Walking from Market Street to Mission Street in downtown San Francisco is like walking through the Alice in Wonderland garden. As I had to go to the Indian consulate to obtain a visa, I traipsed through this territory.
On 6th Street I encountered a 350-lb person with shoulder-length hair, the bottom two-thirds of which appeared to have been dipped in burnt orange paint. This person donned a Giant's shirt that resembled Chris Farley in an xx-small t-shirt, too-tight faded jeans, a triple-chin, one earring, and breasts the size of Mount Everest. It pushed a baby stroller and a baby mirroring the Gerber baby sat, satisfied and sucking it's thumb. I couldn't tell if this was a man or woman, and thanked my Alcohol God that I had shrouded my eyes with sunglasses so I could study this being more. As I traipsed past, a man voiced my thoughts as he addressed the she-man, "You got a dick or vagina? And how do you have a baby?" he asked. Wordless, She-man swung back the hammer-fist and pummeled the man in his face. He collapsed on the sidewalk as I turned my head and smiled, unable to ignore the resemblance between She-man and King Kong. I still beamed as I turned left on Mission Street toward the consulate.
Half a block from my visa and passport pick-up, I glanced down at a homeless Flavor Flav. His bare feet in the street, his arms above his head, and his shirt halfway up his stomach, he looked like a cracked-out crucifix on a sidewalk. As I was about to raise my eyes, I noticed an inch of his penis tip protruding from his jeans waist.