F^*#%$@ BOSTON

I hate Boston, Massachusetts. I have now decided that I will never go back there. What if... Nope, not going back. But how about if there is a...no, F that place with a sandpaper-covered iron fist.

There are no discernible roads. They start and stop at random and the street signs are hidden like little clues on a brownie troupe scavenger hunt. Getting directions from a local is like coaxing a thesis out of a retarded child. "If you go down the road there, you'll see a Westin' 'otel. Now if you see that, you've gan' too faaaahhhhhhhh". Hey sir, yes you sir, excuse me, but your accent makes you sound like you've eaten led paint for breakfast since childhood. There are 26 letters in the alphabet taintface, look it up. There's even a song to help you remember.

As you may have guessed, based on my aggravated rant against the capital of gay marriage, I got bounced out of the first round of the Boston Comedy Festival. Ryan Conner and I both had really good sets and didn't win. There are judges and they pick the best two to advance to the semi-finals. I am not going to say anything bad about the judges or the festival which was kind enough to let me in. What I will do is tell you what my boy Tripper said after the show: "The judges did not pick the best two to advance. You should write something bad about the judges and the festival even though they were kind enough to let you in." I would never stoop to that level.

Thanks for reading.