The famous police station has a gift shop for tourists. On our way out, Burbank bought a postcard with a photograph of the cells on it. I said that these weren’t for the inmates, but I guess I just don’t understand the scrapbook mentality.
We smelled like sewage when we got out of the joint in the matin. Lenore wouldn’t take the same taxi as us because of the stench. Well, can you blame us? We had to sleep next to a bucket of excrete from the last person who was in that cell. It was disgusting. Burbank’s added the smell to his list of things he’s noticed. The only ones who would give us the time of day were the flies.
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Dear Burbank,
ReplyDeleteExcuse me for blaming you again, but I think the reason those guys picked a fight with us is because you kept asking idiot questions and saying things like “I didn’t know they had French Nazis.” Good lord, Burbank, I’m surprised we made it out of there alive!
Also, the dessert was peach cobbler, but I understand you wanted to stick to your literary theme. (Have you actually read any of these books?) And I didn’t throw the cobbler. I dropped it by mistake.
--Milo