HORDES OF NAKED WOMEN

One of my readers is upset that I have led him astray. Apparently I did not know what the heck I was talking about when I indicated that under certain conditions here in San Francisco, one would be set upon by hordes of naked women.
Where, he demands to know, are the hordes of naked women?
He was promised naked women! Hordes of them!
Where are they?

Well?!?

Back at the beginning of January I had stated that if you uttered the magic phrase "I like the cold season in San Francisco", which indicated like nothing else that you were desperate and dangerously unbalanced, punishment would ensue.
Karmic bad stuff.

You had best rethink things, "before grumpy middle-aged pipesmokers AND a horde of naked women mob you, and tear the flesh from your bones. No, we're not hungry -- we've been snacking since dawn -- but we think that those bones and your clothes, oiled with a bit of grease from your fat head, would make a lovely BONFIRE!"

My reader is certain that he could talk them into a different approach. One that doesn't include violence and a burning sensation. He specified that the horde of naked women should be between eighteen and twenty one years of age.
Both he and I fear that instead, when they finally materialize, they will be middle-aged Berkeley Lesbians, and look like Richard Milhous Nixon.
He would take off at top speed, if that were so. No one wants to be mobbed by middle-aged Berkeley Lesbians, widdle waddle widdle WADDLE, but almost anyone can outrun those lumbering ghouls, praise the lord.
Especially if you're heading up hill.


By the way, to make my point about the middle-aged Berkeley Lesbians, lest you think that this is a mere opportunistic dig with no actual substance, I would direct your attention to a page on Zombietime''s internet site, featuring photos from the "Breasts Not Bombs parade", on July 23rd, 2005, except that it isn't safe for work. Or damned well anything else.
My eye-balls are still seared from the images of the long-dugged monster at the beginning, as well as Scrotal Inflation Guy.
I'm a sensitive soul, and I fondly imagine that you are too. So please just imagine something appropriate. Vampire butterflies, for instance.
Yeah, that'll do the trick; vampire butterflies.
Reality will give you nightmares.
This is the Bay Area.

"I like the cold season in San Francisco"

We were at the intersection of Pacific Avenue and Stockton Street shortly after three in the morning when he made his complaint. It was far more frigid than he had expected, as the day had been rather sunny. Hence the subject of angry naked women in the fog being brought up; both of us could've used some heat.
In fact, the last few days have been absolutely perfect for hordes of naked women, and it's so very much a pity that the city is not filled with them.
We have seagulls. Crows. Raccoons. Parrots, pigeons, and rats.
There are ugly naked protestors on Castro Street.
Rabid dogs, feral cats, and cockroaches.
But no naked women at all.


It's very sad.


AFTERWORD

This blogger doesn't actually know what he would do if suddenly surrounded by a horde of naked women during the cold season. Especially at the intersection of Pacific and Stockton, where Chinese butchershops and seafood emporia abound. Why would they be there?
Are they buying dinner?
Is it possibly a Masonic ritual?
Naked women with bags of bokchoi and five-flower pork (五花腩) might very well be pre-occupied, and in the process of rushing home. Without even a spare moment for mayhem. Which would be distressing, because the concept of naked women with piles of food is, if you are a normal man, infinitely enchanting.
But the reality could present demographic and logistical problems.
I'd be tempted to buy them all a nice hot cup of cocoa.
But they might not wish to dawdle.
They're too hungry.

This blogger is looking forward to warmer weather.
Bright sunshine, gentle breezes, and all that.
When naked women hide indoors.



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