Sun City's heat cooks Stuart while he signs a copy of his book for a fan.
I've been sent to hell on Earth. That's right, dear reader, Pork Pony has planted me in Phoenix, AZ, home to the highest concentration of Outback Steakhouses in the world.
Phoenix embodies everything that's wretched about Los Angeles. It's like living inside a convection oven (spare the aroma of a finely cooked meal). Like the City of Angels, Sun City has loads of sun and blue skies. Sounds good in theory, does it not? 'Tis but a myth.
First of all, the sun in Arizona isn't like the sun in New England or even Los Angeles. It's a horrid, fiery bastard intent on beating your head with its rays. How can a well dressed man like yours truly survive in this kind of heat? He cannot. He can only be fried in tweed or braised in wool.
Which brings me to my second point. The sun and "beautiful" weather attract the dimmest amongst humanity. It seems every dullard who can bleach their hair and lift a weight believes the sun's rays will somehow enhance them, make them brighter. The effect is quite the opposite. The packs of idiots stick together in Phoenix, making each other dumber and dumber. I'm certain that my IQ is ten points lower as a result of my stay.
Lastly, this dreaded place is chain restaurant heaven. You'd think the natives would have something to offer. Nay. There are no brawny lasses serving local delicacies; just waifs with artificially large bosoms tossing around cheap wine and processed food at places like Olive Garden and Red Lobster.
I'm beginning to hate this trip. Please Pork Pony, I beg you, get me out of the USA.
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