1. I am walking down Columbus Avenue on my way to work when I feel something whoosh through my hair, hear something smack the ground, and then feel something splatter all over my back and legs. I turn around and there is a giant, exploded can of beer on the ground. It's sprayed all over me, nearly konked me on the head rendering me unconscious, brain-damaged, or drunk by osmosis. More importantly, this beer fell out of the sky, rather like the frogs in Magnolia. I looked up but no one was there, making me think that it has started to rain beer. Much like the Weather Girl's classic, "It's Raining Men." I'll take either.
2. I'm on my way to see a play in the Mission and taking the 9 Muni Bus. On gets a man with a Macaw (you know, those giant parrots) on his shoulder. It is blue and gold. It's also wearing a sweater. No shit! Have you ever seen a bird wearing a sweater? I hadn't. And the sweater was green with white letters if you must know. I couldn't read what it said because, well, it was quite a small space to be spelling on. and the edges of the word were sort of under his wings. Anyways. People start talking to birdman and he's getting all pissed off, like having a three-foot bird on your shoulder is the most normal thing in the world and he can't imagine why anyone is even the slightest bit interested. So these girls sitting across from me ask the bird owner -- who is at this point swaying and swerving furiuosly around because the bus driver is, of course, crazy, and accidentally knocks his bird's head on the straphanger bar -- "Does your bird talk?" to which the owner replies, "He just says a bunch of shit." And the bird belts out, "SHIT!" Only it sounds like you would imagine it would when a parrot is saying it, "Shee-yaht." Shit indeed, my friend.