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After I laughed at the shell of a man who thought he could entertain the masses with shoddy (and aimed-at-toddlers) tricks and juggling skills attempts, I walked around the lower level of the outside mall for a few minutes, until I heard a voice call out seductively to me. The voice said, "Hey, hot guy in the UGA hat. Wanna make a quick $30?" I wheeled around and saw that it was a cute, mid-twenties brunette propositioning me. I approached her and asked, "So YOU'LL pay ME to do something for YOU?" She said, "Oh, big boy, you must be soooo hungry. Why don't you follow me this way." And then she led me down and around and through some dark alleys and shit, and I started combing my hair and popping some mints while staring at her cute little butt as it strutted sexily in front of me. Before I knew it I was pushed through a door into a large, partitioned room with a bunch of other people sitting at desks, looking like they were taking a scan-tron test.

I freaked a little and had a bad 'Nam-like flashback to my SATs. I tried to back out of the room but some large, chunky, fat, obese woman grabbed my arm and twisted it into a half-nelson hold, then she shoved me into a seat and said "Sit down, shut up, and suck soup!" After that I was forced to taste test 6 really crappy soups (canned soup) and mark my thoughts on their really crappy flavors and presentations. I felt like a ten dollar whore being forced to work in front of a dollar store: Cheap, used, and my mascara was running after the 2nd soup d'jour too.

Holy Jesus those soups sucked! They were either too spicy or just bright-yellow water with noodles. And the noodles were always made out of thick dildo rubber. You know, the kind that always retains its shape no matter how much you bite it... Ummmm, uhh, Hot Gimp told me. About them. About big, thick, black rubber dildos. Anyway, the soups sucked, but since Large Marge was sitting over my shoulder reading everything I wrote I marked down shit like "Mmmm mmmm, bitch! This is some tasty shit, muthafucka!" and "They ought to package this shit as the 'new crack!' This shit'll fly off the goddamn store shelves like Twinkies and Snowballs at the supermarkets around Woodstock!" They were pleased, and they handed me $30 after I stopped heaving into that bucket they gave me (which they even made me hose out myself before leaving). Nice. After that I was set to actually eat some real food.

I was allowed some visitation rights while they locked me up in the Rock (I was set up on some trumped up charges of lifting skirts, punting children and having sex with a statue). Unfortunately nobody ever came to see me, so I just had to wait until some hot chick came walking by my window and I'd tap on the glass and curse my ass off until she sat down, and listened to my pleas.

One woman (who apparently makes it a hobby to visit locked up miscreants like me) came to my window this one time, and although she wasn't the greatest looker, it had been 3 minutes since I had last seen a chick, so I was desperate. I asked her to press her titty against the glass, but she told me she'd only do that if I rubbed my cockandballs against my side first. Before she even got past "cockand-" I was already stripped down and giving her the show of her life. After about 5 minutes I zipped up and sat back down to let her entertain me. But what welcomed me instead was Randy the guard licking and sucking on the other side of the glass with a passion that rivaled my love for Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. Sometimes I wonder why I share this stuff with you.

Since I was in San Fran I had to eat something that screamed "local" for lunch. Had to. It's just this thing I do. So I ignored the shitty looking Italian place, the crappy sports bar, and even the Hard Rock Cafe (which I normally love thanks to my lust for their shirts from around the globe, but I was broke as all shit at this time, and I really didn't want or need a rainbow-colored HARD ROCK shirt... Cause that would not hold up too well back in the deep South). But soon I found Boudin's Bread Co. I got a tasty sourdough chili bread bowl and chowed that fucker down to crumbs. I still had some cash left from the taste test, so I went to a cheap-ass yet expensive giftshop and bought an Alcatraz sweatshirt. It was windy and nippy just on the pier (though it was balmy and humid just a few blocks up at Coit Tower), but I had a feeling that at dusk, on a barren island in the middle of the bay, I'd be freezing my ass off. It was definitely a good call. Though I am very confused as to how one city can have so many vastly different climates in just a few square miles. I guess those Christians are right, God really has it out for the gay population. A volcano's probably coming next after the locusts. Or the big, gay apocalypse is gonna hit SF first before jumping to Vegas.

After lunch I went for a nice looooong walk, almost down to the Presidio I think, then back again, checking out all the shitty tourist shops along the way. Saw another submarine and battleship and a pretty cool museum with tons of penny-run old-time games and nickelodeons. Damn, that really wasted a lot of my time, and I found I had to run back to the pier for my Alcatraz tour that was just boarding. I got into an argument with one of the tour attendants at the gate to the boat that was to take us to the island, and long story short, she tried to kick me in the happy sack, and I had to kill her with a sea lion. The cool thing about all that was that I then got an up close and personal look at the island prison on a tour that very few get to see, thanks in part to the five security guys who jumped on me after the boat had just left the dock.

Apparently one of the security guards was engaged to that chick I fed to the giant, man-eating, ocean-dwelling behemoths earlier, and he was taking it a little personal. So he and his buddies took me to this place in the basement of the prison, tied a couple of heavy things to me, and dropped me in the hole. No, not solitary confinement, but an actual hole. A deep-ass hole. I did have fun splashing around in the sewers and stuff for a while, and then I found those baby birds and then the rockets and shit, but it got old fast. That's when I found a grate right below the island dock and bribed some snot-nosed little punk to tell the tour guides that he found a dead hooker on the other side of the island. When they all left I simply jumped out, knifed a couple of squealers with a dagger made out of a toothbrush, and boarded the boat. It felt good to laugh at the Rock as it fell away on the other side of the horizon (well, you could still see it from the pier, but it was almost a mile away). My laughing made people uncomfortable, but fuck 'em. One thing I was disappointed about the whole thing thought is that Hollywood lied about the bay being shark infested. That's just a bold faced crock of shit. I was planning to cut this cute little kitten I found and dangle it above Jaws as he jumped out of the water after smelling Mr. Foofoo's blood, but I had to settle for tossing the tabby to the sea lions again once we reached land. Dammit! I HATE repeating myself.

The Rock (the movie) totally fucking lied about what it's like underneath Alcatraz. There's no giant sewer pipes, and always-turned-on furnaces blasting fire every 5 seconds (years after the prison was abandoned). Instead there's just a lot of really cramped, dark and dank, tiny tunnels totally filled with dead hookers. I wasn't kidding when I told that kid to tell the guards that. How sick do you think I --...... Never mind.

After the Rock, I walked all the way up to the Ghiredelli... Ghieradali.... this candy factory place where I was told they had a ton of fancy restaurants and shit found nowhere else. Yeeeeeah, a 50s diner, a bar and grill, and a $60 per plate Chinese place. Instead I settled for a Chicago pizzeria down on the street. Don't get me wrong, the pizza and (local) brew were great, just not really what I was hoping for. Chicago pizza in San Fran? That's like looking for a gay male prostitute in Chi-town. It's just backwards, man.

It was only like 8PM by the time I left the restaurant, and I had 10.5 hours to kill before my flight, so I started wandering around the area looking for anything (inexpensive) to do. I was hit on by some guy ("Excuse me, sir. But in this town there's a 'no frowning' law. You have to have a good time or else--" "Okay, look, buddy. If you had caught me a few days ago you just may have gotten a piece out of me, but I'm sorry to inform you that I just don't--.... Waitaminute! You're like 50! Christ, fucker, I could be your gay son! Get the hell outta here! You cradle-robbing fag!"), I gave my leftover pizza to some homeless guy and his dog (I figured that that one good deed totally cancelled out all the murders and drunken rampages I went on over the previous few days), and then ducked into the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum. The word "awesome" does not even begin to cover that place. "Asstacular" does though. What a fucking rip off. Shrunken heads, sculptures made of hair, pictures of dissected midgets and elephant men, and textual descriptions of bizarre shootings, stabbings and other death-inducing actions on people... If I wanted all that I'd have just kept my $10 and visited Dr. Dave's lab when I got back home. At least it was a good hour and a half distraction for me. Oh, and if there was anybody on the other side of the two-way mirror when I was rolling my tongue and unzipping my pants, please send me a copy of any pictures you took! I was amazing!

I got out of Ripley's and walked around the pier district for a little while, but everything was closing up! I thought this a bit odd, but figured eh, it's a Monday, the touristy part of town must be done for the day. So then I went back to my car and drove around downtown SF looking for a lively bar, karaoke club, or even nudie bar, but nothing. Well, I mean I passed places like that, but they were all either empty or closed. Seriously, what the fuck, San Francisco?! Do you need to be home by 10 for mommy to hold your dicks while you pee before tucking you in at night? 10 o'fucking-clock and the streets were empty. I drove around for 30 godfuckingdamn minutes, cruising up and down the streets looking for something... ANYTHING to do. Nothing. Christ, you're not a gay city, you're a pansy city. Fucking pathetic. Seriously, Mormon occupied Salt Lake City is more happening at 10 at night. Fuck you, SF.

Walking over to the Ghirardelli Factory for dinner I ran into a pirate. A fucking pirate! A real fucking live pirate! And what's more, my new smelly and tattooed friend informed me that that very day was actually "International Talk Like a Pirate Day." Look it the fuck up. It's true.

This was the cherry on top of my San Francisco gay sundae of delight. Seriously, it doesn't get any better than this. I fucking met a real life pirate! And he wasn't even taking any kind of handouts or anything. I tried to slip him a couple of Washingtons to let him go find himself a bath, but he shook his head and said, "Arrrrr, me matey. 'Tis a fine gesture there, boy, but a pirate has to be a pirate for himself first. No tips be necessary. Arrrrrrrrrr." It was then that I offered to at least pay for a smelly pirate hooker for him (as long as he didn't mind sloppy seconds), and he agreed, as long as she had big titties... What the fuck else kind are there?

Reluctantly I drove back to the Hampton and picked up my suitcase from behind the counter. The same two cuties from the night before (Jeesus, it seemed like weeks ago already that I first begged them for a place to crash) were running the show that night, and they ever so graciously allowed me to stay in the lobby until 3 or 4 that morning, when I had to leave for the airport for my flight. They wouldn't take any kind of sexual favors as a way of saying "Thanks for the hospitality, here's a boner," but I tried anyway. My gay experiment was a complete and stupid failure, apparently just like my lifelong hetero experiment. Christ, what's left? Beastiality?..... Hmmmmm. Nah, you always have to get them from behind in doggy-style. I'm more of a reverse cowgirl-guy myself.

So I sat down on the big, comfy sofa in the lobby, threw a chair at the TV that was BLARING some Oprah Anniversary special, and played some Gameboy golf and read some Jurassic Park. Then I felt myself nodding off and I totally gave in to it. I woke up and fell asleep and woke up about 10 times, and thankfully each time took up about 10-15 minutes, bringing me ever closer to my flight time. The last time I fell asleep though I was woken up by a sharp KICK to my shin, and I tumbled out of the chair crying and screaming "Why, daddy, WHY!?!" only to see an old hag of a receptionist (must have been one of the cuties' replacement) smugly walking back to the front desk. WHORE!

I took that as my cue and grabbed my stuff. I walked up to the bitch on the other side of the counter and shoved my face right up into her wrinkley mug. I could have picked her pointy little nose with my tongue I was so damn close. I spat at the bitch, "Do you have any idea who I am?! Do you know what room I was staying in?! Goddammit, ANSWER ME! Do you know who--" She cut me off. "No, sir! I do not know who the fuck you are." A wry and evil fucking smile curled her thin and punchable lips. "GOOD!" I screamed, and punched her lips, and then ran to my car and floored it the fuck out of there.

It was about 3:45AM when I got to the airport. I dumped the bodies in my trunk, returned my car, and took an empty airport train to my airline's ticket counter.... Which was closed till about 5. Fuck. Luckily I found the last shitty (yet comfortable) couch in the giant ticketing atrium, stretched out, pulled my hat down and went to sleep. I can't explain it, but I woke up on the little crop duster that was taking me from the Charlotte airport to the little Athens landing strip, with a used condom in my shirt pocket and a note clenched in my hand that read "Thanks, sailor! I'll never forget you! OXOX!" To this day I'm really glad I never tested the DNA to see if it was indeed mine. *Shiver!*

First thing I did when I got home was put in The Rock and check out to see if it really was accurate in its portrayal of SF (I try to do this after every trip... No, not watch The Rock you fucktards! I try to watch a movie based in the city I just left). To sum it up, no, it's not. Not only was most of Alcatraz itself made the fuck up, but if those jets at the end really cruised under the Golden Gate and then announced that they still had ten seconds till they fired their missiles on the island, they would have been on the other side of Oakland before they launched. Stupid stuff like that, but stuff that nobody who'd never been to SF would ever miss. Oooooh man. Just writing about the last two days of my trip has tired me out. I'm out of here.

So to sum up. San Fran is fun, but it won't make you gay and everybody goes to sleep by 10. And bring a sweatshirt.

NOTES from the Editor:
My brother, Todd, is gay. He said that San Francisco made him that way when he went out there for Fleet Week all those years ago.... Though he was taking it up the butt from Mr. Weeder back in high school. Hmmmm, maybe he was just experimenting with cocks and stuff back then. Yeah, and um, I'm not gay either. But I'm pretty sure the Rossman is. Not me, but the Rossman. Those freaks should go burn crosses on HIS front lawn!... *sniff*....

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