So there I was, hanging out with my sister on her last night in San Francisco in the yuckie...I mean the yuppie hood called the Marina: salvaged land; reclaimed from the bay; doomed to be the first to swim at the first shake; reclaimed by the bay.
Something you have to understand about the place we were in. Not only the area which is pretty much fratboy/gainfully unemployed HQ, but the particular bar. Now there is no reason to flung dung because I think all these places in these areas are filled with those damn yanks (shout out to my pinsan "london") who think that bud light and skeet ball is just so fucking rad, so let's just call the place...hmmm...Mauna Loa to protect the hangout's identity. Cool?
So there's a cute little pool table with a good game...not bad...girl knew how to shoot...needed practice...the guy was doing good until he realized that he wasn't going to be king of the table for long. Some challengers had chalked up on the board and I was waiting for my turn to play.
Thing is, I love a match. Whether I win or lose, it's nice to play, meet folks, and talk shit. Unfortunately, yanks love to wait in line more than actually play. I find it pretty sad that in place of fun and love of the game, people would rather sit a week in the dark for a day in the sun.
America: If God killed you right now, would you rather kiss your own ass good bye while feeling the joy of victory (or the agony of defeat)? Or would you rather die in line, respectable-like, gentrified, and civilized--like cows? Yuckies.
1 comment:
since when were we related aber?
I told you, forget Mauna Loa and move to London. Promise to give you a good game of pool. As for ass-whippin, well, we can negotiate that.
Though, the Brits have the queue culture too... hmmm.
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