Atlanta, GA– Why, you might ask, am I writing this award-neglected travelogue from Atlanta, even though the fat cats at Axes & Alleys paid for a trip to Reykjavik? Well, it all has to do with the little light-up signs on the airplane. When you need to put on your seat belt the sign shows a seatbelt. Makes sense, right? Now, the No Smoking sign shows a cigarette, doesn’t it? Not a pipe. In fact, no one ever mentioned pipes at all and yet you pull out a pipe after dinner and they act like you’re a godless communist or something. I mean, for Christ’s sake, they’ll bring you a brandy. What was I supposed to do, just sit there drinking brandy and not smoke a pipe?
Yeah, so they went all ballistic and I got stuck in Atlanta. Luckily, I met this cute doctor at the hotel bar. It was lucky for me because he works at this company called CDC and offered to give me a special guided tour. And it was lucky for him in a few different ways that I won’t mention because this is a family magazine.
CDC is a pretty cool company, I guess, you know like in a futuristic way. But their headquarters is pretty big and it’s easy to get lost. There are lots of long, white corridors and rooms full of science and medicine and stuff. They probably even have a janitor’s closet reserved for “maths.” Anyway, they had the biggest refrigerator I’ve ever seen, like almost as big as a whole Arby’s!
There were also a bunch of vials and stuff, and it turns out they were all drugs. Sweet. Though I didn’t know the actual street value of the stuff, I figured it would be fun to try them out and see what happened. I am a journalist you know, and I seek the truth, especially the truth about cool new drugs that even I’ve never heard of like Smallpox or Polio.
Turns out this stuff must have been really expensive. Seriously. You think they freak out when you get caught loading an ice machine from the hotel onto your truck, that’s nothing compared to how these CDC guys freaked. All these astronauts ran in the room and they were armed to the teeth. And they’re all yelling and stuff and made me put all the drugs back.
Atlanta is stupid. First, the hotel pool was closed and second the police won’t believe you when you say you’re not a terrorist. And police station coffee sucks. So, I’m like, who do you have to blow to get good coffee around here? Turns out it’s Special Agent Picket. He took me to get coffee and then while he was in the bathroom, I skipped out of there before I had to pay up on my part of the deal and hitchhiked to the bus station. Sherman was right; screw Atlanta, I’m going to Iceland.