Thursday, July 07, 2005
PART THREE: Back to Los Fucking Angeles...
Trying to find the car rental place in Pasadena was a nightmare that almost resulted in my companion becoming my former companion. I'm not going to go into details, suffice to say there WAS primal screaming on the interstate 15. And the 10. And the 5. And several service stations and roadside body-dumping spots in between.
But we did get through it and spent the night near the airport at Inglewood, which you have heard of as the suburb in which Samuel L Jackson's character resides in Pulp Fiction. Not nice. And the hotel pool was closed by 6. Why the fuck do they close hotel pools after dark? That's when people are there. It makes me VERY ANGRY.
Anyway, back to LAX, (so-called, one can only assume, because it will definitely give a body the shits), for our flight to Houston, to get our conneccting flight to Cancun, Mex. That we did, with some more, rather ugly, ten-mile-high fighting. The AA came out again when told the was no lacto-ovo special meal on domestic flights. The sugar was low, but the blood was high that day, my friends. The fucking flight attendant was really rude about it too. Those glorified fucking waitresses think they're SO BIG since 9/11. Cunt. Her closed-eyed mealy-mouthed offer of a packet of chips was met with the sugestion that same be inserted up her crinkled arse. I was starting to lose it a little bit. I think it was all the preservatives. In the Charlie. Actually, I just said that for comic effect. Just that one time, Mum. Promise.
But we did get through it and spent the night near the airport at Inglewood, which you have heard of as the suburb in which Samuel L Jackson's character resides in Pulp Fiction. Not nice. And the hotel pool was closed by 6. Why the fuck do they close hotel pools after dark? That's when people are there. It makes me VERY ANGRY.
Anyway, back to LAX, (so-called, one can only assume, because it will definitely give a body the shits), for our flight to Houston, to get our conneccting flight to Cancun, Mex. That we did, with some more, rather ugly, ten-mile-high fighting. The AA came out again when told the was no lacto-ovo special meal on domestic flights. The sugar was low, but the blood was high that day, my friends. The fucking flight attendant was really rude about it too. Those glorified fucking waitresses think they're SO BIG since 9/11. Cunt. Her closed-eyed mealy-mouthed offer of a packet of chips was met with the sugestion that same be inserted up her crinkled arse. I was starting to lose it a little bit. I think it was all the preservatives. In the Charlie. Actually, I just said that for comic effect. Just that one time, Mum. Promise.
