Los Angeles: 5,374 -- I Heart Palindromes: 0

After being in NYC for work this week, I made the decision to stick around the city for Friday night and see a few friends. As anyone who knows me can tell you; I will generally jump at any excuse to spend time in a real city (read: not LA). On my JFK-LAX return today, I was caught in a moment of reflection about how much I had enjoyed my three nights in New York. The sensation of being back in the middle of a breathing and thriving city again had given me my fix. I did, however, start to wonder if I was missing something by spending so much time away from Los Angeles and sunny Santa Monica. Perhaps one day, I would come to actually regret not spending more time playing beach volleyball, running in slow motion along the beach in the sun, and generally being ignorant of any and all current events that do not have at least a slight relationship to Lindsay Lohan. Perhaps I should be less judgemental of LA? I was a plaid shirt away from assimilation.


That moment of misguided introspection lasted exactly 9 minutes: at which point I was confronted by the below scene, exactly two blocks away from the LAX parking garage.

For those of you playing at home, that is a person in a convertible 4S with a... terrified... German Sheppard in the rear "seat". I know what all of my male patrons are thinking right now and I hate to have to be the one to break this to you, but there was a 40 year old man driving this three ring circus of douche-baggery. I should note that am willing to forgive a host of logical inconsistencies when it comes to women, especially when it comes to car related issues (i.e. driving a convertible version of a car that was specifically designed to be driven at 160 mph). I don't expect every girl to want an Aston Martin and a Bernese Mountain dog. But I am sorry Hans (yes I just made him the same nationality as his dog), that Y chromosome of yours negates any mitigating circumstances, like that your wife has already taken the Prius to Malibu for the day. I refuse to give you any deference, I don't care how good your newly highlighted hair looks on the open road or how badly you really wanted to take fluffy to the beach and work on your tan. This is unacceptable.

The above scene is an exhibit of that occasional lapse of the summation theory of mathematics. Much like when I make an effort to turn multiple edible things into a "dish", instead of just eating them separately: you have actually managed to take two things that have a strong value proposition to me (needlessly fast automobiles and... puppies) and combined them to create something horrifically unenjoyable. How dare you Hans?


What this still image fails to capture was the agony of having to watch fluffy frantically try to stay on her feet while Der Douchebag fumbled through gears off each and every stoplight we encountered for the next two miles. Do you know how embarrassed that poor pup would have been if one of the drug sniffing dogs from LAX happened to spot her. There is no way anyone would want to sniff her at awkward times in public if they knew that they would be marrying into a family being provided for by this guy.

You have a decision to make sir. You may keep the dog and buy a fucking Range Rover or you can keep the car and get a breed more similar to the one featured herein.


Does it disturb anyone else how easy it was to find this image via a Google image search?
I digress. A long story abbreviated: Fuck you Los Angeles. That is the last time I second-guess myself about you and your motives.

Now I'm off to my Yoga class. Does anyone need me to grab them any vitamins at Whole Foods on my bike-ride back?

-I Heart Palindromes