What happens when the 47 doesn’t come…
It was Friday night and I was trying to get myself from my quiet neighborhood to a hoppin’ joint in SOMA. But being that I am not the kind of girl with the cash money to cab around town (hence this blog), I waited for the 47 in our freezing cold July weather. Minutes turned into half an hour (as usual), so I decided to start walking down Van Ness, you know, to get a little exercise and see where the bus would catch up with me.
I walked and walked and of course, by now you can guess, the 47 is nowhere to be found. As I approached a red light at Van Ness and Geary, a nice silver Jetta rolls up and stops right in front of me. I noticed that the car is packed with four young men dressed in button-down shirts and fancy jeans — the typical outfit one might say is the douchebag uniform here.
Suddenly the guy in the front passenger’s seat got out of the car, came up to me, and announced:
“Heeeeey! My friend here (points to one of the guys in the back seat) is an anal virgin!”
Me: “Er…I don’t think I can help you with that, sorry.”
So many thoughts ran through my head: anal virgin? Which way do you mean? I forgot my strap-on at home! Maybe YOU can help him?
My many thoughts were interrupted by guy #1, who was holding his arms up triumphantly, screaming, “ANAL VIRGIN!!!”
God, the traffic light couldn’t have turned green fast enough.
Where were you when I needed you, Muni line 47? I needed a quick rescue!
Eugenia has also been called flypaper for freaks for good reason.