— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
Economy got you down? Can't afford your subscription to free internet porn? Mission Cliffs membership too much in lean times? Well, those bricks on the side of the Kink Dot Com Castle are here to help you out. Just climb up the wall, get some exercise, peep yourself a show, and rappel in sin.
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
WBTC came across some old pulp fiction about our terrifying friend Sutro Tower, but at $315 at City Art Gallery, it ain't cheap.
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
I was at this house party yesterday afternoon and then, out of nowhere, this guy who didn't even appear to be on drugs put on that terrible Six Pence None The Richer song, ripped his shirt from his body, and began vandalizing his chest with the iconic statement “Free Hugz + Kizzez.” After all that, he scandalously stripped down to his under trousers and began hugging every clothed person in sight.
But it gets better: after pressing his skin up against everyone, he sprawled out on a beach chair started gorging himself with cornsyrup logs while the crowd looked on unconcerned for the man's well-being.
Observe:
Now, I can't really imagine what would drive a man to publicly strip down to his undies and force feed himself Twinkies like he was making human foie gras, but it probably has something to do with “an exploration of our comforting indulgences” or “a dare from a friend” or “I was hot and hungry.”
Anyway, props to this guy, as he made performance art as sufferable as it gets.
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
The weather sure has been nice lately, but bringing your yoga mats out into the festering sore that is the 16th and Mission BART plaza? I'm not sure that's the best idea ever. The sights, sounds, and smells of a hazmat zone are not exactly the peaceful environs one expects to be immersed in. And I cannot even imagine what kind of chemical bath you have to give yourself afterwards.
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
It looks like the Mission's beloved Pedovan (which can typically be found parked within a few blocks of the Precita Park Playground) has been upgraded with a flurry of mushrooms, butterflies, mystical fog, and a unicorn to round out the mobile mural. Anyone know what's going on with the 9/11 Freedom Isn't Free/R.I.P. 2Pac 4EVA side?
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
Life is hard. Black? Blue? Green? What bin does your rage go into?
Fuck all that. Just knock over the trash cans and go about your day. In other words, “this is how we do out here, dude.”
[Vid by SATAN'S WEINER]
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
Dearest nerds and pervs, did you know that El Rio has a monthly all-girl lube wrestling competition? No? Okay, well now you do and you should probably put the next one on your calendar.
See, I'm not going to lie guys. I'd like to offer you a subjective, puritanical review of the evening that's free of sexual charge, but I just cannot do it. This event ruled for so many reasons: the rockin' DJ, the jokes from the MC, the lubricated thumb-wrestling contest, wrestlers with names like “Hella Kitty”… even the costumes were off the charts. But, at the end of the day, this lube wrestling match is a must-attend for a reason I'm sure we're all familiar with: titties. I mean, who doesn't like titties? Seriously people. Girls love titties. Guys definitely love titties. The internet loves titties. Titties titties titties.
That's not to say the party was all lube and boobs—quite the contrary. There were venerable athletes getting into the mix, some of which looked like they could bench press a bus with one arm. And the looks of horror from the front row as they got whipped in the face with a lube-drenched ponytails was simply priceless.
However, the event was not without its drawbacks; namely, the rows of creepy lurkers in the back (of which I was a part of, naturally). Sadly, I was not allowed to take a photo to show you what the crowd looked like, and the idea of getting thrown out of a lube wrestling competition in a lesbian bar was a certifiable pervy rock bottom from which my pride and dignity would never recover. But the back four or five rows were packed with whack dudes in backwards baseball caps grinning like virgins. And then there was that 40-year-old couple making out a little too hard, which grossed me the fuck out but, from the looks of it, almost caused the guy to my right to pull out his dick right there and give himself a fistful of blisters.
Did I mention titties?
Anyway, if you RSVP with Red Hots Burlesque (who aids in putting on the show) ahead of time, you can reserve yourself a seat in the front, lube-soaked, pervert-free rows. So do that.
Go Deep! goes down on the first Thursday of every month at 9pm. $15 cover, but all the money goes to the performers.
— By Alan Fineberg |
This is weird. I was taking a break from refilling my various whipped cream dispensers (I like to bake) to causally play a game of Ouija by myself and I heard a clinking in the other room.
All the cansisters had fallen to the floor and were arranged in an odd manner. Wonder what this means
— By James the Stanton (@gnartoons) |
[Editor's Note: Each week, Gnartoons creator James the Stanton will be illustrating some of our favorite Missed Connections found on Craigslist. To kick the whole thing off, he's polishing up a few gems that were left in the aftermath of Burning Man 2011, because a week of unchecked drug abuse mixed with a dash of internet results in some truly bizarre shit.]
— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |
Note: According to a direct witness, it seems that I misjudged the situation in haste and the dude, in fact, split laundry detergent everywhere, rather than peed himself. My sincerest appologizes if that ruined your day. Below is the original post, which remains unedited despite its incorrect analysis. Refunds can be collected at the box office.
Rainy days in San Francisco can really be a blessing in disguise. They force you to switch up your routine. Wear that $40 North Face rain coat you begrudgingly bought at Sports Basement last time it rained. Leave your bike in the garage and take public transportation to work. Whine on Twitter.
I, like many of my friends and neighbors, did all of that yesterday. Only my iPhone-equiped, North Face jacket-clad BART ride was a little extra special, because I saw this:
What's that you say? Well, dearest readers, that's what happens when someone fucking pisses themselves on a rush hour commute BART train. That's right, it's a pool of fucking urine.
Pee-pee. Jersey discharge. Liquid gold. R. Kelly's Viagra. The Smello Yellow. Whatever you call it, it's fucking gross.
And to make matters even more amusing? This dude let it go down right in front of two cops.
Now, I must be totally clear here, I didn't see this guy whip out his most likely-syphilitic dick and hose down the floor with my own two eyes. But if the ghastly, PTSD-Vietnam-flashback looks of horrors in everyone's eyes as they fled the train at Civic Center tells any story, there was most definitely a traumatic experience in his pants.
The cops, contrary to one's justifiable expectations, did not freak out and tase the relieved sonuvabitch. Rather, they got on the radio and serenely called in “clean-up in car 1431,” as if they were fired from their minimum wage stocking job at Safeway just last week. These cops have seen it all, goddamnit, and they weren't about to let some unkinked hose get them suspended.
It was around this time that things started to smell a little off and I bailed off the train myself, but not before noticing the reflection of one man's unadulterated terror in the puddle of piss:
