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2002-09-15 8:58 p.m.


In San Francisco, absolutely nobody will let you use the restroom in their shop or restaurant. It does not even matter who you are or what you look like. Even if you look rich and generous or like you are going to stroke their penis and touch their prostate while handing them fistfuls of $50 bills, you still can not use the toilet.

That is, if they admit to even having one. Most people insist that they do not have a restroom in their store, which leads me to believe that everyone who works in a store or restaurant in San Francisco is actually an evil cyborg. I must be one of the few humans. Evil cyborgs just don't have any compassion for human needs. They really don't care if your bladder is about to actually explode and cause you to die of internal urine poisoning. Evil cyborgs don't have bladders. They just can't relate. Even if they could, it would not matter, since they hate humans and want them to die. I know this because this is how it always is in movies.

But, not all shopkeepers can be evil cyborgs. What about the human ones who actually know what it is like to squirt out a few drops in their pants because they can't hold it anymore? Why don't the humans band together and make an alliance? Why are the human businesspeople so insensitive to the needs of their fellow humans to go number one or make number two?

It is because one out of every two people in San Francisco is a homeless heroin junkie soaked head to toe in the urine, vomit, and feces of themselves and their 350,000 other homeless buddies. Business owners must protect toilet areas from the homeless at all costs. Consider what happens if a homeless person gets into a restroom. First they shoot up heroin using a needle they probably found in a septic tank. Then, while they are high out of their gourds, they will lose control of their bladder in their crust–hardened pants. When they run out of heroin, they masturbate on every available surface in the restroom while thinking about your grandmother.

After that, they will bring in their stolen Alpha–Beta shopping cart full of plastic bags and "How to Be Covered in Excrement: An Advanced Guide" books and actually construct a full–on shanty–town in your restroom. Finally—like an insane, bearded filth–mole in a digging frenzy—Mr. Homeless Guy will use his one remaining tooth to burrow an underground tunnel in order to channel other stinky vagrants in and out of the sperm–soaked shanty–town. This is fact.


Excuse me sir. It appears you have forgotten to have a home. Perhaps I can interest you in some urine to splash around in? Or, maybe some feces to rub into your soiled, Vietnam–era army jacket? Oh, wait! It appears that you already have plenty of your own!

Soon the shanty–town will be fully populated with burrowing, homeless piss–urchins! They will use the sink to collect urine and vomit for splashing around in and rubbing on themselves. They will dismantle the toilet, though. They don't need a toilet, since they prefer to defecate in their pants, on each other, on the sidewalk, or maybe the doorstep of any nearby house.

Something special happened today in San Francisco, though. Andie and I went out to run some errands. The warm sun was almost enough to distract me from the stench of urine that always hangs over the city like a fog. Since you can't use the restroom, there is no choice but to piss on the streets. So, everything is covered in urine in San Francisco. As we walked from one shop to another, I had to pee so bad I was about to explode. Any second I would become a splashy, yellow, pissy supernova. Andie insisted that she knew a cafe where I could use the toilet.

And, she really did. It blew my mind: Using flashing lights, holograms, and explosions she created a diversion at the cafe and somehow tricked the cashier into actually allowing me in to their fortified restroom!

I stepped inside. I felt lucky; I felt I had tricked fate. I beat the system. I duped the gods.

The toilet was quite nice in there—it was even safe to sit upon—but it was rickety. It rocked back and forth. It seemed like it might separate from the floor if I shifted my weight too much. It had probably been dismantled by a homeless person and then reinstalled by the cafe owner. The cafe owner must have somehow evicted the perpetrating homeless guy before his filthy restroom–heroin–binge matured into the full–blown, excrement–littered shanty–town stage.


An added bonus: this fantastically artful example of graffiti adorned the white, tile walls. Look at it! PENIS! All fat and in your face!

After I was done, I washed my hands and walked out to meet the world. Every vein in my body pulsed with the new blood of happiness, amazement and relief. Today marked the day that I actually got to use a restroom in a place of business in San Francisco! We must append the calendars! This is a day of victory against the cyborgs! This is a day of victory against the homeless! Rejoice! Rejoice!




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