I’m in L.A. and:
- It’s only 7:15 in the morning and it’s already so damn warm that I can run down the side of the freeway with nothing but ass lip mittens on.
- I’m so going to make french toast out of a Double Double and chutney out of off-ramp oranges for breakfast.
- And I’ve already been baptized as a born again citizen of Southern California by getting flipped off and called something that starts with an “f” (I’m thinking he called me a “funtabulous rascal,” but I’m pretty sure he called me a “fucking asshole“) when I tried to cut a Yaris off while driving out of the airport.
So, you’d think because of all of that I’d be spitting out smoggy rainbows of happiness. Well, I was until I saw these pictures that reminded me one very, VERY, very important thing: THERE’S NO ROJO CALIENTE IN LOS ANGELES! I was so blinded by the shine of weed cards and Jack In The Box dollar tacos that I completely forgot about this. Why didn’t any of you bitches remind me! Sure, I can troll the aisles of some Home Depot, find a fat chola butchie and ask her to please put an orange Tupperware bowl on her head so I won’t be so gingersick, but it won’t be the same. WHAT HAVE I DONE? We have to go back, Kate! We have to go back to the island!
And these pictures of Cynthia Nixon, Rojo and Little Rojo Christ strolling around NYC were taken in the middle of the night. Yes, the curly rays of sun on Little Rojo Christ’s head are that illuminating.