Get local news delivered straight to your phone
Often, as I take my bus through the city in the early morning, I have noticed an unusually large number of crippled individuals shambling into federal and municipal buildings like the cast of a George Romero movie. I had several theories as to why: There might’ve been a disaster of some sort, one that most others and I are ignorant of, due to the fact that it occurred on a weekend. Or perhaps D.C. and the federal government hired these people after they were crippled, in an attempt to get larger stalls in the bathrooms. I even could attribute this concentration of the physically handicapped to simple aging: It is a well-documented fact that the average age of a federal employee in the D.C. area is just below 80.
Then I read about former municipal employee Sandra Mitchiner (“Head, Shoulders, Knees, & Woes,” 7/22)! Good Christ! Starting with asbestos poisoning, she was subsequently crushed, dropped, slipped, and poisoned again for good measure. Wile E. Coyote didn’t suffer to this degree. (It is little known that he worked for the forestry service.) The woman was messed up to a degree that made it seem personal.
The article goes on to tell of another woman breaking her ankle, a man injured by a mechanical snake, a woman who fell on the ice, a man who injured himself lifting a water heater. What does this indicate to the thinking man? What is the one inescapable conclusion that one can draw from these and other “accidents”? I think that we each know what it is: The District of Columbia is haunted.
Support City Paper!
Do I mean “haunted” as in Pirates of the Caribbean (starring the talented and charismatic Johnny Depp)? Certainly not! D.C. is haunted more in the manner of The Amityville Horror. The city, probably built upon an ancient Indian burial ground, wants its occupants out. Those who choose to remain are often subject to the most brutal injuries imaginable. When the city-spirit gets tired of injuring municipal employees, it blows up a few manhole covers as a change of pace.
And we can’t do anything about it—at least until we find the “heart” of the evil. Where would you send the priest, otherwise? He couldn’t just stand at a random location in the District of Columbia and perform an exorcism. He’d look like an idiot. The “heart” is that gateway to another dimension that the evil travels through. Some say it is located in the Department of Human Services; however, those of us in the know say that it centers at the main office of the Department of Motor Vehicles. There have been attempts for almost a decade to get an exorcism performed at the DMV, but authorization is required. DMV officials have assured the public that the authorization will be “rushed out tomorrow.”
I know that a lot of people are saying, “You work in D.C.; why hasn’t anything happened to you?” Well, I am an American Indian—or, as we prefer to be called, Supreme Casino Master. We have an agreement with the spirits: Screw with us and we’ll mess you up in the afterlife. It is an empty threat, but the spirits don’t know that. (Frankly, I don’t even know how I’d be able to figure out which spirit had hurt me after I’d died, unless he out and out confessed to it.)
In conclusion, if we cannot get a priest into the District’s DMV, the District is going to have to hire more Supreme Casino Masters, like me. Barring that, at least hire people who have the capacity to look like American Indians. Certainly more people will get hurt and more tax money will have to be spent on those victims.
It’s silly, when you realize that a few Latin phrases and a couple of ounces of holy water could save us all a bundle.