The Mission league of the World Dodgeball Society, which started whipping balls in people's faces earlier this month, promises “sweet jams,” “no-sting” rubber balls (sissies), and weekly post-parties at Bender's.  Presumably, there's also weed and pizza.

The price for such punishment is $5 and it happens every Sunday at the Mission Rec Center.

[Photo by Mollie C]

No one here is going to argue that bars are charities, but there have always been a few accepted customs in Mission bartending: PBR doesn't cost more than two bucks, pours should always be strong, and shuffleboard is a pickup game to be enjoyed by anyone willing to signup for the next round.  It's these simple rules that have ensured the neighborhood remained a safe haven for broke, drunk slobs for years.

Well, the recently-opened sports bar/shrine to delicious Pittsburgh-style gluttony, Giordano Bros., has broken the tradition, not only charging Medjool prices for mediocre beer, but by imposing a fee for a few rounds of shuffleboard.  Heresy!

I probably shouldn't be too pissed—it's not like anyone with a shred of dignity and a basic appreciation for decor would ever go here anyway.  But it's a slippery slope, my friends.  Next thing you know, bars will be asking us to pay for pool.

This rope swing isn't for the faint-of-heart, or for overweight people with shitty grip strength, for that matter.  These people may look like they are enjoying themselves, but they're not.  They're fucking pissing themselves.  And for good reason: the swing flies 300 feet above the San Francisco skyline from a dusty knoll on the little-known Billy Goat Hill in Noe Valley.  Or Glen Park.  All those neighborhoods look the same to me.  But, I digress…

Standing atop of a rat's nest of eroded roots snarling along the precipice of self-inflicted bodily harm, you grab a rope dangling from a branch some fifteen or twenty feet above your head, curse your shithead friends for roping you into this idiocy, and leap into flight.

The ground instantly drops out from between you.  Five feet.  Ten feet.  Fifteen feet. Next thing you know, you're staring at the roofs of homes 50 feet below and wishing you hadn't slammed back all those beers beforehand.  All the thrills over a roller coaster, but with none of the safety features that come with riding a 50-year-old wooden death trap that's operated by meth addicts.  And just as you become convinced you're going to be hauled off the mountain on a stretcher, you make your triumphant return to the safety of solid ground from which you departed.

If you're as graceful as you are ballsy, you leap from the swing to the ground below, shuffling your feet to a quick stop.  If you're a clumsy old fool like me, you flail erratically and slam into the tree.

Examining your newfound bruises and ensuring you didn't unexpectedly crap lunch into your pants, everyone fortunate enough to witness your foray into the life of someone with courage will remark that they didn't know a grow-ass man was capable to emitting such screams.

“Whatever, no big deal.”

Perhaps not the most obvious partnership, but for the cost of five foil tubes of soyrizo paired with a thimble salsa, this thousand calorie log of intestinal mayhem could be what people see when you bust out a sick ollie or whatever.