Drinking in the U-District sure is fun, isn’t it! You can end up doing the craziest things!

Such as getting drunk, and stumbling home with an equally drunk coed.

Oh my God, I was so wasted. I don’t remember meeting you. I don’t remember taking the bus with you. I assume we took the bus, as neither of us were in any position to drive, and my apartment is a good five miles from where we drank, which would be far too long a walk when sober. I do remember briefly talking in the bar (although I don’t know what about). I remember us naked in my living room. I hope we kept our clothes on until we entered my apartment.

We drank some more at my place. I think. Everything is very hazy. You were hot, and a senior from a sorority. That’s great. I think that made the sex better, somehow. Because I don’t remember much, but I think we had amazing (albeit sloppy) sex, for a long while. May I take a second here to congratulate myself on staying hard despite so much alcohol. You did well, too. It was fun.

Then we fell asleep. I woke up with a massive headache and an inability to recall the previous night. You were gone when I woke up, all traces of you vanished. I was merely a one night stand for you. I don’t regret it, though. I just have two questions.

What’s your name? And, can I please have my wallet back?

• Location: Seattle
• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Now I don’t mind a fat girl, in the privacy of my own home, but that bald guy that you’re probably crushing under your weight has some serious balls. He’s a proud fatty fucker. The worst part was seeing those underwear. God knows ive seen a pair of white, elastic waistbanded fat girl underpants on my bedroom floor after way too many cocktails before. There’s something about them, fat girl underpants, something unmistakably and unspeakably shameful.

Anyhow if you’re single hit me up.

Dude, your costume was the most disgusting thing anyone had ever seen. I didn’t get laid for like two months after you came to my Halloween party, and I live in a house with four slutty college chicks. You could hear their pussies snapping shut audibly when you entered the room. I hope you got a good chuckle out of it, at least.

Fuck you,

Dave from Encino

To the cute girl standing behind me in the checkout line at Ralphs,

I’m sorry I shit my pants and you had to bear the smell. Thank you for not saying anything. You were a great sport.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out that way. I was walking to Ralphs to buy some groceries for dinner when all of a sudden outside in the parking lot I had one of those rare moments. You know the kind, when you feel a load coming on so bad you have to stop and squeeze your cheeks together to keep it in. Well, it didn’t work this time. A good half load oozed out into my Banana Republic boxer briefs. I wasnâ’t sure at first, but then I lightly padded my butt like a mother checks to see if a baby needs changing, and sure enough: I pooped myself.
The logical thing would have been to make the uncomfortable walk back to my apartment, shower, and journey out again.
I didn’t.

I figured I was already there and walking the three blocks back to my apartment was probably the equivalent of walking up and down the aisles of Ralphs. If I was going to wallow around in my own feces, I might as well accomplish my original mission while doing so. Walking through the frozen food section, I imagined this was probably a sensation I hadn’t experienced since diapers. I had a little extra weight I was carrying around and there was a little mushy texture around my taint. However, I had it under control and went about my shopping.

Then the smell hit me.

Oh, it was bad. This wasn’t something that could be passed off as a fart. This was poop. I started shopping more quickly, grabbing cans and produce off the shelves as I waddled down the aisles. After filling up my basket, I headed for the checkout line. But oh no! There was a huge line at every checkout counter. I considered abandoning my mission all together and making a run for it, but then I remembered how hungry I was. I decided to risk it and picked the line with the little old lady, figuring if anyone smelled anything, it would be blamed on her Depends.
Then you came along and got in line behind me.

Of course you had to be the cutest girl I’d seen in weeks and this would have been the perfect opportunity to pick you up had I not just soiled myself. And of course I was wearing the pair of Diesel jeans that make my ass look great: except at this moment the tight rear end was totally working against me because I had a load in my shorts! We made eye contact and you grinned. You thought I was cute too. For a brief second I thought maybe you knew (and understood). You found my awkward predicament funny and strangely charming in a childish sort of way.

But you didn’t.

The smell hit you too. By this time the checkout lady was scanning my items across the counter and the little old lady was gone. You knew I was the source of the stench. Then the checkout lady didn’t know the price of a bulb of fennel I was buying and had to do a price check. You bore the smell for even longer. I’m sorry. Thank you for not saying anything. I totally understand why you just couldn’t take it anymore and pretended you forgot something on your shopping list as you hurried out of line. I don’t usually pinch loaves in my pants. I’m actually really cool. If you want to go for coffee some time and try this encounter again, please hit me up.
-the guy who shit his pants at Ralphs

• Location: ?

Dear Motherfucker… The note starts off..

Found over at 23rd and Guerrero in the Mission district, SFist Cedric found the above love letter stuck on his windshield. He explains, “I found a spot that was literally three inches longer than my car. And this is the congratulation I get for managing to fit in.”

Makes you tingle a bit, doesn’t it?

Ok so check this out:

Now (if you haven’t already gouged your fucking eyes out) check this out:

See the resemblance? HOLY SHIT she’s a motherfucking Gremlin amirite?!

Yes, you. You sick fucker. On Wednesday morning I emerged from my girlfriend’s building by U.N. Plaza to find that you had sawed the tops off both the sparkplugs on my motorcycle. At the time, I had no idea why anyone would do that. Other than the sparkplugs, the bike was untouched. Some kind of bizarre vandalism? A fraternity prank gone awry? I had no idea. All I knew is that I looked like a huge douchebag riding the Muni to work in a padded motorcycle jacket and helmet.

Because the bike was immobilized I got a $35 street sweeping ticket that night. Thursday I had it towed to the shop ($45) where they replaced the sparkplugs and the boots ($50 including labor). They explained to me that “people” – I use the term loosely here – like you break off the tops of spark plugs and use the porcelain tubes to smoke crack. As an engineer and former MacGyver fan, in a way I think this is kind of cool. But then I remember that I just paid $100 for YOUR crackpipes, and I get angry again.

Crackhead, it was really good to have my bike back though. I rode home from the shop with a couple of spare sparkplugs and a smile on my face. I figured the next time I parked at my girlfriend’s place overnight I would have to buy some crackpipes and tape them to my bike as a peace offering. Overall, I wasn’t that upset. Despite having to ride the bus for three days and dropping a hundred bones at the shop, I had gained some fascinating knowledge, a new set of sparkplugs, and a pretty funny anecdote about how fucked up you are, and how our paths once crossed briefly in the night.

But you couldn’t just let sleeping dogs lie, could you Crackhead. You couldn’t just stay in on Friday, watch Letterman through the window of a home electronics store and then call it a night. You couldn’t rest on your laurels. Two porcelain sparkplug crackpipes just wasn’t enough for you, was it Crackhead? You just had to come back for more.

This morning, a scant fifteen hours after I rode it out of the shop, I found my motorcycle violated once again. This time you only took the right one – maybe you were having an off night. At least this time I had a spare sparkplug and the tools to fix it – or so I thought – having ordered a 73-piece toolset from SEARS.com last week. But no, the sparkplug socket in my new toolset was for American sparkplugs. So I had to go down to the neighborhood Ace hardware. They had an 18mm socket that would fit over my sparkplug, but it was for a 1/2″ drive ratchet. My toolkit only has 1/4″ and 3/8″ ratchets. So I had to buy a 1/2″ ratchet along with the socket. Even though the clerk took pity on me and gave me the senior citizen discount (I’m 25) it still cost me $22 all told. Now, you might say that I should have just gotten a 3/8″-to-1/2″ drive adaptor instead of springing for the whole ratchet. And to that I say “Shut the hell up, Crackhead, I’m not finished. And besides, I was eventually going to buy a 1/2″ ratchet anyway so it’s probably not worth it to take it back now.”

OK, now I’m rambling. But the point is, Crackhead, that you have done me wrong. Now, I get that you love crack. That is totally understandable. I’ve heard it is really fun, at first, and quite addictive. What I don’t understand is,

YOU ARE A CRACKHEAD. WHY DON’T YOU OWN A CRACKPIPE?

I am an engineer. Do you ever see me shaking down bums in the Loin for a calculator and sliderule? No, you don’t. Because engineering is the main thing I do, I went and bought myself a calculator. The main thing you do is crack. How do you get by without a crackpipe? The other crackheads must clown on you non-stop. I mean, the fucking saw you used to saw off my sparkplugs is probably worth five or ten bucks. Why not sell or trade it for a crackpipe? You really haven’t put much thought into this, have you?

Please, Crackhead, please don’t tell me you sold your crackpipe to buy crack. Even a stupid crackhead such as yourself couldn’t possibly be that stupid.

I’ve decided that taping crackpipes to my motorcycle would be tantamount to appeasement. You have crossed a line, Crackhead – specifically California Street. You have come onto my own street and you have desecrated that which I hold dear. You have stolen from me, and you have caused me to spend the last half hour writing this post instead of engineering shit, and it is concievable, if not likely, that my boss could find out about this and fire me. I am hella pissed at you dude.

Here are my options as I see them:

1. Write a note saying that I have coated both of my sparkplugs in rat poison and tape it to my bike at night. You can thank Tim for that one, it was his idea.

2. Don’t write a note, but just coat both sparkplugs in rat poison. This is probably closer to a punishment that would fit your despicable crime. I’m sure this is super illegal and shit, but it’s not like anyone is going to miss you, Crackhead. Don’t fool yourself.

3. Wait in an alley near my bike armed with my new stainless steel mirror-finish Ace Professional brand 1/2″ drive socket wrench, my 18mm sparkplug socket, and my searing rage. It’s pretty heavy and well balanced. I am not a large man, but I am angry.

In conclusion, Crackhead, why don’t you just do both of us a favor and buy yourself a crackpipe? It will both enhance your crack smoking experience and save me a lot of time and felony assault charges. Think about it.

Sincerely,
Matt

*** If you are not the Crackhead that took my sparkplugs, please disregard this posting ***

Hi, you probably don’t remember me, but we met last Friday while I was fishing for mudsharks at Pisswater Lake in Jersey. I was wearing a trucker cap that says “I fuck on the first date” and a stylish pair of rubber coveralls. Anyway, you were like, melting or something and glowing all radioactive and shit, and I feel like we sort of made eye contact for a minute before I screamed like a ten year old girl at a Jonas Brothers Concert and booked it right the fuck out of there. Later, I was kicking myself for not introducing myself, so I hope this message finds you somehow, that you haven’t turned into a puddle of lake polluting toxic sludge, and also that you still have my fishing pole that I left there in my haste. Call me!

Toxic Lover in Jersey

I was streaking through the Diag Friday night at 2:15 am. Coming around the corner of State and Liberty, fast as a naked blur, I bumped into you and we both fell to the ground. I was a little upset with you at first, cuz I scratched my right butt cheek pretty bad, but I knew it was my fault. You said, “Nice New Balances,” And all I could say was, “Thanks,” with the adrenaline still rushing. In less awkward circumstances, I would have liked to talk to you. I had never run into a girl that fast or naked before… I didn’t know how to respond so I helped you up quickly and kept running. Since my friends paid me $100 for making it to Kerrytown with just my socks, shoes, and a big smile, I’d like to take you on a date. You looked pretty fit so maybe you’d like to go for a run sometime. Hit me up! Bye!

• Location: Corner State+Lib

You: Girl in red dress with rockin ass

Me: President of The USA, the black dude.

Stereotypes that black guys are into big round asses is unfair.

U.S. President Barack Obama (C) and France’s President Nicolas Sarkozy (R) take their places with junior G8 delegates for a family photo at the G8 summit in L’Aquila, Italy, July 9, 2009. Leaders of the Group of Eight major industrial nations and the main developing economies are meeting in the central Italian city of L’Aquila until Friday to discuss issues ranging from global economic stimulus to climate change and oil prices. REUTERS/Jason Reed (ITALY POLITICS IMAGES OF THE DAY)