The Dirty Dick

A Dirty Dick is a brostastic (yeah…in his head) upwardly mobile-looking, decent-seeming dude, that tosses his hot cigarette butt on the (wooden – like, really?) temporary bus platform that has been set up in front of my front door, without a single care in the world.

Not a one.

Such is the Dirty Dick’s gall that he doesn’t even flinch when the discarded cancer-stick bit bounces off the orange/white (plastic) separator thingy, which is technically someone’s property (hello, maybe, even, public property…?).

What if someone had poured something flammable on that shit? Not his concern. Why would the little mister man give a fuck, right.

Because he doesn’t have to? He’s never had to? No one ever told him that his trash should go in, oh my, a trash can? I know that, and I’ve always known that – and my parents had housekeepers back in Peru.

The Dirty Dick. He’s so out of touch, he even walks around town with food stuck in his teeth. The dirty dick.

I mean, what did ever happen to class? Bay Area, what’s good?

And what more can I, any of us, say? #DoMore? No, not in this case. Please, don’t do more of what you’re doing when you carelessly throw your trash out on the street like this (or, urgh, when y’all don’t take your old mattresses and bulk to a dump like adults), but do better. Think. Think about the Golden Rule.

Golden Rule. Golden ticket. Willy Wonka. Chocolate. A treat. People who take care of their cities and neighborhoods and neighbors get to treat themselves to a treat, OK. Now get!

What can I say. Finally enough love for San Francisco.

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