On Wednesday, two amateur hour catastrophes collide on the streets of San Francisco. The dreaded holiday of Halloween, and the unholy World Series Sportzball celebration. The seriousness of these two impending disasters looms heavy on the hearts of man. It's a state of emergency. An orange alert. A parade of flotsam followed by shame, and tear soaked face make-up.
On this fateful day the slutty orange beasts will run amok. The word SWEEEEP! will replace a large portion of the english language. Idiots will puke. The sidewalks will run yellow with urine. The scent of estrus and burning refuse will hang idly amidst the acrid brown fog. Children will nibble on fun-sized snacks in the bowels of heavily guarded homes, wondering what happened to tricks and treats.
It's the one day of the year that even our resident homeless will evacuate the City by The Bay. They'll find respite in beachside hovels, and underneath over passes. Far from the cacophony of firecrackers, and pistol rounds. Far from piss-ensconsed MUNI trains and the barf hewed BART. They'll build temporary shelters to escape the daunting savagery of man that has set the city aglow.
Mouth breathing meatheads adorned with orange-glitter nymphs will take to the hills yelling "LET'S GO GIANTS!" They'll proclaim their stake in the cities pride by setting tires on fire and turning over understated sedans that they do not own. They'll mark their territory by pissing on anything and everything. They'll stumble back to their Marina apartments and produce pyramids of shit, before falling asleep dressed as "The Shocker" in a Giants jersey. They'll sleep uneasy in booze drenched sweat, unbeknownst that the heat death of the planet was cast into high from another tire fire.