Much to my chagrin, I am appallingly poor. Which is why I need my burrito buddy, Big Chris to do my taxes. A former accountant, Chris mocks my income while providing me with a condescending learning experience. All he requires as payment is one (1) roast chicken and/or one (1) super chicken burrito, one (1) carnitas taco, unlimited cans of Bud Lite and a five (5) minute neck and shoulder massage (no happy ending) while he selects one (1) pay-per-view movie.
He's cheaper than Turbo Tax.
After completing various federal and state forms, Chris and I headed down to Pop's for some pops. We discussed "life and shit" for an appropriate amount of time and headed home to watch Sherlock Holmes, making our way past the raucous religious events exploding from the unmarked doorways of 24th street.
As we approached Bryant Street, I noticed a dog tied to a parking meter and next to it, a huge pile of barf, poo or a combination thereof. Passing it, I grabbed Chris' arm. "Oh my God, Chris! Look!"
Human contact caused Chris to jump, causing the dog to go ballistic, causing me to scream, causing an old man sitting in the window of the restaurant to start banging on said window, causing Chris to scream. If you were within the City and County of San Francisco at 10 pm last night, you probably heard something weird.
That was us.
The whole sequence of events set me off. I couldn't stop laughing. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't move, trapping Chris in my "death grip" and stuck on the disgusting sidewalk as "the hounds of hell" tried to eat us alive.
I was less afraid of the dog and vomit/shit and much more afraid of this old fart slamming his fists against the window of a filthy Chinese restaurant at us. He was screaming something I couldn't discern over Chris' admonitions. I'm really curious to know what his problem was, as he seemed perfectly fine when I went back after our escape to take the following picture:
Do you see it? The shit/vomit/internal organ/scoop of stuffing from Lefty O'Doul's? Yeah. What the fuck is that...