Sex Hole 4

SEX HOLE (PART 4)Monday: Instead of succumbing to the “Monday Blues”, the old lady and I decided to head to the big city of San Francisco and ride the Double-Decker bus with all of the tourists. We put on our best wigs (mine was fashioned after the real Whig party so I looked like I was in Parliament, not to be confused with the outstanding funk band from Minnesota) her wig we purchased at the dollar store.
After we were all geared up we jumped on BART, Bay Area Rapid Transit, we both doused our seats with Lysol (it was a judgment call and a fine one at that) and we were off to play in “the Sco”.

Mr. BART delivered us safely at the Powell street stop where we finished our fierce argument about the price of doughnuts (she won, apparently those bastards all got together and raised the prices) gone are the days of the 35 cent bear claw, it is what it is.

We proceeded swiftly to the Double-Decker bus and secured two seats at the rear end of the top deck where two small Asian ladies joined us, one of which kept turning back and giving me dirty looks me whilst tightly clenching her purse and false teeth. I walked up behind her to ask her what she thought of the writings of Li Po but the bus lurched and I fell on my back knocking off my wig, which was very embarrassing. As we toured the city the bus driver/tour guide sprinkled us with factoids about our fair city and its numerous hills and Asians.

For example the wedding pictures of Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe taken on the steps of St. Peter’s church is actually a bit “fugazi” as the Catholick church does NOT recognize divorce, they were in fact married at City Hall and just used the front of the church to take pictures. I wonder if the church recognized them at that point, I raised my hand and asked if the church recognizes sodomy or fraud or lies in their interpretation of the Bible.

My lady took her wig off and smacked me with it.

Apparently the true address of St Peter and Paul’s church is 666 Filbert although they will never post those numbers on that gaudy cultural farce. Some folks think they should be issued another address, I say it’s a fine fit.

My woman is an altruist in the purest form and I am constantly sharing her affection with wayward folk, lost dogs, bums and sodomites. I had to laugh when I saw her picture up on the wall at the St. Peter and Paul’s church, as she is a lukewarm Catholick at best. I must say she does put feet to her so called faith, the picture was of her and a filthy homeless person whom she was bathing with a hose, a squeegee and some BBQ tongs…. too funny.

We jumped back on the bus and made our way over to the Tenderloin section, which, as my friend Dave Chappelle would say, there is, nothing tender about at all. We jumped off the bus again and waddled into the nearest watering hole as my nerves were a bit fried from the whole church experience and I needed some of the other spirits to calm my weary brain.

Back in the old days the police would never come to the T.L. because of the crime factor so the butchers who lived in the area at that time brought their finest cuts of meat to entice the SFPD to do their jobs in that part of the city. The “tender loins” worked of course as most police are ruled by their potbellies and mommy boy syndromes.

I spoke with a few of the local crack smokers; warning them that their unhealthy habits and sinful ways would lead them straight to jail or Hades where they would no doubt burn for eternity. They were not receptive to my humble olive branch offering, I tried to get my lady to give them a bath but she refused as she was wearing her good boots, back on the Double-Decker.

My lady was hungry so we jumped off the bus again and strolled into restaurant on Van Ness avenue where one of the waiters was singing a Judy Garland cover song, I almost turned around and walked out but the old girl was hungry and who was I to deny my queen of her repast. I ordered a New York steak with all the fixings and ordered my bride a nice bowl of corn pops.

She was a bit angry about my choices but after I read her the back of the corn pops box she was happy again. I told her “it’s all you care to eat mac n cheese when we get home lover” just to smooth things out.

We skipped BART and treated ourselves to a lovely cab ride home where my lady ate two boxes of mac n cheese and fell into a deep sleep dreaming of the next moron she could help out whilst snoring; the pictures fell off the wall and woke her up…she blamed me.

Social Note: No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country, the idea is to kill the other poor dumb bastard not let him into your house and pantry.

Tuesday: Saved my lady from saving a wayward jaywalker on El Camino Real…sorry no details folks still too angry.

Wednesday: Barely made it.

Thursday: One of my old lady’s success stories was singing Karaoke at a bar in Millbrae and she coaxed me into attending, I said I would be happy to join her as long as my opinions were not suppressed. She looked confused but agreed to my terms. Bob was a former speed freak who my lovely bride nursed back to health.

Poor Bob had a terrible tick from all the years of abusing meth and one leg was much longer than the other besides that he was a happy son of a bitch.

My lady introduced me and I congratulated him on graduating the Amber Sheraton School of Etiquette for Monkeys and Morons (A.S.S.E.M.M). He kept referring to my wife as a miracle as a matter of fact he referred to almost everything as a miracle. The guy singing was a miracle, the fact that he was standing there was a miracle; the guy next to him was a miracle and so on. Something happens in those 12 step rooms where people’s brains are washed clean and instilled with this damn miracle malarkey.

My wife left to use the restroom and he turned to me and ticked for a while then in the most sincere tone informed me that I was a miracle. I told him that I’m pretty sure he does not know the meaning of that word and he should stop using that word so shamelessly. He was not affected and kept smiling at me insisting I was a miracle.

They called his name to sing his song, which my cynical mind told me, would be completely laughable. I was wrong, that bastard could sing like Luther Vandross or maybe it was because he chose a Luther Vandross song “Love won’t let me wait” which is one of my favorite songs by Luther.

On the ride home my lady was in rare form, maybe it was the cocktails or the Karaoke, but she looked directly in my eyes and said she is done reforming 3 time losers, crooks, drug addicts and sodomites.

I thought of Bob…”It’s a miracle”, I said and drove us home.

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