|"I guess do it..."|
I say that because our first choice was Mexico, but Mexico only really works if you go there for a week. The shit's more expensive if you go for less time, it's something to do with a package deal, which sounds like it makes no sense, but I price my dick much the same way. It's cheaper if you get the whole package, individual pieces are bit pricey. I'm not sure if I just insulted myself there, but in the name of dick jokes, it was worth it. Mexico was out, so we looked at Las Vegas, but given that I'd already snorted cocaine off of fake tits there last year, that wasn't the best option. Then we thought about New York, but not only is New York too expensive, it's also over hyped. I guarantee I make better pizza here, after that, what else is in New York? The Port Authority? Some bitch holding a candle? No, I didn't care to have a nuclear sewer rat gnaw off my ballsack, so we then looked at Jasper.
For my American readers, if you don't know what Jasper is, congratulations, you just took the shortcut to understanding why we didn't go there. For my fellow Canadians, fuck Jasper. What is there really, a partially frozen lake with a bear fucking mountain sheep in a tree? Ok, it's not that bad, but I wouldn't break an appointment to go there, let's put it that way. Then in the middle of wonderment, randomly my brain burped up, "San Francisco!" At best there's beaches and a prison on a rock, at worst the anal sex would at least be sensual on a bed of weed. It seems mildly tourist friendly, why not? It was relatively cheap, so off we went to San Francisco at the most inconvenient time possible, right in the middle of moving out. Just so I don't dwell on this too much, I'll just leave you with a small dose of reality. Here's what to expect when moving out: moving out sucks dick.
Moving on. This is the story of my trip to San Francisco with Susie in May, 2015. Similar to Drumheller, Vancouver, and Las Vegas, this is my odd way of preserving memories, beyond taking pictures. I'm getting old, man. My balls already look like my brain, it's only a matter of time before my memory goes. I'm sure that makes medical sense.
Thursday, May 7th, Day 1
Well wouldn't you know it, Susie and I finally travelled at a reasonable time! Unreal, I know. Normally we end up travelling when the sun is considering that maybe our side of the planet exists, but this time, we actually had a decent sleep, there were birds chirping outside, vomiting worms and garbage into their infants faces, it was magical. We got to the airport three hours early, as you're apparently supposed to before an international flight, and thus marks the second time I have been supremely unconvinced of this fact. When I travelled to Las Vegas, there was zero reason for us to be there that early. There was less of a reason this time around. We even suffered a delay thanks to my fucking passport, and we still made it to our gate with two hours to spare.
Long story short, my middle name was on the itinerary, but my middle name isn't on my passport for some fucking reason, so the airline was confused as to who this "Anthony" person I'm bringing with me is. If only they knew it was the biological twin I absorbed in the fucking womb... We were at one of those self check-ins, because there was no one at the United desk, and the process halted thanks to my middle name crashing the system. I guess most people don't have middle names, who knew? We were told to wait for a United employee to come by, but as previously mentioned, they don't exist, so we just waited in line. Eventually some lady noticed a growing line of frowny faced people, so she waved us through. We made it through Cerebro from X-Men easily enough, or should I say, obnoxiously quickly, because no one was at the fucking airport. Seriously, we were the only ones who went through security. Who the fuck were those people in line behind us?
I elected to get a Quizno's Sub for some reason during our wait for the coming of Christ, until finally we boarded the plane. I buckled up, got my Calvin and Hobbes out, got my phone all set on airplane mode and shit, still disappointed that that setting doesn't make it rocket into the sky, and then waited. Then I waited a little more, and then some more, until finally the captain blurted over the intercom, "Our water systems don't appear to be working." In other words, we couldn't flush the toilets, or wash our hands. It took them a fucking hour to fix the problem, with no one from the crew having the balls to stand up and say, "I clogged the toilet." I don't know who did it, but how they cleared security with a biological weapon like that is beyond me. But, at long last, after I'd raised my first child to adulthood, we were finally taking off.
Landing in San Francisco is interesting, because it looks a bit like the entire city clapped a bunch of chalkboard erasers prior to your landing, and instead of landing on a runway, it looks a bit like you're performing an emergency water landing. Suddenly the runway appears, and you're free to collect your bags and make your way to the taxi cabs. Now, fair warning, tourists heading to San Francisco, your taxi driver will be a fucking insane person, and San Francisco is weird. Driving into the city is nice, it's very green, but it also looks a bit like Brazil got lost. The best way to describe the housing near the airport would probably be "slums", just to sound mean but somewhat accurate. The houses are tightly packed and on hillsides, like they're in a perpetual game of The Floor is Lava. In lighter news, taking pictures in San Fran is fun, because it's like going on gay safari.
Now, the fucking crazy taxi driver. Taxi drivers have a reputation for two things: buying their licenses, and being insane. Often the two are clearly linked, and nowhere is this more apparent than in San Francisco. Holy fuck, this guy was hauling ass, and gave no shits about hitting other cars or other people if it meant getting us to our hotel quickly. He didn't actually run anyone over, but the way he was driving, it seemed like he wanted to. Then all of a sudden he took a sharp left turn and we were at our hotel. It seemed like a mistake, but I was just grateful he'd stopped. I thought our flight in was bad enough. Our plane was doing a marvelous impression of a Jackhammer being attacked by Mike Tyson, while stuck in an elevator, and now we found ourselves on the set of Death Race? Time out, America. While we're talking about the sky, if birds fuck in the sky, does that mean they join the mile high club, or does that only apply to humans? Passing thought.
Anyway, the best part about our insane taxi driver, was the fact that he was listening to slow dance music. I mean bad slow dance music, like the kind of shit your parents would slow dance to. Like the kind of shit cheap softcore porn is edited to. Elevators don't even consult this genre. Not only that, but it was on a CD. It was all different artists too, meaning either this man took the time to make himself a special mixtape, or he loves the genre so much, he bought a "Greatest Hits" CD, unafraid of a bad egg sullying his music. I'm not sure which is worse. Either way, the gentle sounds of drunken shower singing captured on recorder, serenaded his madness. I know the guy lives in San Francisco, the place is pretty tolerant, and we Canadians are supposed to be nice and all, but let's just call that what it is, that's gay as hell.
Moving on, Susie and I stayed at the Stanford Court in Union Square, or maybe it was on the outskirts of Union Square, I didn't really pay attention. If "inbetween Powell and Mason on California" means anything to you, then good for you. The elevators in that building are pretty fucking rad, and I know I should be beaten with sticks for using the word "rad", but they play great music in those elevators, it's appropriate. The only issue was that Courtney Love was advertised on the wall next to Metallica, and while I don't hold Metallica in any high regard, saying Courtney Love was "one of The Bay areas greatest musical hits" is a bit like saying bird shit is haute cuisine. The woman is only special because she murdered that asshole who inspired a generation of people to not have sustainable jobs, fuck her. But don't actually do that, that's how the zombies start.
The carpets inside the Stanford Court are interesting, in a word. They are dehydrated piss yellow, covered with optical illusions. We finally reached our room after being mildly hypnotized, which could only be further away from the elevators if it had been in another building, and there wasn't much to say about the room. It was a place to sleep and shit, that's about it. One noteworthy aspect to the room was the enormous yellow stain on the blankets, which I photographed:
Note the token pube attached to the bizarre stain that probably wasn't produced by a human. The stain was never addressed by the staff there, they just kept making the bed, staring at the weird yellow stain and thinking, "I'm sure that's supposed to be there." Now this is a weird segway, but we were hungry at this point, so we went out to find food, electing not to just eat at the fucking hotel for some reason. We walked down two hills and ended up at Nob Hill, which is right next to "Bush Street", just to go down the checklist for a dick joke, and found a little pizza place on the corner called "Uncle Vito's". All I can really say about Uncle Vito's is that Vito has watched The Godfather too much, is kind of a dick, but makes a decent Panago knock off. Then we had to climb back up the two hills we walked down to get to Uncle Asshole, and at this point, I'm not sure if it was one hill or two. It's all blurred into one big hill for me now. Regardless, walking those hills was a bit like torture, having destroyed our bodies moving just days prior. I thought Susie was going to pass out, and had that happened, I don't know. At that point, I may have cherished the pizza more than our relationship. She would have just kept rolling forever, and I vowed never to chase women again...
After we ate, I left the hotel to ascertain exactly where the fuck we were and exactly where the fuck we wanted to go. Keep in mind I live in the prairies, I can see a dog running for three days if there isn't a building in the way, and you throw me in the middle of a city that looks like it was originally a roller coaster park? That would be like throwing Paris Hilton in the Serengeti, admittedly a good pitch for a reality show. But I found some maps and sort of figured things out, Susie then helped further, and then I passed out next to that weird stain that looks like someone cock slapped a row of lady bugs to death.
Friday, May 8th, Day 2
My day began with "The All-American Breakfast", which was some eggs that looked like someone used them for kleenex, some dry toast, and some bacon they found at the back of the freezer. Frankly, I don't think these people understand "All-American" too well. Where was my complimentary firearm, with a side of freedom? This is America, damnit! If I go to sleep, I expect to wake up racist! Anyway, I ate that breakfast that looked about as sketchy as it would to a starving man, and then we went to catch the cable car. Word of advice, eager San Fran travellers. When you get there, depending on how long you're staying, buy a Three Day Transit Pass. I can't remember what it was called exactly because I currently don't have internet and I threw my pass in the garbage, but find a Walgreens and buy one. It will save your life. Fuck walking those hills, and fuck those people who say, "San Fran is a walking city!" It isn't. It's a cable car city, so hop on one of those things like a stiff rebound dick and enjoy the ride!
Luckily our stop was right next to our hotel, we just had to somersault a little and we were there, so off we went to the Fisherman's Wharf, a place the internet told us to go. First off, supposedly there's a difference between Cable Car and Street Car, but no one knows what it is, and even less people care. Secondly, the cable cars smell like an old deli. Go there and tell me that's not accurate. Third, going to the Wharf, I could only picture one thing:
We got to the Wharf, the place that smells of panties, rounded a corner, and all of a sudden, Alcatraz. Just sitting there on a rock like a magpie on a McNuggets box, Alcatraz. It's always a bit jarring seeing something like that, you feel like you've just stepped on to a post card. Speaking of sitting on a rock, because of the sheer number of people there, and the amount of those people who like eating the absurd amount of seafood in that area, the area has become home to very brazen seagulls and pigeons. Over here, those birds look at you like a freeze frame during a jump scare, but over in San Fran? They don't give a fuck about you. You can walk right up and kick a seagull in the balls, and it doesn't care. It's just waiting for someone to drop their weird bread bowl full of boiled sea creature, so it and its brethren can swarm.
After we ate some icecream, we went to the Aquarium of The Bay. Susie and I enjoy aquariums, because the ocean is something we don't often see living near mountains and boredom. The aquarium is nice, and if you decide to go there yourself, you will be glad to hear that "The Tunnels Under The Bay" is false advertising. At first I thought that meant there were tunnels under the ocean, which never made sense to me, who wants to see a bunch of seaweed and fish shit, maybe some algae on a rock next to a drowned shoe? It's actually just a huge fish tank underneath the aquarium, with a tunnel that you can walk through, while the animals rub their dicks on the glass. Seriously, this Ray kept doing it over and over again. I called him Mr. Squishy Dick:
Rays look a lot like if you drew a face on a boob, and then stretched it out. We walked about the Aquarium, amongst loud faux-spanish people carrying selfie sticks, fulfilling at least two of the requirements for douchebaggery. We stayed to watch the otter training session. One of the otters bit the fucking trainer in the leg and then swam away. I laughed. Eventually we left, only to discover that I had lost my sunglasses. It was only a matter of time before I lost those things, and to be honest, I'm glad I lost them. I fucking hated those sunglasses so much. I just feel bad for the person who stole them. Their life is now a cavalcade of persistent misery and occasional UV protection. After lunch at some place named Johnny Rocket, we went to check out the Sea Lions. They're over by Pier 39 I think. When you get to the sea from the Powell stop, and you're staring at Alcatraz, look to your right, and walk in that direction until you hear Chewbacca and smell wet shit.
Those Sea Lions are awesome, because apparently they just straight up swam in there one day, anexxed the pier Crimea style, and now they just sun bathe there, until it's time to swim off and fuck bitches. Seriously, that's their life. There were two sea lions play fighting on a plank, battle royale style, trying to push each other off. Oddly amusing to watch a soggy sausage with flippers throw another one into the water over and over. We then decided to walk down the Wharf in the direction of Crissy Field, where we heard some guy advertising a $15 cruise under the Golden Gate Bridge, and around Alcatraz. Before this, we'd heard from a reputable person that they were doing a $30 cruise for the same trip, which made Susie and I not even question the worth, but simply ask, "What's going on here?" The man yelling about the $15 cruises through his stolen traffic cone, neglected to mention if there would be complimentary cannibalism in addition to being thrown overboard on the "cruise".
We walked along and discovered a sign that read something like, "No Stealing Dungeness Crabs". You're allowed to fish at some points in San Fran, and I guess if you catch crabs, you're not allowed to do anything to them, or else you get a $1000 fine. That would be an interesting thing to try and explain to your wife, a $1000 fine for crabs. I'll let you finish that joke. It wasn't very good, so you get to shoudler that responsibility. Anyway, turns out it was a really great idea to walk away from the Wharf, because as the smell of shitty seafood disappeared, the smell of chocolate entered our noses. We of course ended up in Ghiardelli's Square, the most amazing place on earth. Ok, maybe not that amazing, but oh my god. I can see why San Fran turned gay, the smell of that chocolate was like a boner potion. I dropped my pants and started fucking a keychain in a gift shop. After briefly losing my phone in the bathroom, we bought a shit load of chocolate, and then waited fucking forever for the cable car.
Here's another piece of advice for eager travellers. If you're going to San Fran, bring a fucking hoodie, maybe some arctic gear, one of those hats with the fur in it, and a dick cozy. Evenings in San Fran, particularly near the ocean, are cold enough to freeze the testicles of any Eskimo. All you can really do is huddle together for warmth with the enormous amount of people waiting for the cable cars, and hope that the homeless street performer is playing decent tunes instead of trying to sniff your ass, or whatever homeless people do with their free time. Also, fair warning if you're waiting for a street car, be prepared to wait longer than the last guy in line for the iPhone 6. If you've ever waited to be treated at a hospital, just imagine that wait, but multiplied by forever, and that's about what it feels like to wait for a cable car at the Wharf. Just picture the cable cars as indifferent nurses and you might not cry so much.
Saturday, May 9th, Day 3
Despite the fact that someone coated their tiny dick with mustard and slapped the bedding with it, I slept like a baby in that bed. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the stain helped lull me to sleep. It was my dreamcatcher. The morning only got better, when we turned on the TV, which was normally full of bullshit channels and no Food Network, this time it was MYTHBUSTERS! Seriously, who the fuck doesn't have Food Network? But Mythbusters certainly made up for it. They were marathoning it too. Gathering the will to leave the hotel that day was a challenge, but after a few commercials for a show called, "Outrageous Acts of Psych" on the Science channel, we decided to do tourist-y stuff before I threw the TV out the window. Fuck that show. Why is that on the Science channel? That isn't Science, that's a whole lot of people that weren't beaten by their parents as kids infront of a camera. "If people stare at you, it makes you uncomfortable." Wow, I wouldn't have called that. This really needed a social experiment to uncover the answer to a question no one was asking. Thanks for your in depth experimentation and hypothesis, now let's see your degree you fucking whack job.
Right, San Fran. That other shit, different time, different writing. So we went downstairs for breakfast, and being Canadians, we elected to eat pancakes. Oddly enough they were on the dessert portion of the menu, which in fairness, that's right where they belong. But we figured they were normal breakfast pancakes, so Susie ordered a plate. If you're accustomed to pancakes in Canada, which are sweet when covered in syrup, but not over powering, let me prepare your palate. Or hey, if you want to do it yourself, just eat a ladle of icing sugar, after dumping it on a bed of brownies, icecream, and skittles, and actually that sounds ok. I mean your heart is liable to skip a few beats, but it's delicious. I've come to the realization that it's impossible not to sell these pancakes. Basically, after you eat them, you'll spend most of the day in outer space.
Turns out the pancakes were a good idea, as I just threw a saddle on Susie's back and she galloped us over to Golden Gate Park. Actually we took a cable car down to Market Street, found a bus, and it just kind of took us to Golden Gate Park. That's about as interesting as that gets. The neighborhoods on the way there are neat, because it looks like some asshole put all of his houses on a single property in Monopoly.
I didn't realize it until we got there, but there's a stadium right next to the park. It's almost as interesting as the horse shoe court inside the park. Come to think of it, you could put a horse shoe park anywhere really, it's not that special, but it was similar to the rollerblade park we saw later on. You don't even know you want it until you see it. I wasn't sure who was performing at the stadium to attract the same crowd that gathered outsides Helm's Deep, or why they bothered to show up. It was essentially live radio, without the commercials, but equally as shitty. Just some asshole yelling "HANDS IN THE AIR!" constantly. He didn't say anything else, he just kept yelling at the crowd, demanding they raise their arms. I'm not sure what a personality is really, so I'm assuming putting your hands in the air means you're excited. The man could have been more creative trying to hype the crowd up, my mother would wreck him at Scrabble. How about, "Place your hands slightly above your head!" or "Raise your appendages!" or "Quick, fix that pot light!"
We went to the Conservatory of Flowers, and looked at, you guessed it, flowers. They neglected to mention that flowers flourish when placed inside an oven, so my armpits melted by the time we got to those weird cup plants that eat ants. In my mind, they look like a 3D print of a vagina, but they are actually Victreebel from Pokemon, but without the chewing tobacco habit.
|Looks like the guy who delivers cheese to my restaurant|
After that, Susie and I ate weiners while staring at each other longingly, then we found ourselves at the Academy of Science.
I researched this trip lightly one night long before we went, and this place wasn't mentioned at any point. I don't know why, it's fucking awesome. If you want to go to San Fran, go there. If you live in San Fran, fucking go there. There's an exhibit on whales at the time of this writing. They have a fossilized whale dick, you could have 25 women sucking on that thing at the same time. You could knock a city bus over with a cock slap and get a home run with that thing. There's a big ass aquarium there, and some rain forest globe you get to walk around while butterflies endeavor to scare you and the parrot hides from you. We took the bus back to Market, and this time it was actually interesting. Thanks to my skills as a stalker and people watcher, which basically mean the same thing, I got to listen to some great conversations between these girls. I don't remember them all, but there was one in there about a guy doing acid, and texting her. It was the casual tone that sold the story for me, like this was just an average thing in her life. People come out of raves just thinking, "Shit, I have to text this fucking girl!" Then there was a black girl talking about how she has servants in her house. It doesn't matter that she's black, but it totally does. I'll let you decide how you feel about that.
When we got back to the hotel, I ordered a sandwich and some chicken strips. Had I known the sandwich was literally a live turkey inbetween two pieces of bread, I would have paused on the chicken strips. I bring this up only to ask a question. Why the fuck is a sandwich the size of the table you're eating it off of, worth more than four tiny strips of chicken and some fries? The sandwich was 13 bucks, the chicken, 16 bucks. For three extra dollars, that chicken best be jerking me off under the table.
Sunday, May 10th, Day 4
I don't remember how this morning began, just that we woke up. I think I grabbed Susie's boob. That sounds like something I'd do. We decided today was the day to bike across the Golden Gate Bridge, so we made our way down to the Wharf, and rented some shitty bikes. Saying these bikes were shitty is an understatement. You couldn't pay someone enough to steal those things. The frame was made of rolled up magazines wrapped in tinfoil, and the wheels were so thin, I think they were the inspiration for 4K flat screens. Felt like I wanted to floss my teeth with those things. They managed to survive the journey, though at a certain point while crossing the bridge, I half expected to be turned into a paper airplane. Oh, here's something no one tells you about biking across the bridge. It is freezing fucking cold. Wear a good hoodie and some gloves. Don't wear under armor and shorts because you're pretending to be an athlete, wear a polar bear. Also, why is it called the Golden Gate? I get the bridge part, but at this point they should just call it, "That Red Fucking Shit".
After you cross the bridge and you stop crying about losing your hands to frost bite, you have to travel another couple miles to get to Sausalito, which is the gayest place on earth. That's not an insult, I mean literally it's the gayest place on earth. Come on, it's called Sausalito. That's a great word if you're gay, lots of S's. Also the sun never stops shining there, that has to aid in being gay some way or another. This was the portion of the trip where we got burnt to a crisp by the sun, while not experiencing anything about Sausalito beyond the ferry back to the Wharf, where the smell of eggy sea lion ass doesn't diminish in time. By the time we got back, we were hungry, so we ate at Subway just to be uninteresting. We did so because it was quiet and not packed, until some assholes kept shooting fire crackers off in the alley. On reflection, I should have strapped some to the guy's dick, but going across the street to buy hoodies was a better idea.
You know what else was a better idea? Going back to fucking Ghiardelli's and getting a big ass sundae. I still remember it, it was called "Treasure Island", the richest thing I've ever eaten until I finally get to eat Bill Gate's ass. It's amazing. It's a brownie drowning in icecream and ecstasy, and your penis bleeds pure hot joy while you eat it. My advice is to only order one thing off the menu and share it. If you're by yourself, god be with you. Partly because there's a lot to eat, but mostly because you'll have someone there to possibly stop you from fucking the sundae, or at least offer to block for you while you fuck it. It's so good. It could only be made better if they gave you some extra chocolate sauce on the side to smear on your nipples. Then we walked up to, and down Lombard Street. Our legs had adapted to the landscape at this point, our calves were the size of watermelons, so we hulked up to Lombard no problem. Then as we were walking down, we realized that people live in Lombard Street.
Bit obvious sounding now, but when you get there, it's not as obvious. I thought it was just a fancy street, a tourist attraction, but people actually live there. Seeing people go into their garages or driveways in San Fran in general is bizarre, it looks like everyone lives in trap doors. Lombard Street though, it looks like something Martha Stewart masturbates to, it's hard to believe people live there. But those rich bastards do. May their lives forever be tainted by tourists and an endless stream of cars. Then we caught the street car back to California Street, which was being operated by some asshole. He stopped to pick up two people, and instructed them to go to the other side of the car by yelling, "OTHER SIDE!" In fairness, the man shouted AND pointed. To be unfair, you're in a city that's a huge tourist destination, and you stopped in the middle of an intersection. What makes you think these people heard you, much less that English is even their first language? No need to mutter, "My god..." under your breath, like these people caused you grievance. Just drive the car and ring the fucking bell, boy.
We got back to the hotel which is when we noticed our insane sunburns. I was happy to be far away from the Wharf, I thought someone was going to mistake us for lobsters and start ripping our limbs off and dipping them in butter. We watched some idiots on TV on a show called "Naked and Afraid" and laughed at their misfortune. This one girl in particular, who described herself as, and these are her words verbatim, not mine, "A ball of awesomeness." To no one's surprise except her's, she tapped out after like a day because she didn't realize the sun was hot. Stupid bitch.
Monday, May 11th, Day 5
The final day, the travel day. You would think there's not much to write about here, but oh there is. We got an early start, as we decided leaving this city early and thus arriving in our home town early was a good idea and ok, I can see you're not interested. We were up and out of the hotel by 7:00, and braved yet another taxi driver. This time this guy would be going mostly down hill, so this was marginally worse. While this driver didn't do anything to cloud his road rage with gentle tunes, he did have a serious phlegm problem. I can only assume he tried to eat amoeba in the morning and it got stuck in his throat, because he was just coughing up balls of glue.
He got us there alive, which is I suppose his primary function. We went to check in for our flight, and some dude comes up to me and says something I can't remember about my passport. I don't remember because I paid more attention to him saying, "You won't be able to go back to Canada." Oh really? You'd be fucking surprised how hard I will go back to Canada. I will Canada all over your mom's face. What the fuck was really so bad that I couldn't go back to my home country? Was I put on the fucking no fly list? Jesus. So he sent us to some ticket lady several miles away, and during the journey there I finally realized why they want you at the airport three hours before an international flight. It's for bullshit like this. We got to the lady, and she had a great, all too familiar question for me after looking at our itinerary. "Who's Anthony?" Again with this slippery Anthony character. Goddamnit, literally every other passport on earth, people have their fucking middle name on it. Not me!
So because of this discrepancy, I was allowed to travel to the United States with this mystery Anthony in tow, but was unable to travel back with my imaginary friend. Where the fuck would I be hiding an entire person, you idiots? Anthony's in my pocket, want to see? He's actually jammed in my luggage, I'm hoping the fucker can breathe cruising at 30,000 feet. Who's Anthony. What kind of a question is that? Look at my girlfriend, she exists, she's not harboring a fugitive or something, we only have two seats booked on the plane, where is Anthony going to sit? In the over head bin? Can I stash him in the fucking seat back pocket? Eventually after all this madness, she just kind of checked my ID and it was all fixed, but before we walked away, she had to leave me with a shard of wisdom. "Get your passport fixed!" Sure, let me just grab a sharpie right now and save some time.
Finally we ended up at our gate, ages before our fucking flight. Even with all of this bullshit, we were still obnoxiously early. You could chop my head off and I'd still make my flight on time. I am never going to the airport three hours before a flight ever again. That's an hour I could spend masturbating and eating. Not speaking of that, I really had to shit when we got to the gate, so I found a bathroom and had my way with the toilet. There was some weird music playing in that bathroom. I'm positive softcore porn originated there. After that, I was back to waiting at the gate, when the dude called everyone up for a "documents check". I guarantee they were still looking for this elusive Anthony character, those fucking idiots, but the important thing to mention at this point in the story, is the guy who didn't understand how lines work, who just kind of stood beside me and Susie while we were walking up. Fucking pompous asshole budding in line, I bet he plays the Ukulele and owns a share of IKEA or some shit. Then eventually we landed in Edmonton after I farted a lot on the plane, and wanting to clap the irritating stewardess's head in my Calvin and Hobbes.
And that was San Fran. A good city to travel to if you want to come home, and listen to everyone annoying in your life be confused why you didn't find the time to visit obscure places while you were busy being a tourist.