergic to cats. Psycho Weasel said "Sure, it's just the dander that gets ya," but Mehve jumped in saying he knew a girl who was so allergic to felines that she couldn't even keep a hairless (ugly and doomed to hell) cat. So we decided that if cats do make you sick you should stay away from eating lions. But mountain gorillas should be fine. Especially when washed down with the blood of a black rhino. Oh, and "Pimp Black Rhino" would be the greatest name for a superhero ever. "Pimp Black Rhino Dong" would be the greatest name for an indie rock band.

After our meal (that Mehve picked up because he is our Pimp Black Rhino), we stumbled back to the Metro, where Bloodberry and Firefly's Wash retaught me how to smoke, and how to look cool doing it. The key is apparently not to suck it down like it was a straw in a very thick vanilla shake. And don't stick a lit one behind your ear "for later." You might have hobos coming up to you trying to suck your ear dry if you forget about it. Oh, and the hair fire. Don't forget about that.