A short anecdote about a fellow strolling down Telegraph Avenue the other day


I just passed this guy on Telegraph; big guy, shirtless, barrel-chested, enormous round belly, upper body covered with tattoos, wearing dark shades and a cowboy hat, white Colonel Sanders goatee. Passes the black vendor on Durant who plays loud soul and funk music on his boom box. The guy throws his arms in the air like he’s signaling a touchdown, thrusts out his big belly and starts dancing to the music, joyfully and wildly. “MY MOTHER AND FATHER MET IN THE NUT HOUSE!!” he announces loudly to one and all with a big manic smile on his face (I believe him).

Resumes walking up the street with his dog. Passes this wingnut who sits on the bench all day talking to himself. Suddenly he turns around and charges back at the wingnut in a rage, shouting over and over: “FUCK YOU!! FUCK YOU!! I AIN’T PLAYING!!!”

Did I mention my practice of always avoiding eye contact with people I don’t know?

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