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Posted on January 11, 2008 - by writerman
Dude, an apartment building just around the corner from us is on fire!
Right now, as we don’t speak, that mother is burning down. All the way down to Chinatown. Streets are blocked off. Smoke pouring into the sky. Firetrucks all over the place. I didn’t see any dalmatians, but they’re probably busy running around the inside of flaming apartments saving old ladies and babies and half-eaten egg salad sandwiches.
You ever wonder why firemen like to party with dalmatians? The other day, someone told me that it’s because they’re prone to deafness. And, you know, cause they don’t hear good, they don’t get all scared by the sound of fire. Which makes a lot of sense, cause if my job involved busting into burning buildings, I’d totally want my parter to be four-legged, high-strung and deaf.
Anyways, there are also 4 or 5 news choppers hovering above the neighborhood, likely hoping to see a bald Suzanne Somers or Britney Spears come running out, covered in coke and lighter fluid. Personally, I’d like to imagine that Jack Johnson or Sting will be carried out of the flames in the arms of a big, strong, mustache-sporting LAFD officer, crying over his lost yoga mat and macrobiotic grow-op in the basement. Damn, I am such a hater.
Seriously, though, it sounds like no celebrities or regular people were hurt and they’ve got the fire under control.
Alright, I have to go hose down all of my belongings now.
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