ROCKETING DOWN HILL

The overweight out-of-towner was visibly upset at the slow progress of the bus. He had that look on his face like a self-impressed New Yorker, and his mutterings and vocilizations sounded like it. And all of us San Franciscans were to blame for his predicament.

He and his briefcases might not make it to the convention in time.

Which was the only reason he was in this stinking burg.

And there were too many of those people.

Gerdammit, San Francisco!


No, I didn't bother asking him about the pizza. Those people given half a chance won't shut up about the pizza. And the bagels. And the cheesecake. Or pastrami sandwiches.
And as far as I was concerned, traffic was fine.
Besides, I like the pizza here.

New York pizza, if you ask me, could be vastly improved by the addition of pineapple.
So could their cheesecake, pastrami, and bagels. Everything from New York can.

And I've heard enough about New York Chinese food that I never want to try it.
I don't need those little packages of duck sauce either.

Those are probably meant for pizza.
In lieu of pineapple.



I was glad when we finally got to Stockton Street, so that I could leave mister panties-in-a-wad behind. I had things to do, and I had gotten tired of his 'you-guys-suck' attitude.
New York: It's an echte boerenlul of a place.



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