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DONUT TIME ALMOST COST ME MY LIFE

I did a late night improv show in Hollywood recently and was hungry on my way home. It was 3AM and I was faced with the decision of stopping at an establishment called "Donut Time" at Santa Monica & Highland or baring hunger pains for my 20 minute drive home to the Westside. I was tired and not of sound mind when the choice became crystal clear: it was motherfucking Donut Time. At night, the corner of Santa Monica & Highland is exactly how my strict parents envisioned all of LA when they wouldn't let me drive up here in high school: Shady characters, gender benders, and a public display of those black stereotypes that white people feel really guilty just thinking about. I parked my car right next to an angry African American gentleman who was menacingly looking back and forth. When I got out of my car he screamed "what chu want?!" at me, to which I replied "a donut." He didn't respond to that, which I decided was the best possible outcome to that interaction.

Two very polite transvestite hookers greeted me at the door and asked if I needed anything. I figured using my "donut" answer again might take on a tragically different connotation in this scenario. I said "no thanks" and threw up a little in my mouth. Once inside I asked the sagely Korean owner for a bear claw; he gave me a cinnamon role. I tried to correct him but he insisted that what he had just bagged up was, in fact, a bear claw. I had 2 thoughts at this point 1) This does not matter, they taste exactly the same, this is not the time or place to have a semantics argument over breakfast pastries.. and 2) Fuck THIS guy. He owns an establishment called "DONUT Time" yet has an amature donut vocabulary? It may be 3AM, but justice does not sleep, good shopkeep! I made it out alive with a real bear claw, a second offer for a horrifying threesome with the hookers, and something I can only describe as a "honkey stare-down" from the man standing by my car. Snacks always taste better when you risk your life to obtain them.

And you know what? That was a good god-damned bear claw. [Editor’s note: Our photographer was "sexually harassed by a gang of fast talking, cigarette smoking twelve year-olds" on this intersection whilst getting us the background art.]

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