The city that really kicks ass. (But unfortunately also smells like it.)
The most pretension, socialist politics, and annoying French accents you can get this side of the Atlantic.
The land of untold riches and leprosy.
Sit back,eat a pita, and see some of the most beautiful monuments to slavery in existence.
The poor man’s Las Vegas.
I left my HIV-positive test results in San Francisco.
Bitter: it’s more than our beer. It’s a way of life.
The fine line between Happy Meals and gulags.
Rio de Janeiro
On our beaches and in our churches: worshipping flabby, loin cloth-covered asses 365 days a year.
The city that never wakes.
Don’t think of our chicks as elderly, think of them as “sun roasted”.
Where waking up in a jail cell with a broken rib cage, a dozen venereal diseases, and wearing nothing but a sombrero is only the beginning.
Just because Sinatra was born here doesn’t mean we have any class.
If it’s crispy, has a sticky red sauce, and smells like fish, you’ve come to the right whorehouse.
We brought the Renaissance into this world. We can take it out.
You don’t need fake tits to make it in this town. Only a fake soul.
As free as ancient Chinese dragon. (Just before it’s chopped up, injected with MSG, and served with chopsticks.)
The home of coffee, rain, grunge music, cigarette butts, vomit, and drug-induced suicide.
Getting screwed by the white man for over six centuries. (Starting with the crummy prices they paid on the slaves we sold them.)
Where littering, freeloading, sex with strangers, trashing people’s property, and tripping out naked in the mud never sounded more romantic.