Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds is quite possibly the most fucking awesome movie ever fucking made. If you've ever liked a Tarantino movie, you must see this one. If you hate Tarantino, you're a gormless douche, but I'm willing to concede that you probably shouldn't see the movie. I'm not going to say anything else; in a few weeks, after it's out of the theatres, we might further discuss in specific detail the magnificent awesomeness that is this movie.
Okay, I promised some San Francisco stuff. I still don't have the energy to go with the original story line I had planned, so we'll just do some quickie stuff with the major punch lines.
The short version is this: it's a very fine city populated by smug fuckwits. California: Fuck you. Now, I personally know people...okay, person...who have migrated to California, who are perfectly fine...well, person, and this is not directed at her. But there aren't a lot of exceptions to this.
My favorite San Francisco self-entitlement moment was when I was standing on a crowded street corner on Market Street, waiting for the light to change so I could cross whatever other street we had come to. I was elbowed and shoved from behind by someone who said, in the most aggrieved way possible, "Excuse me." I reacted like any normal person would: I whirled around to see what was going on, instinctively yelling, "What the fuck?" A 20ish Calichick with a little ratdog was upset that I wasn't pushing people out of my path so that she could get around the corner. "You're in my way," she whined. I was almost too flabbergasted to respond, but I did manage to loudly suggest that she eat a bag of cocks. The horrified looks from the locals were priceless. Yeah, the little bitch elbowed me and shoved me because she and her little fucking dog (the official emblem of doucherton Californians) failed sharing in kindergarten and couldn't wait on a crowded fucking street, but I'm the one who's not nice. Eat a bag of cocks, California.
Other than the populace, it's a really cool city, and an utterly fantastic food town. It was a nice trip, and I wish that it had been a real vacation, but work intruded far too much for me to actually relax. I got bothered by someone every single business day of my vacation, until yesterday (and I think that stopped only because, upon my return to DC, I actually had to go to the office for a few hours on Wednesday, in the middle of my fucking vacation, to take care of some exceptionally unpleasant business).
Some pictorial evidence:
Probably our best picture day was at the zoo. Here, a ring-tailed lemur proudly shows off his genitalia.
Meerkats do not trust me.
This picture is funny to me and exactly two other people, assuming that there's enough contrast for them to read the funny part.
Lazy, self-entitled San Franciscans sleep away their day in the sand pit.
Obligatory. Yes, the fat tourist in the black jacket should look familiar.
Ilse simulates an earthquake on the Golden Gate Bridge.
Ginormous gulls oversee everything in San Francisco, including Alcatraz.
It is possible that the Grateful Dead lived here. It is also possible that we had the wrong house.
We are quite absolutely certain that the Jefferson Airplane lived here.
I'd like to tell you that this is in Italy, but it's actually on Coit Hill.
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