Thursday, May 18 2000
I don't often do this any more, but today my lunch consisted of a 99 cent Famous Star hamburger and a 99 cent Spicy Chicken sandwich, both from the Carl's Jr. on Santa Monica Blvd near its intersection with 26th street on the east side of Santa Monica.
Ever since I learned of the sexual practice known as the "Hot Carl," I've been a little uneasy with this particular fast food chain (and their advertisements featuring dripping sandwiches). It could be worse. I could allow knowledge of this bizarre practice to affect my feelings about my own legal name, but I take some solace in the fact that it is spelled "Karl." There's something inherently cleaner (if more sinister) about a K than a C.
For those of you who do not know what a Hot Carl is, it's basically the act of shitting on receptive lover's face. In the versions of this act that I've heard about, saran wrap is first placed on the target area, though I'm sure there are purists who sneer at such precautions. When people are in a room giving each other Hot Carls, it must give new meaning to the phrase, "the smell of sex."
I rode my bike uphill into the vicinity of Brentwood and parked in a row of Eucalyptus trees, and here, sitting on the moist, irrigated ground, I devoured my unpretensious luncheon. There was a vine-covered fence blocking my view of a large tract of relatively undeveloped real estate, so I climbed up one of the trees to see what the secret was. It was just a parking lot with a few gleaming cars.
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