Today was the wildly unpublicized State of the City Address. Did you know this? Because I didn’t hear boo about this happening and sure as shit, I would have been front and center, grinning like crazy at Gavin while oblivious to every word out of his mouth. So, basically, I would’ve blended right in.
An expert at subterfuge, I’ve been able to secure an early, unedited draft of this speech, a draft penned before his handlers had the opportunity to remove every shred of emotion and honesty. I think it’s only appropriate that I post it here:
Good afternoon fellow San Franciscans and those of you that are here but live elsewhere. As mayor, I have two official duties. Seriously. This is the hardest job in the United States of America. Two duties. (exhale.)
And this is one of them.
I’m a plain talker, a straight shooting genius, so I’m going to tell it like it is in easy to understand chapters. Put your hand down, Frank Chiu. I’ll take questions at the end.
Alrighty. Here’s where we stand.
Chapter One: Crime. Beth’s car got broken into last week. They broke that window in the back that’s kinda in the shape of a triangle. It’s not a rollable, openable window or anything. But it costs $192 to fix. What the fuck?
Not only was the window broken, but they took her back-up pair of Ralph Lauren sunglasses that, while out of style, occasionally come in handy.
Hello? Straw breaking camel’s back.
I know many of you have also suffered at the hands of these godless thugs. So I’ve wielded my immense power and hired an army of attractive, young police officers to patrol Beth’s neighborhood and areas she hangs out in, specifically the Ellis/O’Farrell Garage, the Hotel Biron area and the Serramonte Target and surrounding mall.
Okay. Crime. Check.
Chapter Two: Spitting. Much like yourselves, few things get me angrier than people who dramatically expunge mass from their lungs and then dispose of it in the middle of the sidewalk. It is literally, a day ruiner. Jesus, who raised these people?
Well, no more, I say! (bang fist on podium.)
Uh, Chapter Three: My personal life. I get it, gang. I signed up for this. But this constant intrusion into my hair and my ho’s is pissing me off. Like YOU’VE never gone home with that conventioneer buying you drinks at The Redroom Room. We all make mistakes. I just take mine to the Opera.
And you know what, Spotswood. She knows her state capitals. So, uh, let it go. That’s not a deal breaker anyway, while we’re keeping score.
Chapter Four: Dealbreakers. Segueing, you’re now probably wondering what my deal breakers are. (Begin PowerPoint presentation.)
I generally regard the following unacceptable in a date: fat ankles, life experience, common sense, knowledge of state capitals, gainful employment, opinions, missing teeth, political affiliations, residence south of Broadway and/or pet ownership.
Chapter Five: Apparel. For those of you who care, it’s Zegna.
Chapter Six: Potholes. I agree. Not cool. Here’s my plan. Put the hobos to work filling them. That checks Chapter Seven off the list, so we’re moving right along.
79 minutes, my ass.
Chapter Eight: Environment. Oh, by the way, I found an alternate source of fuel.
I’d like to see Chris Daly do that.
How? Er, um, well…I sent Kimberly’s mothership, which had previously been in mutually agreed upon storage, back to her home planet where they have this fluid called Cleptor 9, which works just like gas but without all the downer side effects.
Chapter Nine: Tourism. The time has come for someone to say what we've all been thinking. We can no longer tolerate those oblivious out-of-towners in rental cars who slow down all confused and shit when approaching the tollbooth on the Golden Gate Bridge going NORTH. I am personally painting cardboard signs which read, in several languages, "No Toll to leave SF."
Brittanie is helping me with the foreign language part.
Ha! Just kidding on that Brittanie thing.
Chapter Ten: Culture. I realize the entrance to the new Century movie theater at Westfield Shopping Center is impossible to find. Unfortunately, not everything is cut and dry. To remedy this problem, we’d have to move the Illuminations AND the Hot Topic, so we’re weighing our options. I look forward to your creative feedback.
In closing, I’d just like to reiterate that most of the women I date CAN indeed read. I’m well aware of who started that rumor and I can assure you that, for the most part, it is not true. Pretty much.
After party at Matrix.