Two days. That's how long I'd had my LA Times subscription before you—the guy who littered my Placentia apartment complex with menus from that Orange pizza joint and left one on my WELCOME mat, where my paper is supposed to be—decided to steal my copy. And I know it was you because each day since, my Times has been right there at my door. Look, I know people constantly bitch about how far downhill the Times has gone, but I have strong emotional ties to the rag—my dad worked for the fishwrap for 40 years, and I even taught myself to read by perusing the comics and sports sections when I was but a tyke. So don't steal it again, fucker, or you'll force me to subscribe to the Register, which I know nobody wants unless they're painting their baseboards.
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