THE MACHINE LIVES

Surely everyone is pleasantly surprised that the SF Police have identified one of the people who torched a driverless taxi vehicle (Waymo) back on February 10 in Chinatown. We kind of expected the juvenile delinquents to get away with it, as they so often do. Now that we've caught one of them, lets throw the book at him. More or less.
The one shall stand in for the many.

He'll represent all the other shiftless gaddabouts who participated.

It takes a village to lynch a robot.

And, naturally, I have way more sympathy for the helpful machine with near human-like intelligence than the humans involved, who showed their worst post apocalyptic subhuman trash side by committing dangerous vandalism in a crowded neighborhood where, had things gone seriously wrong, emergency services would have had a hard time getting to the scene. White teenagers grinningly destroying something is not sharing the cultural traditions of a different group but more like deliberately raining on the parade.

Shan't even mention the punk with the skateboard.
A slimy little rodent.

Today's youth are largely arrogant whiny spoiled brats. As unfortunately are so many of their seniors, an example being the old dame on the bus who complained about modern people not making room or getting up for folks with walking sticks. My dear lady, on a packed bus hurtling toward oblivion (the Outer Richmond), perhaps some of the customary courtesies are less than practical? To get to a vacant seat one would have to hack through half a dozen innocent civilians standing in between with a machete on this vehicle, it's that dense.
And it's not like there wasn't opportunity earlier.

Some of us who carry canes (which I'm trying to discreetly keep out of sight and harm's way on this conveyance at this hour) are stubborn and would rather not sit at crotch-level with a whole bunch of strangers. So I'll gladly leave that to the utterly pooped and deserving twenty somethings, lord knows they have had a hard day at work what with the hints of caramel and raspberry vanilla wafting over the office cubicles from Steve's soy latte and Martha's vape pen, to say nothing of that Hello Kitty Perfume that Beth is wearing.
They need real odour experience.

Besides, I'd rather stand. I've got a pipe that's gone out in my coat pocket, which I don't want to tip and spill ashes. Standing keeps the bowl upright. If I desperately needed to sit down, then I would have eaten earlier, or dawdled an extra hour or so. Right at rush hour I know what I'm getting into. Eye-level with arse? No thanks, I'm not complaining.

There are over a hundred people on the bus. It's a little funky in here.

Today's youth are remarkably similar to kids back then.
So are their whiny grandparents.

They smell bad.



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