Translation for 140 languages by ALS
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowline.
Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sail.
Explore. Dream. Discover
---Mark Twain


Cigarette Woman vs. Pot Belly (SAN FRANCISCO)

I almost forgot to share this funny New Years Eve story:

I was downtown waiting on Market Street for the streetcar to take me uptown. I really like riding San Francisco's streetcars. They are so comfortable and cute; designed at a time when citizens were civilized and if I'm in no particular hurry I'll wait around for a streetcar over the 'regular' city buses. Very bright and sunny day it was, too. Some vulgar woman whose best days were decades (and several addictions) behind her was yapping nearby, talking to no one in particular but not exactly talking to herself either (and that's saying much for San Francisco!). Her face was made up enough to put John Wayne Gacy to shame and her vulgar mouth had the obligatory fag dangling from it. Frightful woman.

And Pot Belly meant business: he used both his hands. Whoomp! 
Along came a pot belly man squeezed inside of some youthful T-shirt. 
Evidently the two weirdos started an unfriendly exchange. Something to do with her cigarette. I gathered he was complaining about it being against the city ordinance - Californians can be so touchy - and she was complaining about his complaints. Then the barbs flew and Pot Belly got up to stomp off to more breathable pastures. "That's right you faggot!" Cigarette Woman screeched with grrrreat emphasis on the name. Well! The faggot did not like being called a faggot one bit - or, at least, being screamed one by a smoking tramp - and he spun round faster than I thought a fat man could and, unbeknownst to Cigarette Woman because the hag was dumb enough to turn her back to him, pushed the woman smack down into the street. And Pot Belly meant business: he used both his hands. Whoomp! "You bitch," he shouted. "Don't you talk to me that way!" Her fag flew to one side and she, to the other. At this she became that occasional specimen the 'offended lady'. Bitches are always an 'offended lady' on the occasions they don't get their way or get their comeuppance.      

I stood their and applauded. Really I did. It found it quite entertaining. Two male employees ran across the street. "Whoa, whoa! Man you can't push a woman in the street," they cried. "Police are out today," they cautioned. "They swooping out hard today. They swooping." "Well let 'em swoop," said Pot Belly. "She was in my face telling me all of this crap and then called me a faggot. I don't have to take this abuse! I'm not going to take that shit. And I'll tell you another thing: I don't go in for all of this political correct fascism eating away at our society."
Cigarette Woman was, all the while, steadily yapping and yapping and yapping, cursing empty threats. By this point even the two service workers who had come to her defense told her to shut-up. I don't know what hurt her more: losing the cigarette, meeting the ground, or breaking her cheap sunglasses. She at last shut up -- because she was on bus. I expect Pot Belly had a fabulous anecdote for his cocktail party. And my streetcar finally arrived.  

Witnessed a 'funny' street exchange lately?

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