Were you planning on visiting Grauman’s Chinese Theater this summer? You might want to rethink it. Going to sightsee in Hollywood, were ya'? Venice Beach on your list? Tear it up. I’m here as always to bring you the truth even if it is so cold and harsh that it stings. I’m here to warn you.

My trip to L.A. started off normally enough. Getting on the hotel shuttle, a gentleman allowed me to watch him do his finger stretching exercises. Strangely enough, he was only interested in flexing the middle one. I got my room and had a drink in the hotel bar. There I met a beautiful Thai woman, and she soon succumbed to my charm. A nice enough lady, but she was hard up for cash, that’s for sure. Right after we did the deed, she asked me for five hundred big ones.

The next day I stepped into my Speedo and headed to the beach. The sun was beautiful, and so were the women. They were dressed in bathing suits as thin as fettuccine. I chatted with them, read my James Patterson novel while relaxing on a towel, and ate a hot dog on a stick for the very first time. Then I saw a woman from behind. Long, tan legs. Great, shapely butt. Washed hair. Check, check, check. These are very key for me. I walked up behind her and in my most sexy and delicious voice said, “Hey beautiful, you dropped something. My phone number.”

She turned around, and I reached out to hand her my business card.

Ryan Dilbert
Truth Finder Extraordinaire

But this was no woman. Well, no normal, living woman to whom I wouldn’t mind lending some cash after a roll in the sack, anyway. She had huge, greasy lips. The skin on her face had been pulled back, seemingly stapled further up on her head. Her tan was uneven, her breasts disproportionate to her body. She was a thin woman with these huge flesh bags. They looked like two suckling pigs strapped to her chest.

I ran away screaming. And all of a sudden, I was surrounded by them. By these Frankenstein women who had torn body parts from other beings and attached them to themselves. Lips taken from some deep-sea fish, faces from people with smaller heads, and the chests of large, pregnant mammals. Zombies in L.A. I couldn’t believe it. But I had to, and fast. It was like I had been thrown into a Romero film, and I sure wasn’t going to end up some unrecognizable half-eaten corpse.

Luckily for me (and unluckily for them) I’ve been trained in dealing with zombies.

I grabbed a shovel out of someone’s truck and carried it around like a samurai sword. And I saw them everywhere, these undead creatures. They were in movie theaters, clothing stores, on sidewalks. But instead of running or panicking, I whacked them with the broad side of the shovel. These flimsy monsters went down in a heap every time. I ended up getting quite a workout. I pounded zombie faces like crazy. Weaker men or those less skilled at wielding garden tools as weapons, might have been in mortal danger. But I’m a pro with a huge, unsquashable heart. And that’s the only reason I survived.

So if you plan to visit the L.A. area, be warned. Sure the weather is great, you might spot celebrities, and museums fill the city like termites fill rotting wood; but you have to deal with the undead warriors of the night who may or may not be holding a Chihuahua in their purses. You’re probably better off going to San Diego.