City of WTF

So have you ever felt the ground beneath your feet slowly fading away into the void, only to desperately search for help and end up staring straight into the gaping vagina of your best friend’s lady – where you can see nothing but a dark damp hole of endless vacancy?

I certainly hope not. Cause it’s fucking terrifying. And it’s also the number one reason why I recommend that no one ever intentionally ingest a shitload of Foxy Methoxy before getting naked with their buddies at Bay to Breakers.

It all started innocent enough. With my wife kicking me out of the house so that she and her stoner gal pal, Kathy, could get high and binge on Buddhist brunch back in Berkeley. So I made my way over to Scooter’s dope loft in The Mission, where I pretty much immediately walked in on Lydia giving Kyle a sloppy BJ on the toilet.

With that lovely image lingering in my mind, Scooter asked me: “So what’s up, bro? You want some of this shit?”

“Whatever’s cool with me.”

“I suggest you take two then. Since it’s your first time and all.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I anxiously gobbled down the aqua pills with the scowling aliens printed on their front side.

“You sure you’re cool with this shit, bro?”

“Yeah, man, I could definitely use a fun trip. I’m just a bit worried about panicking.”

“Oh, that’s right. Kyle told me you stopped smoking weed since you’ve been having hella panic attacks. Well shit, bro, check this out. Back in the day, yours truly used to suffer from that anxiety bullshit too.”

“Really, Scoot? I’d never guess that you of all people would have problems with drugs.”

“Swear to fucking God. After my moms died, I used to freak out every time I smoked that shit or ate shrooms or did anything really.”

“So what’d you do to get over it?”

“Well, you see, bro, I realized that the problem wasn’t caused by the drugs per se, but by the fact that I wasn’t taking enough drugs.”

“What? You must be confused. I’m not talking about. . .”

“Nah, bro, trust me, I feel ya. The thing is that anxiety shit only really happens when your brain starts spinning its gears and then kinda stalls. Sure, if you drop a tab of acid, you’re gonna freak the fuck out. Cause your mind has one foot stuck back in reality. However, if you take like ten hits, then your mind will be so completely motherfucking blown, it won’t even think about panicking.”

“In other words, your advice for panic disorder is to take more drugs, not less?”

“Fo’sure, that’s what I did and look at me.”

“Whatever you say, man, you’re the expert. So why don’t you go ahead and give me some more of them angry aliens?”

“No problemo. Just remember, bro, that shit can really mess with your sense of time”

Nodding at Scooter as he happily handed me a bunch more blue pills, I gulped them down without thinking. If I remember correctly, I didn’t even chase that shit with water. I was bored, so WTF?

“K-Rod, will you please put some clothes on? I’m like so sick of seeing your nut sack.”

“What the hey, Scoot? I thought we decided that we were gonna get naked for this shit so that, you know, we could like see us some twat. What with all of Lydia’s slutty friends from the barbershop coming.”

“You mean my barbershop.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude. You say tomato, I say tomato.”

“Well, I say that I own Trim. I paid for it. So it’s my fucking barbershop, foolio. And, anyway, it’s not like we need to get naked until we meet them bitches over at Pee Wee Herman Plaza. Fuck if I’m gonna stare at your bobbling nuts all the way downtown.”

Gleefully grabbing his crotch, Kyle exclaimed: “Deez nuts?”

“Kyle, cutiepie, can you kinda sorta do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Can you toss me some more of them there pills? I still don’t feel much of anything.”

“Don’t worry, Lyd. It’s cool. You just gotta wait a little while for that shit to kick in. But when it does, man, we’ll all be flying fucking high. Trust me, Tex made this batch of 5-MeO-DIPT himself. So you know it’s gonna be hella tight. You just gotta be careful that you don’t take too much cause it can be pretty intense. Kinda like LSD.”

As our drug-dealing guru gave us the 411 on the mysterious chemicals floating through our veins, Kyle let out what may be the loudest motherfucking fart in human history.¹

Each and every one of us inhabiting the time and space of the loft at that very moment – namely, Scooter, Lydia, Kyle, and myself – burst into a contagious fit of laughter that did not fully subside until the sun went down that evening. Please recall that it was approximately 6:30 in the morning.²

Have you ever stared out a magnificent bay window overlooking one of the most beautiful cities on the planet, caught a glimpse of a homeless guy pissing in the alley, and pondered the true meaning of the word, ‘myself?’ Cause that shit can really fuck your world up.

Anyway, the next thing I remember, we were crowding onto BART at 16th Street with like a bazillion other already-inebriated assholes. After that point, things get pretty fucking hazy and my sense of time is iffy at best.

Nevertheless, here’s a random list of crazy shit we encountered on that horrible day:

• A motley gang of obese drag queens, each of whom was dressed like Divine in Pink Flamingos, eye makeup and everything. Terrified, it seemed to me that the very fate of the universe depended on me confronting them as to their true intentions. So questioned by your humble narrator, the leader of the group – a bicycle mechanic named Hank from Sonoma – casually replied: “We’re just hoping to place in the centipede race and have some fun, hon.”³

•  A weeping hipster in polyester black jeans nervously squeezing the hand of his special ladyfriend – an equally nervous hipster with a potbelly who was sporting similar pantaloons – mumbling: “Lasse Hessel, why have you failed us?”

• Lydia attempting to stealthily give Kyle a hand job on the train (presumably without any of the hundreds of fucked-up people noticing), despite the fact that the mighty K-Rod was still naked.

• One of the Divines – I believe it was Frank, a bike messenger from SoMa – nearly getting hit with Kyle’s jizz and not seeming to care one bit.⁴

• A bunch of frat bros in sticky togas and Birkenstocks, bonging beer and doing keg stands in the aisle of the train.⁵

• When we arrived downtown, the drug seemed to really kick in. All of us kinda lost our shit at seeing the masses of humanity gathered near the Bay. Personally, I puked a couple mouthfuls of OJ into the cape of some fucking asshole acting like he was the Wizard of Oz or something. And I know for a fact – though I’m certain he’ll deny it to his dying breath – that Kyle shit himself. Seriously, right there in the middle of Market Street, that naked behemoth asked Lydia to pull his finger and, after she started jerking him off once again, he let loose the wettest queef that’s probably ever come out of an asshole. I swear, even the normally unflappable Scooter seemed to be sweating it. When this barefooted Nigerian came jogging up to us and asked where the “real race” started, Scoot was all like: “I dunno, bro. Wherever you want it to be, that’s where it’s at.”

• And, yes, for all you perverts out there, Lydia’s friends from beauty school did meet up with us. And they were completely fucking nude. Though, the four of them had shaved their pubes in such a manner that their collective bush spelled out the name of Scooter’s new business endeavor. Preoccupied with preventing the panic demons from taking my brain hostage and worried about whether I’d accidentally managed to get Kyle’s doo-doo on my shoe, I never did get around to learning their names. So I’ll just refer to them as T, R, I, and M, respectively.⁶

•  Of course, Kyle spent the entire day gawking at these poor exposed women and, especially, their quite unique genitalia. Seriously, that dude’s got like a problem or something. Apparently, his mother never taught him not to stare. I mean, even when he kinda flipped out for a while there and started bawling and telling me about how much he fucking loved me and how he heard that the wife was smoking weed again and how he didn’t mean to disrespect us that one time we asked him for some pot and he said he’d have to charge us, cause he was just like trying to make his way in the world today and not lose too much money, particularly now that he was getting all those intense bills from the hospital, the motherfucker was STILL gazing directly at Lydia’s friends’ crotches.

• Oh shit, I almost forgot that while we were looking for the lovely ladies, one of those inane Flash Mobs showed up and started hitting everybody with pillows. It was kinda funny when Kyle clobbered one of them candy-ravers and then used their pillow to wipe his ass. Though, this sudden burst of violence seemed to freak Scooter out even more. The dude just kept muttering: “Sex is violent. Sex is violent. Sex is violent.”⁷

• Speaking of oddly juxtaposed violent images, later in the day (around the time we started finally making our way down Market Street), I witnessed a rather surreal conversation involving these two Buddhist Ninjas, which went something like this:

“Yo dudes, wassup? I didn’t know you crazy cats were into this shit.”

“Please shut your wordhole, Kyle. I just called our Tibetan friends and asked them to meet us.”

“Why’s that, Scoot? They gonna get naked and try to corndog some of that Trim shit too?”

“Nah, bro, that’s not their way. I wanted our comrades to join us on this beautiful Spring day since I’ve come to the conclusion that Pacific Records must help them with their noble endeavor.”

“For reals?”

“Yes, K-Rod, while the blazing sun was rising over our heads, I had me a vision.”

“Of what, Scoot?”

“A free Tibet with the Dalai Lama as its rightful leader.”8

“No shit?”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve gotta poop again, cutiepie.”

“I said, ‘no shit,’ Lydia.”

“And so, my dear friends, I wanted to look into your eyes and tell you our answer: we’re in.”

“Mister Scooter, your assistance in this matter is very much appreciated by the resistance. Because of your generosity, you shall receive total consciousness upon your death.”

“Wow, bro, that sounds fucking sweet!”

“We are eternally obliged, sir.”

“Shit, Lhamo, your fight is my fight. I fucking swear, it’s like I can practically feel your people’s pain in my bones. So how many guns will ten grand buy y’all?”

“Enough for us to get started down the path that will lead us to our ultimate victory over the ChiComms.”⁹

• And then there was this insane motherfucker with a huge Jewfro that kept following us around. The dude was like wrapped in camouflage and constantly chomping on a wet cigar. He told me his name was “Walter” and that he was “a conspiriologist.” But that’s pretty much when I stopped listening. The funny thing is that no matter how much I tried to tune out his droning, his irritating voice kept filtering into my psyche. In fact, I distinctively remember the following rant:

“You kids, what the fuck do you know? Hope, ha! What bullshit. Are you aware that Obama personally purchased five million dollars worth of Treasury Bills back in October – before he was elected President? And, now, do you know what he’s doing with our economy and how that will invariably affect the value of those Treasury Bills? Do you even comprehend the vast repercussions of his drastic actions? And I’m not talking about any of this socialist, redistributing the wealth camouflage. That’s just window dressing to keep you distracted from what’s really going on here. Complete and utter domination by the Illuminati.”

Since I couldn’t ignore him, I stupidly attempted to engage the fucker: “I remember that book. Pretty good read.”

“What the shit do you know? That holy prick, Robert Anton Wilson, was in bed with those scum all along. Think about it, kid! What makes you look more ridiculous then an epic novel exposing your existence? It’s like with this CNBC bullshit. You know they’re the ones behind this whole global economic meltdown, right? Ha, of course they fucking are! Why else would you hire all them financial wizards, if you weren’t gonna have them manipulate the markets so that – boom – everyone’s worried about that shit and your ratings soar. So fucking obvious. Just like the flag makers and 911.”

“So you believe all that crap about WTC 7 then?”

“Kid, you’ve got so many phony sunglasses pasted to your ugly mug that you can’t even see what’s really happening. . .”

“And what’s that, man?”

“The World Trade Center never even existed. It was all just a figment of America’s collective unconscious, its never-ending narcissistic desire to have actually completed its fraudulent Manifest Destiny. It’s like, do you honestly believe that it’s a coincidence that so many people in liberal San Francisco have been bitten by this rare banana spider? Give me a fucking break! Those creatures can only survive in Brazil.”

Fortunately, Kyle started having the squirts again and, apparently, Wilbur¹⁰ was a bit poo-phobic. As soon as K-Rod started throwing that shit around, the world’s most annoying conspiriologist left us alone.

• Though, I did fear for my own safety as Kyle turned towards me and – laughing maniacally – started to rub shit all over his massive belly. When I asked my friend if he was “cool,” the crazy fucker just continued to cackle like a drunken hyena until he blurted out: “Hey, don’t you still owe me some Oxy? Cause I’m pretty sure I gave you money for that shit a while ago.”

• One of Lydia’s friends¹¹ then declared: “My step-dad’s addicted to that Oxy stuff. He even started injecting it. You know, like heroin. Now his lungs are full of crap and he’s dying. That’s why I prefer natural drugs, like pot and shrooms and stuff.” I kinda hate to admit it, but this was pretty much the smartest thing anyone said or did that whole fucking day.

• As a matter of fact, it got worse. A lot worse. Overwhelmed by love for his Asian brothers, Scooter decided to ditch us and head over to the Haight to buy a bunch of Tibetan tchotchkes.¹² Meanwhile, Lydia – who, as far as this keen observer was able to discern, never seemed to be affected in the slightest by the drugs – and her friends grew bored. So they put their skimpy clothes back on and ducked into some hipster bar on Valencia.¹³

• And so it was just me and Kyle – wandering the streets of San Francisco, all hepped up on some stupid club drug. Needless to say, I wanted to kill myself right then and there. Of course, K-Rod became obsessed with this girl that was part of a Britney Spears centipede. And when I say, “girl,” I mean like teenage girl. Trust me, I’m extremely careful with my language when it comes to shit like that. I even tried to warn my wayward friend in an awkward exchange that occurred as we strolled through The Castro.

“Hey, man, let’s get outta here already. This whole scene’s starting to really creep me out.”

“Nah, dog. I’m like so fucking hot on that chick over there. The one that looks like Madonna.”

“Yeah, I can tell by your erection. Not to mention the stalking. Though, technically, I think she’s dressed up as Britney, not Madonna. Plus, she’s like fifteen, you fucking pederass.”¹⁴

“Pet her ass? Nah, dude, I’m kinda over that shit now. But I’ll definitely stroke her puss.”15

“I meant that she’s way too young for you, dumbass! What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Bullshit. If she’s old enough to bleed, she’s ready to breed. What the hell’s wrong with you, dude? Are you some sort of fucking faggot?”

“Do you even know where we are?”

“San Francisco?

I turned my back on the fat prick.

“California?”

Slowly, I started to walk away.

“America?”

I couldn’t resist. I had to swing back around and give him the finger.

“Earth?”

“No, dipshit, you’re currently standing right in the middle of Castro Street. As in like queer central.16 And you, my friend, are a complete fucking asshole! I’m outta here.”

While I was eternally relieved to be rid of my homophobic companion – and, frankly, I’d seen more than my share of naked flesh, exposed vag, draq queen centipedes, conspiriologists, and other Bay to Breakers ephemera – anyone who’s ever OD’d on psychedelics is well aware that the worst fucking thing you can do is venture off by your lonesome.

Of course, that’s precisely what I did. And that’s when I lost any semblance of reality.

All I know for sure is that somehow I ended up naked and scared in what must be like the last phone booth left in The City.¹⁷

Not sure what else to do (or where my clothes were), I called my wife. Collect.

“Yes, I’ll accept the charges. Honeypot, is that you? What’s up?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I loved you.”¹⁸

“Well, I love you too. But why the collect call?”

“No, sweetness, you don’t understand. I mean that I really fucking love you.”¹⁹

“Are you drunk?”

“I don’t think so. Hey, you remember that guy, Sammy? You know that goofy kid whose dad made all that money off that cheesy My Face web shit?”

“Kinda.”

“I think I just saw him walk across Capp Street. Hey Sammy, is that you?”

“So you’re still in The Mission?”

“I guess.”

“Why don’t you come home, honeypot?”

“How?”

“How’d did you get there?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, just take the train then. It’s early so I’m pretty sure it’s still running.”

“Are you? I mean, how can we be sure of anything?”

“Okay, now you’re freaking me out. Please, honeypot, just take the BART home.”

“But I don’t have any clothes.”

“What the fuck happened to your clothes?”

“I have no idea. We’re born naked and we die naked.”

“Actually, most people die with their clothes on.”

“So there’s really no hope for us, is there?”

“Honeypot, I have no clue as to what you’re talking about. But I’m not feeling very good so I’d really appreciate it if you got your clothes and came home. Like right fucking now!”