More of Danny's San Francisco Life (must read)

Let's get something straight: if a job requires waking up before noon, working more than 20 hours a week, and/or masquerading as a politically correct and responsible human being, I want nothing to do with it. 

That said, here are a few facts about my current jobs:

Job #1
During my first week, one of the owner's buddies got in a knife fight in front of the building, was drug w/ bleeding face through the restaurant during service, and had to be stitched up in the manager's office. 'Cause they were scared to go to the hospital. They asked me to mop up the blood. Also, the owner chases people with baseball bats when they try to Dine and Ditch. I like this job a lot. 

Job #2
This one is just a bouncer job with class. Dress shirt and shoes are mandatory. I have to do my hair up. It pays a cool $25 per hour.

Why is the pay so high for this kind of work, you ask?

"I'm paying you not to hit these guys," my boss explained after Jiu-Jitsu one day, in the process of recruiting me. "'Cause you can't. But you're really going to want to." 

And how right he was. This place is one of the most prominent bot strongholds in all San Francisco. 

A bot is kind of like a yuppie on steroids. And by that I don't mean they're yuppies with a more muscular build; I mean they posses all the negative qualities typically associated with yuppies, but those qualities are amplified dramatically. Sniveling, insecure, and always politically correct. Also, they tend to have the posture of librarians, and to blink a lot.

(Yep. These dudes are a fine example.)

If you tied a yuppie to a sting and pulled him through a vagina, a bot is what would pop out the other side. 
 

My theory on bots is that they thought gaining access to the right school and job would give them total fulfillment in life–respect from other men, attention from women, an exciting/enjoyable lifestyle. But of course it didn't, and so now they're left to just kind of wander around San Francisco at night like zombies: getting wasted and being jerk offs.

Bots go to bars with quotas: they must drop the name of the company they work for into at least 7 casual conversations. Bots will spend entire nights not interacting with women (that would require facing rejection, after all) but just trying to heckle other men who attempt to do so. 

Not to worry though. After years of miserableness, all their physical strength and self-confidence has deserted them, making them harmless. The word "bot" comes from artificial intelligence characters in video games. A.I. bots. Characters that bounce clumsily around the world, walking in circles, into walls. Characters you can blast away with any old weapon you find lying around. In real life, you get the impression you could end a bot life with just your right hand and a firm grip on the throat.

There's going to be more bot action in the second half of this Newsletter, but the first notable encounter this month comes from my second job, the classy bouncer gig. 

*             *             *

It was a few Saturdays ago. The crowd was docile. All efforts to secure the bar had been abandoned in favor of hanging around in front of the building, kicking the parking meters, experimenting with wrist locks and judo throws.

Just my boss and I were out there. And at some point a girl he knew made her way down the sidewalk, accompanied by a textbook bot.

"Hey, ––––– !" the girl called to my boss. 

My boss said "hi" back and gave the girl a hug and stuff–a pretty standard friendly greeting. The bot, however, didn't approve of this one bit. 

"Hey!" yelled the bot. "Get off her! You're a fucking creep!"

I burst out laughing at this, and started talking shit to the guy as he and the girl continued down the street. (She was looking back and shrugging apologetically, embarrassed). But my boss remained silent. 

"Christ, I don't know how many more of these people I can deal with before I'm forced to change cities," I said. Then, looking to my boss I added, "Right?"

He didn't answer. He just lumbered off after the couple, in pursuit. 

"Oh fuck yes!" readying my cellphone camera, trailing behind.

I was hoping for some carnage here. My boss is my level in Jiu-Jitsu, but also about 20 lbs heavier than me, and real nasty in the kick-boxing department. Not a favorable match-up for our friend the bot.

My boss, however, had other plans. He followed the couple to a pizza joint, barreled through the door, and then latched onto the little bot–hugging him in much the same way he'd hugged the girl two minutes prior. 
 

(Pictures taken through a mirror in the name of stealth)

I like how the bot's girl just loves it, too. 
 

This went on for about 30 solid seconds. My boss hugging away silently, and the bot too terrified to protest or resist. 
 

 Fuckin bots. Who needs 'em?

Then there was the degenerate part of the night, too.

 Yeah. This girl came on to me very forcefully somewhere around midnight. She kept coming outside, grabbing me, trying to kiss me...

So what did I do?

I drug her by the wrist into this little alcove down the street and put my finger inside her. She let me lift up her dress, too, so I could Scope out the Tittie. All of this taking place while I was still on the clock. 
 

It was sweet. 

And when 2 am came around, the girl had still not left or lost interest. 

"Hey, (bartender's name)," I called. "Can I have a mug of beer?"

"Sure thing, dude. Which one?"

"Which...mug?"

"Which beer."

"Oh. Give me the Dogfish Head IPA. Need something real strong."

I chugged it. And I had this girl follow me back to my car. 

Then...oh yes....
 

Yes sir. In-car blowie. Always a good time. 

 I drove home naked after dropping her off, too. Fuck it. 

DannyMullen.com is Owned by a Moron

The next order of business this month is the other Danny Mullen. The sonofabitch squatting on my eponymous URL. 
 

Just look at that fucking guy. Also, look at this blog post I managed to dig up on his site, which I guess is supposed to be aimed at beginning entrepreneurs or something. 

Let's go through this, shall we?

"So here is my five tips"

Nice, other Danny Mullen. Killing the grammar game. 

"1. Make it meaning file to you"

Again, real nice. 

"5. Refrain from hate speech in the email name."

What? Hate speech in an email address?

When would that ever be a fucking issue?

What otherwise promising entrepreneur has ever been on the brink of registering an email address like Ih8blacks@yahoo.com? Or Jason_is_a_Spook@fuckmexicans.net?

I like how he uses the word "refrain," too, as if he's telling his audience "C'mon, guys. Let's be professional here. I know we all really want to use slurs, and that's fine for your personal email accounts, but for the business ones, lets at least try to keep it clean. For now."

If that's a piece of advice worth writing a blog post over, then anything is.

1. Don't use a photo of your erect penis as your Facebook profile image.

2. Don't hand draw pictures of hermaphrodites and aborted fetuses on your business cards. 

What a fucking asshole. Mercifully, though, he recently began deleting all the content on his site. Maybe I can snag the domain name now, if only to prevent further idiocy from tarnishing my good name. 

Another Heavy Weekend

That's right. My Vegas-dwelling college buddy Foo made one of his bi-annual pilgrimages to SF this past weekend. And, gentleman that I am, I made sure to meet him at the train station with a pair of 40's.
 

And let's not forget about the bottle of Mad Dog. Only the best for friends of mine. 

Foo and I then got back to my place and more or less proceeded to black out. 

The Mad Dog, the 40's, and also multiple shots of vodka. All very necessary. 

Why was the drinking necessary?

Because we'd soon be hanging out with Consonant Tift's new crew.

See, my good buddy Consonant Tift gets a new girlfriend every calendar year. And this year's model, though a really sweet and fun girl, also associates with quite possibly the worst people on earth.

Remember the bots mentioned earlier? 

Well, these guys are, like, super bots. And the girls Tift's girlfriend hangs out with are incarnations of Satan on earth. 

Tift's girlfriend's roommate is the worst. She, this roommate, has gone on the record saying the first question she asks any new guy she meets is "What do you do for a living?" and pretty much won't talk to the guy afterward if his answer doesn't measure up. Her face is a permanent scowl. Apparently both she and my roommate Smee were at brunch with Consonant Tift once, and Smee and her got into some kind of fight basically instantly. 

Well, it was her birthday this weekend. And everybody was going to some club called Audio. 

Knowing these kinds of people were going to be present, I didn't go into the sushi pregame with what you'd call a "social mindset."

"Tift, I don't fucking get it. How do you do this? How do you mingle with these people now, every Friday Saturday and Sunday?"

Tift asserted that one of the dudes (out of probably 12) was actually tolerable, but besides that he said it was indeed dogshit. 

(I think this bot here caught on to my photography)

Here we are at dinner. And you might be able to tell from the smile on my face that I already had some schemes brewing up in my skull. 

And here we are after sushi, at the apartment of one of the demon she-bots. (This one every bit as bad as Tit's girlfriend's roommate. We'll come back to her.) 

About five minutes later, after contemplating the matter seriously, I decided her bathroom drawers were a little too...dry. 

And after leaving, I spotted this motorcycle (almost certainly piloted in by one of the bots now drinking inside), and decided it was parked just a little too upright. 

Fuckers. If I could go back in time, I would have taken one for the team and shoved any toothbrush I could find in that bathroom up my ass. 

Anyway. After knocking over the motorcycle, we showed our faces at the bar mentioned at the top of this email.

My bar. The place I work. With the bot hugging incident. And I got kicked out within 15 minutes. 

Allegedly I was blacked out at the door, trying to card people, and after this went on long enough the manager was just like nah. I don't have too many hard facts on this scene, though. 

Whatever. We still had tickets to that club Audio, where all the bots from sushi were headed.

We took advantage of these tickets. And by some act of God, I don't remember seeing any members of Team Bot inside. (Not that I was worried about physical reprisals for the piss or the motorcycle or anything; I just didn't want to interact with them.)

More good news: this adorable little girl that I used to work made an appearance, after I'd been trying to lure her to me via text message for most of the night. 

And I was fucking hyped. 

I'd been texting this girl for months, and her replies were always so cold and uninterested that I'd pretty much decided it was a no go. 

But never underestimate the power of a good drunken Hail Mary...

I don't know if she was ovulating or just an emotionless texter or what, but it was clear from the moment she got to Audio that it was on. 
 

We left the venue together after about 20 minutes. And, in the Uber ride back to my house, this was going through my head:

I am 100% going to lick this girl's ass tonight. No questions asked. She's too cute not to. Well, probably 100%. But the only things that could put the brakes on this operation are: a) visible shit streaks, b) odors on the level of open sewage, or c) a proper wilderness of hair. 

And, home and in my bedroom, I wasted little time in making good of these intentions. 

What was the state of things down there, you ask? 

A basically inhuman level of hygiene. 

The six inch sniff test: nothing.

Tongue to asshole: no taste at all.

I was so drunk that at one point, in the name of journalism, I even stuck my finger up her ass and smelled it afterwards. My finger.

Which was, you know, a real roll of the dice. But get this: no fucking odor. How does one even accomplish that?

I think you can probably guess where this is leading...

*         *         *

The next morning, after the girl had left, one of our roommates found shit all over the toilet lid, presumably from a hasty bowel evacuation in the dark.

Foo, who had blacked out the night before, was terrified that he was responsible. 

"I think you're off the hook on this one, buddy," I told him. 

"Dude, I don't know," he kept on. "I don't remember anything after leaving the club last night, and I would be so mad at myself if–"

"Foo, listen. Last night, I brought that girl back and...you know what, just trust me here. You're off the hook."

In other news, Foo had retrieved a 12-pack while I was asleep, and also Whole Foods burritos–a delicacy unknown to me since my banning from the store in July. 

(For those that missed it last month, this image of me now hangs above the Ocean Avenue Whole Foods burrito bar)

That's right. A 12-pack. We had to get nice and drunk again for the Bay Area Brew Festival. The unlimited beer tasting event that Foo ostensibly comes out here for twice a year. 

And guess what. In retrieving the two stock pictures of the event you see above, how convenient that I should stumble across a picture of this girl. The fucking demon she-bot whose drawers I pissed in. 

Jesus. She's hot, yeah, but look at those fucking eyes. 

You can actually see the evil in them. If this girl isn't a sociopath then I don't know who is.

Anyway. Within minutes of arriving at the Brew Frest, Consonant Tift and his girlfriend disappeared into an outhouse to do coke. I thought it would be real funny to go knock on the door and pretend I was the cops and stuff, but Tift was not fooled. He responded by aiming a piss stream right through the door crack. 
 

Just minutes after that, I ran into the fucking girl who the When Your Girlfriend Bangs a Black Dude essay on my site is about. My kinda ex.

She lives in San Francisco now, so i feel this impromptu run-in was inevitable. But that didn't stop me from fearing it.
 

Why?
 

Because I'm responsible for her starring in a piece of literature called When Your Girlfriend Bangs a Black Dude. Even though her identity is in no way revealed within, I feel like most women would have a sizable list of objections to being featured in such a work. 

Some precautions were taken, yes. Like, I blocked her on social media about six months ago for the express purpose of her not seeing this thing floating around. But who knows. A mutual friend of ours tipping her off, a brief spell of curiosity leading to the Googling of my name...let's just say there are ways this could have been discovered.

But, back at the Brew Fest, she did not attack me on sight. In fact, she was very friendly. 

I don't really remember what we talked about–'cause the adrenaline–and I didn't really look away from her shoulder/face line–'cause I was still scared of getting sucker punched–but Consonant Tift afterwards posited that she'd put on some weight, and this felt like a victory of some sort.

Speaking of Tift, at one point he snuck behind a vendor's booth and began helping himself to their beer. 
 

Then Foo took to pestering the Dj about playing "Raining Blood" by Slayer. It was never played. 

After that, I spotted these girls carrying some sort of box through the venue. 

After an investigation and interview, I learned that the box contained potato chips, and that said potato chips were unlawfully acquired from one of the vendors. 

I supported this. And more, I thought this thief was kinda cute. 

She wanted to know if I had any cocaine. And while I personally didn't, Foo did, and he is famously generous with his resources. 

"Foo, give me the bag and your keys," I said. "I have an idea."

Yes, I know: I said a few months ago that I was done doing cocaine, that Memorial Day in Vegas had ruined it for me. But I had a scheme in mind here that I've been thinking about/planning for years. And it seemed the perfect opportunity had finally come...

Yes...

I give to you now, people...The Tony Montana.
 

The Tony Montana: an Instructional

Ok. So you have yourself a woman, some cocaine, and a general sexual interest in the woman who presumably wants to do the cocaine. The Tony Montana can help you across that void...get you from "doing drugs" to "hooking up." Here's what you gotta do:
 

Lead your lady to a semi-secluded area. 

Pass her the bag of coke and tell her to knock herself out

When it's your turn, double check to make sure the coast is clear

Then hammer out your bump

Oh yeah. That's some good shit. That's some real good shit. 

Now:
 

Contemplate the girl for a second or two. 

Then make your fucking move

It's true: she might reject you. 

She might even reject you violently

But hey. Relax, dude. 

If things don't go according to plan, all you gotta do is put on a silly hat. 

And it's all good.

*       *      *

Well, I didn't have a silly hat, so this was pretty much do or die. 
 

Also, I didn't have a Porsche dealership parking lot for a semi-secluded area. Nah. All I had was an outhouse. 

"All right, babe," I was saying. "Here's the stuff. Just take this key, scoop some out of the bag, a-and..."

She did her drugs. 

"Ok. My turn..."

I did my drugs. Not a monster bump or anything. Just enough make this a proper, legally valid Tony Montana. 

Afterwards, I really hammed it up: tilting my head back, groaning, pinching my nose, doing a bunch of after snorts. 

Next I began looking around the outhouse with this confused look on my face, as if I'd just woken up from a coma.

My eyes landed on the girl. I contemplated her for a second or two. 

Then:

Ohhh yes. My first Tony Montana. And she went for it. No silly hat necessary. After making out with her for a little bit, she even let me pull her top down so I could Scope out the Tittie. 

I really regret not pushing this a little further, though. Seeing if she would have been down to bang right there in that disgusting outhouse. With piss covering virtually every surface, and with a 3-foot tall mound of steaming shit almost reaching the rim of the toilet. 

But no. We returned to the Beerfest promptly after. Me too stoked on the Tony Montana to recognize the opportunity I'd let slip away. 

After the Beerfest, Consonant Tift did blow off his girlfriend's tits. 

And Foo did more blow than I've ever seen someone do in one sitting. He then sat on the couch in Tift's girlfriend's bedroom and spilled his guts to whoever would sit next to him. 

Here he is discussing the presidential candidates with some allegedly slutty blonde girl ("She fucks," is what Tift had to say about her.)

Here he's discussing the general concept of homosexuality with a gay guy that just happened to be there. 

See, this is the thing I don't like about drugs. Foo was riding the blast of euphoria that only lasts about 15-minutes before you feel it falter and then start crumbling beneath you. And, for me, the fear of that faltering and crumbling makes the initial high just not worth it. 'Cause then you have two options: keep doing more blow in 30-minute intervals for the rest of the night, or drink yourself into a stupor in order to bury the cravings. 

Clearly I'm no Narcotics Anonymous spokesman, and I did end up doing more blow that night, but just one or two little bumps. Enough to give me some energy, but not enough to really feel high. I don't know why I'm telling you this. I guess I'm just trying to work out my relationship with drugs over the course of these Newsletters. 

Anyway. Demon-bot girl eventually showed up. 

And, at one point, Foo played "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Metallica when it was just him, me, and Tift in the room. 

And this cunt just freaked the fuck out. 

For like a full hour she would not let it go. Would not stop coming into the room and complaining about the time we played that one song. And not a "Haha, you guys like such bad music!" kind of complaining. It was like angry-eyebrows, scowling at us, saying "What the fuck is wrong with you guys that you would play that music? It made me want to throw up. Do not put it back on. It was so bad. Like what the fuck."

Which, I guess you can complain about St. Anger by Metallica, but if you don't like Ride the Lightning, from a music history/criticism standpoint, you're just wrong. And of course the shit she put on after was some unknowable bubble gum Top 40 pop that made me want to purchase a gun and bathe her and her friends in lead. The only thing that kept me level headed here was the knowledge that I'd filled two of her bathroom drawers with piss less than 24-hours prior. 

Speaking of urine, here's Foo doing the ol' walk & piss on the way to the bar. A classic move, but also risky. 

And here's us just posted up inside. Me getting enough booze in my system to set off the customary avalanche of pictures with random people...
 

–This girl had legendary tits, but was rather cool toward my sexual advances.

–Here's Foo and I ambushing some girl. I don't remember this at all. 

–These girls refused to take a picture with me, so I retaliated by showering them in flash photography. 

–High on my list of priorities that night was dancing on stools, like Britney Spears in the Stronger video. Here I am trying to teach some random guy the basic moves. 

–Can't remember if I was introducing these guys to hood game or if they were just mocking me. Oh well. 

–I thought this girl was kina cute. 

–And here's Foo and I at roughly 2:15 am, on the way to an after hours club with some dudes we met on the street.

–Another random dude inside the after hours club

And guess who I ran into while there, at the after hours club?

Yep. The girl from last month who I snagged from the same club at the same time of night. 

Last time it was a demanding, up-till-6-am-trying-to-be-a-stud-in-bed type production. But this time? 

Fuck no. Much too lazy for that. I accepted a blow job and promptly fell asleep. 

Which inspired the leaving of this note in the morning.