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The Package

Look at me. I’m like a child on the morning of his birthday, waiting for the mailman to bring him a gift. No, it’s worse than that: I’m like a spoiled lapdog running to the window every ten seconds, waiting for his owner to come home. Every faint whiff of perfume that wafts through the slightly cracked window has him running around in circles near the front door.

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Do The Right Thing

About a year ago, I was coming home on the BART late at night and witnessed what most people would characterize as unusual behavior: A young man was animatedly acting out two sides of a conversation. There was no one else in that particular car except me, and I immediately felt uncomfortable.

He occasionally looked over at me with a stare that said, “What’s your problem?”

Or it might have been: “Why are you eavesdropping on my conversation?”

Or…perhaps it was: “This is a conversation between A and B, so why don’t you ‘C’ your way out of it.” He, of course, was both “A” AND “B.”

Had he actually said that, I would of course have said, “I would be ‘D’-elighted.” and moved to the next car on the train.

      I witnessed this man do this on seven or eight different nights in the space of three weeks.

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The Gospel According To BART ….part II

BART continues to be a source of amusement for the pic-and-caption team at The Bay Area Brit. I hope that you feel the same way.

The BART station agent’s financial woes are aired for everyone to see. However, if BART paid him more money maybe he would stay in his little booth the whole shift like he’s supposed to.

I keep seeing these ads on the BART platforms everywhere. I know when I’m scraping together the $2.75 to take BART in the morning, I often think to myself: “I should just donate my luxury yacht to some page 3 pin-up dressed like Donald Duck.” Really?

Speaking of ads: Why did the people that paid for the Judgment Day Warning posters pay to have their ads run through the end of July? Silly rapture-wanters.

This young man takes a heroin nap during the evening commute to San Francisco. He will wake up three hours later in Richmond and will have somehow lost his wallet, his ID, his sunglasses, and his Nikes.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen this happen, people.

A Female commuter regrets her decision to partake in “Take A Convict To Work Day” when he tells her that he’s never really known true love before…until now.

You know I just couldn’t resist

If you missed the first one, click below, and don’t be shy with a comment if you liked it, hated it, or are in one of the pictures and want your silly face blurred.

https://thebayareabrit.com/2011/03/07/the-gospel-according-to-bart/

Take Some Chants On Me

A few years ago, I was on the N Judah returning home after a Saturday night of drunken debauchery out in the avenues. It was a bright, Sunday June morning, not unlike any other beautiful San Francisco day. I was trying to remember the name of the woman I had woken up next to…Svetlana? No…maybe it was Caterina…something Russian. I think. I remembered that much at least.

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The Illustrated Guide On How To Dine And Dash

***This particular blog has become extremely popular. It is satire, and should not be taken seriously. We do NOT condone Dining and Dashing.***

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“HOW TO DINE AND DASH” is now a short film. Just click on the link.

An Indian restaurant in London called Khan’s had so many issues with people running out without paying their bill that they only hired young, lean Indian waiters that could run the 100 meters in less than 11 seconds. There were usually 9 or 10 servers on the floor, all of them with leg muscles stretched and limbered up, ready to take off into the night to chase someone likely so full of curry they didn’t stand a chance of getting away. 

On at least three visits to Khan’s I saw someone try to Dine And Dash. It would usually start with some plates being dropped, followed by the sound of furniture being swept aside, and then frantic yelling (Probably Hindi for, “We’ve got a runner!”) then there would be a flurry of white shirts and Nikes sprinting out the front door in spicy hot pursuit of the Dine ‘n’ Dasher like they were running from the bulls in Pamplona.

They always caught the runner and dragged him back to the restaurant. The Dine ‘n’ Dasher always looked like he had been roughed up a bit in the skirmish, and the adrenaline-pumped waiters’ high-fived each other in victory as other diners applauded.

Embarrassing to say the least.

If only the Dine ’n’ Dasher had thought more carefully about his restaurant choice—unless of course he enjoyed the rush of being chased down and beaten by a swoop of young Indian men.

Here now is

“The Illustrated Guide On How To Dine-And-Dash”

1)    Location, Location, Location

The successful Dine ‘n’ Dasher chooses their restaurant carefully.

The restaurant MUST be busy, the more chaotic the better.

If the restaurant has more than one exit, this is a plus.

Often, restaurants inside hotels are prime choice because the restrooms are located in the lobby and not in the dining room, making escape easy.

The experienced Dine ‘n’ Dasher knows that choosing the right restaurant shouldn’t be based on the quality of the menu, but the likelihood of a successful escape.

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Dear God……Whassuuuuup?

Dear God

This is the first time I have ever written a suicide note…….well….not counting that one time after I strangled that homeless guy  and dumped his body in the lake after I accidentally gave him $20 thinking it was a dollar and he wouldn’t give it back. I didn’t know his name and so I just kind of scrawled a squiggle as his signature at the end of his sad “woe is me” note. I guess bringing that up right now isn’t going to help my cause to get into your Heaven Compound or whatever you’re calling it these days.

So the word is that the world is ending. Fortunately, by the time you read this I will probably be laying on a cold slab in the morgue and not suffering the ordeal of this “end of the world as we know it”  business. I mean seriously, who wants that malarkey?

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Dear Princess

       To My Dear Lovely Kate, or should I say, Duchess of Cambridge, as you are now known.

         As I sat by my mailbox waiting for my velvet cloaked invitation to your wedding (an invitation that  never came by the way.) I wondered how long it would be before your royal romance ended. I know what we had was fleeting: A drunken kiss and fun clumsy grope on your sofa while we watched the Queen Mother’s funeral on the telly. But I’ll never forget those words of love you whispered in my ear: “Nibble my neck…Wait did you just drop your chewing gum in my hair, oh you did. You idiot.”   

           Your Prince is handsome I suppose, in spite of his premature balding and Stonehenge toothy smile. I know you think that he’s relatively normal by royal standards, probably, because only one half of his gene pool came from generations of inbreeding: Second cousins marrying third cousins, and whatnot. I’m not bitter. Just don’t try to tell me you and he will live a “normal life.”

         Only common folk (like you and me) actually have life experiences in real situations: like having to pay the gas bill or changing a light bulb in a darkened room. Or like when I had to take you to the Emergency Room at St. Mary’s Hospital because after cutting out that piece of Wrigley’s I accidentally dropped it down your throat and you were coughing and choking trying to spit it out like it was a human hairball.

        Real life is not having employees with job titles such as “Royal Fly Swatter,” “Corgi Wrangler,” “Prince Phillip’s Jacket Pocket Lint Remover,” “Third Floor Kitchen Ice Cube Tray Filler,” and “Buckingham Palace East Wing Pillow Fluffer.”

        Also just a heads up what you’re getting into: Charles and Diana broke up when “Big Ears” fell in love with the spawn of one of the witches from Macbeth and a Budweiser Clydesdale horse. Seriously have you seen the face on this woman she’s like your stepmother now. Wicked!

When Drag Goes Wrong: Next Jerry Springer

        Prince Andrew leapt from the Sarah Ferguson ginger love train when his “Duchess of Pork” got her freckled boobies snapped by some (now) millionaire photographer in St. Tropez while carousing with a self-titled playboy. Fergie found out that Prince Randy Andy had been shagging some Glaswegian scullery maid in the pantry every Wednesday night during the closing credits of Eastenders, and had enough.

        Since MI5 had Princess Diana murdered in that tunnel in Paris—for fear that she and Dodi would breed a small militia of Arab babies that would take down the British monarchy from within—she wasn’t there to see her oldest sapling prepare for a life of dipping his imperial sword into a commoner’s scabbard. Sorry, my lovely Kate, but that’s what you are to these people: a common scabbard.

          Now that said, at least when your marriage is given its last rites “Wills” probably won’t have your head cut off. Don’t think I’m being funny, it’s in their blue blood. One day you forget to remind a minimum wage maid to vacuum the moldy 14th Century carpet and the next day you’re wondering why your oxygen supply has been cut off: Oh that’s right your head and neck aren’t connected anymore.

         So, once the honeymoon is over, prepare for the most miserable of lives; your every waking moment documented by a team of Lifetime movie channel TV writers and producers, lurking in trees and bushes hoping for those golden lines that will end up in the 30-second trailer of your life.

“Oh, Wills, you knew there had been other men before you, didn’t you? I just loved that he liked Juicy Fruit chewing gum too. We had so much in common.”

“Yes, Kate, the operative word: Common!”

            Enjoy being told “your place” by your new “family” and being made fun of for being an outsider within the Palace walls. Oh, and don’t forget the continual hounding by the paparazzi. I’m sorry to burst your Union Jack Royal Wedding Commemorative helium-filled balloon, my dear Kate, but I give it five years tops.

My Sentiments Entirely, Expressive Little Royal

     Oh, and I want that piece of chewing gum back if you still have it. No one believes me that we almost did it, and I’m assuming some of your DNA from your hair is still in the gum so I can prove it.

       Goodbye Forever.
Don’t Ever Forget me, My Lovely Kate

The Bay Area Brit