I drove to Washington. I now know what DC stands for. District of Crapola.
We’re talking a war zone. The approach to historic Washington, DC, is filth. If the area were a building, it would be condemned.
This is our capital. Home of the New World. Of the only world that really is. America. United States. Leader of the free world. Leader of any part of this world that really is.
Take Pakistan. I’ve been there. Its government city is a lavatory. Dirty, littered, a dump. But who cares — that’s Pakistan, right? Well, guess what. It’s the same in our government city.
Our beloved country may have young blood, but we’re keeping it in old containers.
Geezers monitoring our issues have reached the age where they put tenderizer in Cream of Wheat. They’re tired and too nervous about what’s Out There to see what’s Back Here.
In DC’s outer limits, there are dregs. Broken sidewalks. In open areas around gutters, roadways, open deserted lots, it’s discarded soda cans, graffiti, syringes, rotted junk, rubber tires, strewn paper, chalk marks, cigarette butts, dog poop, empty bottles, thrown out plastic bags, open garbage, drug paraphernalia, abandoned needles, filthy rags, needles, junky clothes, broken plumbing facilities, backyards and front yards filled with detritus. Elvis alive is probably in there.
It’s so crammed that the mice have to be hunchbacked.
Inside the belt are heart-stopping monuments — the Capitol, Supreme Court, Pentagon, museums, White House, Jefferson Memorial, Taft Memorial, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King’s “Stone of Hope” from his 1963 “I have a dream” speech — it’s glorious. The Smithsonian, the museums, also glorious.
Outside the belt, even the hair on Lincoln’s Monument would turn gray.
Our Cabinet appointees have rare gifts. So rare, some of them have none. They’re busy saving the world. How about saving our world? Our capital? It’s not a third-world country backwater. It’s the capital of the United States of America. And it’s shameful.
The entrance, the red carpet into the capital of the God blessed United States of America is wall-to-wall degradation.
You who people Washington, who enjoy the luxury of Chevy Chase and Georgetown, the Potomac, bike trails, affluent residential gardens of Maryland and Virginia, and choose not to live in DC, should be ashamed of yourselves.
A once Algonquin territory, the area was officially founded 1791 by our first president. Its 68 miles established in perpetuity by our Constitution. DC stands for District of Columbia. Columbia being in honor of Columbus.
In 1801, it numbered 131 federal employees. The president’s personal staff today has that many out on sick leave. 1812, reconstruction refigured our Capitol and White House. 1901, it was officially restored and downtown’s core area was so-called “beautified.”
DC does balls, parties, backslapping, inaugurations, photos, ladies in fake long lashes and tight long gowns. Each helping some pitiful group of mankind — the underprivileged, undernourished, overnourished, overfed, sick, needy. Great. But how about helping us?
Socialites, to whom a photo op is headier than a sex act and remain as needy for attention as their charities are, hold galas every 10 minutes for something. For the miseries in far away places. For animals, illnesses, the elderly, the unborn, the newlyborn. They’re all looking high and low for improvements. They just haven’t looked low enough.
At one organization everyone in their neat little black ties and, choked with emotion, babbled how vital this benefit was to help those in despair. Fine. Right. Great. It raised $2 million, but so far they haven’t even found a disease.
Help us. Help your country. Help your capital. Help Washington, DC. Clean it up. Drive into it, drive by the approach, see how rank it is. How murky. How smelly. How putrid. How vile. The area’s a sewer. It lacks only a dead body decaying there.
It isn’t like children can enjoy the open spaces and play basketball or baseball. Any game in those dirty lots would be Spin the Cop.
Our government’s in the hole for gazillions to aid countries we can’t even pronounce and payback is they’ll hate us. Why not help your own city? That is, unless its denizens choose to spend their Saturday nights just sitting on the main thoroughfare and watching it rust.
Patriotism seems to be old-fashioned. But how about cleanliness?
Grand Central is now 100 years old. It was cleaned up. Our tacky West Side rail yard’s become the High Line. We’re spiffing up our Metropolitan Museum. Redoing the Fifth Avenue Library. We classed up Bryant Park. Jazzed up Columbus Avenue. Bloomberg’s looking to pull down Lilliputian-size Midtown skyscrapers and put up Gulliver-sized midtown skyscrapers. A better class of bums are even lying around Central Park.
Isn’t anyone listening? Watching? Caring? Fix up Washington!