Thank you, San Franciscans. You’re really and truly something. Sometimes I love you. Sometimes you make me want to tear my hair out. Or your hair out. Or both. Everyday, you give us pause. Everyday, you give us a reason to say, in an obnoxiously sarcastic tone, THANK YOU, SAN FRANCISCANS.
Thank you, homeless man at the corner of Bush and Van Ness, for raging through the intersection at Olympic speed, body-rolling off of the hood of my vehicle Melissa-McCarthy-style, then punching my door and popping out the side mirror. In the moment I almost threw up with anxiety, but now I tell this story to anyone and everyone who will listen. It’s really a crowd-pleaser.
Thank you, kinder homeless man, who found my mirror laying forlorn on the side of the road that afternoon, then proceeded to jog three blocks up to my car and hand me the mirror through the passenger side window. You served as the perfect “Part II” to my tale. Whenever I look at my duct taped side mirror, I think of you.
Thank you, random man on MUNI, for the vivid profession of love you made to me on 16th St, in which you promised to sell my soul on the black market for $1,000. I’d always wondered how much this sucker was worth.
The Public Transportation Gang
Thank you, teenager on the 22 Line, for playing your music loudly from the beginning to end of the line. How did you know I wanted to hear ASAP Rocky for forty seven minutes straight? I could’ve listened on my phone, you know, but the tinny acoustics streaming from your cracked phone were far better. So glad we shared this moment. What community, yeah?
Thank you, middle-aged white man at the bus stop on Haight and Divisadero, for loudly narrating every traffic occurrence to your uninterested wife for 45 minutes. Additional shout out to MUNI for running every 45 minutes on weekends. You’re nothing if not entirely inconvenient.
Transplants (inherently NOT local)
Thank you, Coachella enthusiast for exclaiming for your social media need of making Coachella 2018 plugable. If Coachella didn’t already have 90 other ways to hashtag it, “Coachillin,” was not one of them. Party on, blondie.
Thank you, straight bro gang, for letting the world know your out of pocket, homophobic intentions. Way to disrespect and entire community, amiright? We totally forgot that the Pride parade is, like, for you. Just like everything else in this backwards America.
Thank you “San Fran” transplants, for moving here after graduation and building your startup here, then jacking up the rent prices. We know, this is a flippin’ beautiful city. You know who else thinks so? The locals who were born and raised here and now can barely afford to stay. (But at least we got apps, right?)
// Graphics by Anthony Rogers
We are the collective editors of Bob Cut Mag. We edit, write, and scour the internet for the cool of the cool. Email us? Editor@bobcutmag.com