Thursday, March 27, 2008

...and that's how I got hepatitis C

Okay, is it just me or was everybody driving reeeaaallllly slowly this morning? I mean, fuck, I’m not in any hurry to get to work either, but at least they have a bathroom and Internet there.

Anyway, last weekend, G, C, M, and I got together for M’s belated birthday celebration. First up, we batted around a guitar-shaped piñata in their side yard. I’d never had the pleasure of hitting a piñata before, and I was surprised by how sturdy those things really are. Finally, M managed to break it open, and we all scrambled for its delightful innards of candy and toys. Afterwards, we made a Mentos fountain, and then we were off to our next destination…


As it turns out, C and M had booked us all on a tour of the stars’ homes. I was insanely excited about this, because even though I’ve lived in Southern California for the vast majority of my life, I’d never been on one of these tours. Judging from the looks and accents of the other people on the tour, I’m pretty sure that we were the only Californians, but we decided to stay undercover.

Our first stop was this scenic overlook above the Hollywood Bowl:

(All pictures courtesy of C)

Next, the driver took us down Mulholland Drive and pointed out all the stars’ homes as we gaped out the window. We saw everything from Jack Nicholson’s surprisingly rundown mansion to the piano-shaped home that Elton John is having built. Occasionally, a jogger or dogwalker on the side of the road would give us a really nasty look as we drove by, which was fun. I wanted to lean out the window and shout, “Maybe I ain’t got millions of dollars, but at least I ain’t a bitch!”

(And yes, to be completely honest, I’d rather have the money and be a bitch.)

Next, we drove through Bel Air and Beverly Hills, where I decided to splurge and buy myself a new car:

You know, just a little something to tool around in when my 1996 Chevy Cavalier is in the shop.

When we got back to Hollywood, despite the fact that we’d been in an air-conditioned bus for most of the tour, some of the participants were sweating and flushed. One man in particular, who was as bald as a stripper’s pussy, was turning an alarming shade of red.

G felt the need to pose for this saucy snap:

Ariel sure seems to be enjoying my boyfriend’s attentions, that shameless hussy. (In unrelated news, she was later found unconscious and badly beaten in a nearby alley. Sorry kids, no sing along tonight!)

When we were walking back to the parking lot, we saw a bright pink Corvette. I said, “Hey, that’s either Barbie’s dream car or Angelyne’s!” Sure enough, when we got closer…

It was almost time to leave Hollywood, so we posed for one last picture. Enjoy it, for it is the last one you will ever see of me in good health.

We had a long drive ahead of us, so M and I decided to duck into a nearby McDonald’s to use the bathroom. There was a line waiting for the two stalls, so we stood at the end, behind a older woman with an astounding blonde beehive and an Elvis tattoo on her arm, and chatted. M said, “Oh, wait, why don’t you get in front of me? I got to go first the last time.”

This act of courtesy spared M a lifetime of pain.

When a stall finally opened up, the most desiccated shell of a human being I’ve ever seen staggered out. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have never seen emptier eyes in my life. Nervously, I walked into the stall and latched the door.

No ass gaskets, of course.

Now, I’m not one of those people that thinks a thin piece of paper is going to protect me from germs, but if nothing else, they keep me from experiencing that horrible sensation of sitting my bare ass down where a total stranger’s bare ass had been sitting mere moments before me. And, considering the person who had been in there before me, I wanted to keep as much distance between me and the seat as possible. There wasn’t much toilet paper left, so I didn’t want to waste it on lining the seat; I decided to squat.

Come on, C, you used a squat toilet on a moving bullet train, you can do this, I thought to myself. Lowering myself into a pissing plie, I hovered over the bowl and let loose.

Then my foot slipped on the wet floor and I landed on the seat. I was relieved that it was dry, but then I looked in the trash can next to the toilet and saw A LENGTH OF RUBBER TUBING AND A WAD OF BLOODY KLEENEX.

The previous occupant had been shooting up in there!

“Oh god,” I moaned, leaping from the seat as though it had suddenly caught fire. I hastily wiped and went to the sink, where I scrubbed about five layers of skin from my hands.

Our final stop of the day was a restaurant called Kate Mantilini’s, where I tried to take my mind off my second most horrifying public bathroom experience with a filet mignon sandwich, beer-battered fries, and a Willy Wonka martini. (Contrary to what you might think, this martini had no chocolate liqueur in it. Our waiter explained that the bartender had tried to make an alcoholic drink that tastes like an Everlasting Gobstopper might.) The combination of good food, good company, booze, and a (mostly) lovely day helped me relax, and I finally stopped obsessing over the horrible diseases I might have contracted in that godforsaken bathroom.

But if I see even the slightest TINGE of yellow in the whites of my eyes…I’m making my will.