*Sigh*

Summer is officially upon us. It's all coming back to me - that oppressive blanket of humidity landed just a few days ago. You sprint from building to building, dodging for the AC. Then the temperature swing knocks you out a few minutes later. And this is only June...

Along with the intolerable humidity come the intolerable tourists. The fucking tourists.

Without warning, their numbers suddenly and mercilessly descend upon our nation's capital: families of four decked out in unflattering kakhi and denim shorts, fanny packs, hawaiian shirts, oversized sunglasses, visors, FBI caps, American flag shirts, dumb parochial t-shirts, screaming tykes in double strollers that block the width of the subway train. The Flinstones on acid. Yes, I'm fucking serious.

Coming from the Hill yesterday, I passed an elderly couple dressed in matching "Jesus Got 'Er Done" t-shirts. They were making their way up the Hill. I wish I were making this up.

Same trip, running back to the metro - in said oppressive humidity - I got stuck on the escalator behind a fleet of 'em, proudly donning lime green shirts and visors, blocking the aisle so I couldn't run down and catch the train.

I missed the train by literally five seconds, and had to wait eight minutes for the next one. I passed the time picturing the tracks below splattered with carnage and lime-green t-shirts.

Look, I know I'm coming off as elitist. But trust me: if you could only see...I mean, fucking Carrot Top could thumb his nose at these people!

And I know I know: We're all tourists at one time or another. Hell, you could even argue I'm a tourist, only being here 6 months - it would probably explain my hostility, which grows more overt by the day. But when my parents took me to Washington, many years ago, they didn't make us wear *stupid fucking matching flourescent T-shirts.*

This morning on the train, this family of the Unflattering Denim Shorts Clan piled in, smashing me up against the wall. Thing is, the dad actually tried to take a friggin' picture of the rest of the family getting on the train.

So of course he stands outside the train with his camera, like a douchebag, and the doors close. The family's half-mortified, half cracking-up, as daddy desperately tries to pry the doors open with no luck. The train takes off, leaving him in its wake.

Judging on the genes in that family, the good money is they never find each other again.

(And needless to say, when I am crowned Supreme Dictator, these people will be shot on site.)