Perhaps it's because I'm mercurial in all things but my love for using words the definitions of which I don't fully grasp like "mercurial," but I think I've decided that Las Vegas has supplanted Los Angeles as the place on Earth I hate most other than Morocco.

Like Rosie O'Donnell, Morocco is in a league of its own. The terribleness of that country is so thorough and unadulterated it was shocking even to me -- a person with unfathomably low expectations of African countries. Worse than the child labor exhibited proudly for tourists was the food. Worse than the food was the complete lack of attractive women. Worse than the lack of attractive women was the utter unavailability of beer. And if you can imagine something more nightmarish than a beerless nation, that's how Morocco smelled.

It's not as easy to articulate why I hate LA and Vegas nearly as much as Morocco. Certain things, the easy targets, come to mind. Both cities are cursed with the architecture of desperation -- strip malls relentlessly spreading over hundreds of square miles of terraformed hellhole like a beige stucco cancer. Both cities are strewn haphazardly across what was once probably beautiful landscape, but is now little more than a knot of inescapable traffic. Both cities are dominated by industries that purport to provide entertainment and employ legions of alternately self-important, vacuous, and self-importantly vacuous people.

But more than any of that stuff, both cities leave me feeling betrayed. Betrayed in the same way I feel betrayed by a pill that promises a thicker, longer penis in thirty days but delivers only an uncomfortable burning sensation and numbness in my left leg.

Analogcabin @ 1:50 PM
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