2: Seanbaby, Erik, and Chet at the Airport!
met Chet and Erik at the LA airport. I didn't want to say anything, but when they walked
up to me, Erik's ass reeked of baby. I almost asked him, "Did you sit in a fucking
baby?", but the embarrassed look in his eyes told me he didn't want to talk about it.
Chet smelled the same as always -- heavy perfume covering the stench of beer and sex. He
kept pointing down at Erik's naked crotch with hurried glances and mouthing the words
"No! Pants!" over and over.
"Erik," I said. "You need to put some pants on."
Erik looked pissed. "I'm not your dog. You can't just dress me up whenever you want
to. Maybe you should put on the tea party dress I bought you, fag." He was shaking
his pelvis at me, spreading the baby smell through the terminal.
I couldn't let him walk around without pants on. The last thing you want in the LA airport
is a distinguishing feature. Those charity fuckers will pick you out of the crowd if you
give them something to mention. "I love how you don't have pants, my friend! Please
accept this book about meditation!" If you have a funny haircut or a loud shirt, you
better get ready to tell some fruitcakes to fuck off. If you're a featureless person in a
black suit, you might have a chance of getting through God's bathrobe children without a
I guess you can have a distinguishing feature if it's unmentionable. Some unemployed bald
zealot isn't going to ask you to save the children and start with "Hello, my fat
friend. That's a nice gut." or "Jesus, lady. That's a hideous facial scar.
Would you like to buy a flower?" This isn't paranoia. Every single person in
that airport is a Hari Krishna. Maybe 1 out of every 10 of them is actually there to fly
somewhere. Even the people at the ticketing booth are there because their God is broke and
needs them to panhandle.