SLICE OF LIFE

San Francisco, which in some ways radiates an aura of near-nazi puritanism, is heading more in that direction, Because just being a self-righteous whack-job of a city at times is just not enough. Supervisor Myrna Melgar is leading a crusade against drinking establishments which in any way at all cater to smokers and wish to prevent them being mugged by street people, El Salvadoreans, and drugies, while indulging, or being harassed by the venomous do-gooders and rabid health nuts. Here in San Francisco, we have tonnes of rabid health nuts. They roam the streets snapping and growling, and wish to invade secluded patios and windswept outdoor smoking areas with their bloodstained teeth and claws, torturing the poor souls risking pneumonia and haphazardly strewn discarded needles.

Instead, they will be forced to eat tofu.

Pot-smoking is still okay, however. Marijuana is, as everyone knows, grown be little green men in the Amazon who hug trees and dolphins, and recycle. So it's good for the planet.


Besides, everybody goes to bars for their health. We should probably install exercise equipment in all of them. As well as petting zoo areas for the little kiddie winkies.
And non-gender-specific diaper-changing stations.
With vegan wipes.

Again: pot, good. Tobacco, bad. Indulging in ciggies or cheroots, evil.

In a city with hundreds of establishments that serve liquour and over a hundred thousand severely alcoholic pot heads there are less than a dozen places that have managed any accomodation for tobacco smokers. But they're bad (!), and we must have none of that! By the standards of some people, Myrna Melgar is a hero. Saint buggery Myrna, the anointed supervisor of District Seven, which includes West Portal, Westwood Park, Forest Hill, Parkmerced, Golden Gate Heights, Inner Sunset, St. Francis Woods, Miraloma, and Monterey Heights. Where many people are often triggered.

In the days when I still occasionally indulged in alcohol, I would sometimes head over to a clean well lit place that allowed smoking because I did not wish to freeze my rear end off outside among the vagrants, drug addicts, insane people, and tourists. With my pipe. It had been grandfathered in and was the last of its kind. Nowhere near schools, petting zoos, and diaper changing stations.

Most of the time, however, I have been outside in the cold suffering exposure to vagrants, drug addicts, insane people, tourists, as well as vegans, health nuts, and fentanyl-injecting habitués of petting zoos and diaper changing stations. Which litter this city like discarded slices of greasy pizza in east-coast metropoles.



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