He sticks out the arm of his acid washed jean jacket and says “My man, hold up.” He’s carrying brochures and I think, he thinks he’s going to sell me a bus tour of “Hollywood.” Because I’ve been dying to see Bob Barker’s house…
“Check it out,” he says. A few feet in front of us are two portly blonde tourists in their late-thirties. They lean over a cemented star on Hollywood Boulevard’s Walk of Fame.
Appreciatively, I nod at the guy. Thanks for pointing out the fat chicks. Though, I must confess I’ll take the company of a creep over that of a salesman any day.
The portly blondes snap photos of the star then simultaneously show each other their individual pictures of the same thing. Their sunburned arms look like overgrown eggplants.
The guy in the acid washed jean jacket shakes his head. “This is how the world ends.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
He points at the star they’ve just photographed.
Lassie was a talented actor. Lassie was also a male. Essentially, Lassie was a pre-op transvestite like my neighbor Gladys. For Gladys’ sake, I hope the world ends after her operation.
-The Neapolitan Mastiff