There’s nothing like a trip to the mall during the holiday season to make you wish for more 9/11s. Five minutes and I was ready to give my life to jihad.
Traffic in LA is the worst thing in the world. Worse than the sound of children playing. It is so bad that I find myself planning trips around right turns. You can’t fucking turn left in this city unless you’re willing to put your life on the line. Left turns are even banned in some places. And you can fucking forget left arrows. They only exist where you need them the least.
During the holidays, shit gets compounded. Traffic was bad. Now it’s worse. There was nowhere to park before. Now even the handicapped are fucked. In LA, parking is so bad that places like 7-11 and Carl’s Jr. enlist security guards to make sure you don’t drop your car off and run errands. This blows, because the fast food restaurants usually have the largest parking lots and there are never sixty motherfuckers chowing down on a Big Mac at once.
“But what about Ronald’s Playplace?”
Breeding grounds for Mexican birthday parties and Mexicans don’t have cars. So, if you need to run to the grocery store for a last minute turkey on Christmas Eve, you’re shit out of luck because Christmas will be over before you can make it into Rosa’s line. You’d be better off killing your own turkey, plucking its feathers, and comparing its wattle to grandma’s clitoris. Egg nog, anyone?
So last night my phone gets stolen. Mostly my fault. I went to a screening of There Will Be Blood (my first screening) with my coworker and adopted little sister, Jen, who is just so beautiful and Jerseytastic it’s impossible not to think impure thoughts. There were rent-a-pigs outside the theater doing the whole airport security thing – checking your bags, pockets, etc. Everything but the anus. Anyway, I could’ve probably hidden my phone, but I figured what the fuck. It’s a beat-up, first-gen camera phone that can’t even snap a decent dick shot. Who’s dumb enough to think I can record a movie with it?
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you in with that.”
“But it’s a piece of shit.”
“But that guy just went in with a Blackberry.”
“He wasn’t in my line.”
“Well what the fuck am I going to do then?”
He told me I could go put my phone back in my car, which was near the back of P-212. I checked the time. 7:34. The movie was starting. So, being the idiot that I infrequently am, I hid my phone behind a trash can.
“You can barely see it,” I told myself. “And if you did, you wouldn’t take it. And if you did, you’d turn it in to the Lost and Found.”
Well somebody saw it, took it, and didn’t turn it in to the Lost and Found. I’m not saying it was a Mexican, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my phone ended up in little Pedro’s Christmas stocking hanging above the stove. By the way, fuck the movie Crash. If it looks like beans and it smells like beans, then do not leave your shit lying around because it will end up next to a plate of beans. That being said, I am friends with the cleaning staff at the gym and I frequently give them rides home. I can say shit like this. I want a churro.
So my lost phone brought me to the Beverly Center. Less than three miles and over thirty minutes to get there. The cars filing into the parking structure reminded me of orphans going through the gruel line. Lemmings lining up to walk off a cliff. You know, I hate people who preach all that anti-consumer/anti-corporate bullshit, but watching botoxed women in big sunglasses and unnecessary scarves pilot their Range Rovers into a giant parking cave, one by one, is one of the most visceral, disturbing things I have ever seen. If you want to know what bothers me, what offends me, this is it.
The scary thing is that they’re not even the worst. It’s their children. Mainly their daughters. An entire generation born to shop and text message. Impossibly hot jailbait tapping away on their Sidekicks like a primitive, tongue-clicking tribe. They worship at the shrine of LC and think friend is spelled “freind”. Nepotism will have these kids in power in twenty years, and then it’s just a matter of time before movies like “wil u go out w me” and “omg my lif iz ovr” are setting box office records.
Vacant-eyed, vacant-headed drones leading us into the apocalypse one “lol” at a time.
You know how you’ll be taking a shit and you’ll get that stubborn little hanger-on, the one that just won’t let go? And after much Michael J. Foxing of the ass you decide to bite the bullet and wipe? That first, massive smear of shit you wipe – the one that looks like good barbecue – is the next generation.
The worst generation is always the next one. They don't live. They kill time.
Anyway, long story short, I didn’t get a new phone because I’m still on the family plan and needed a grown-up there with me.