FROM http://www.seanbaby.com/e32001/index.htm:

Above: Beautiful Los Angeles. Inset: A closer look. Not pictured: Tina Turner

LA is a warmup for the apocalypse. There’s not enough water, it’s covered in a dome of toxic smoke, electricity doesn’t work, and a full tank of gas is worth enough to kill a man over.

Gas in LA costs about $98.45 a gallon. Their gas stations don’t even give receipts anymore. When you fill up, an electronic voice laughs at you and prints out a picture of a baby, indicating that you owe them one live human baby. This is different from the system in Brazil where you have to take home one of the attendants’ extra babies every time you fill your tank.

Slowly coming to a stop costs several thousand dollars in gas, so we had the idea to start jumping out of still-moving cabs. Erik broke his head, pelvis, and vagina, but we each saved enough money to get the new LA status symbol — a gas filled tooth.

The LA airport is where all the horrors of LA go after they’ve trained to be the best. But besides the general Mad Max dangers of it, they’ve started insulting people over the loudspeaker. Every four seconds a voice booms, “YOU ARE NOT REQUIRED TO GIVE MONEY TO SOLICITORS. THEIR ACTIONS ARE NOT SPONSORED BY THE AIRPORT.” Who is that announcement for? I know what a fucking solicitor is, airport. Your speaker might as well say, “SOLICITORS ARE NOT ICE CREAM. OR CHOO CHOO TRAINS.” And if somehow there really was someone that stupid in the airport, let the guy doing the announcement leave the microphone and drive behind them in a little cart so he can personally give them advice while they crawl around on their retarded mutant flippers. And while I’m on the subject of taking personal offense at public announcements, why do U2 songs keep telling me not to kill people because of their color? I don’t even do that, you stupid dicks. Sometimes when they come on I scream back at the radio, “Hey Bono, why don’t you stop lighting hitchhikers on fire?” and then change the station to someone who gives less insulting advice like, “You’ve got to Move it! Move it!”

The one thing that sets LA apart from other versions of the apocalypse is that none of their panhandlers
can form words. Maybe I’m lucky to come from a city where government rats don’t eat the tongues out of sleeping hobos, but I couldn’t understand a thing those mole people were saying. One hari krishna came up to me and said word-for-word, “Smibble moofn moof.”

I pretended to look in a nonsense-to-English dictionary which was actually a novel based on the Super Mario Brothers, and then took a crap in his bucket, normally an eight dollar value. And if you’re reading this from LA, that means I “powdered my nose” in his bucket, pussy. I could tell from the mean look he gave his bucket that I’d broken some sort of airport taboo, or at least misunderstood what “Smibble moofn moof” meant. I’d still rather take shit on an angry hari krishna than in an evil robotic airport toilet, even if that hari krishna was a barrel of alligators….