I know we’ve been harping on this matter for days. I wrote about it at least a couple times and Dominic said something too, but it’s still as important today as it was when I wrote less about it then. The hills of San Francisco, even in lesser inclined areas, seriously burn my veal… by “veal,” of course, I mean my baby calves… get it?
But seriously, enough is enough of this town. We’re Seattleites so the terrible weather is still less terrible than we’d expected it to be, but these hills are ri-gosh-darn-diculous, if I can say that without paying intellectual property rights to Ned Flanders’ Leftorium.
My calves are kept in tiny little boxes (I call them pants), fed milk (always lactose free, I just can’t tolerate the alternative) and I have only reared them to a very young age before presenting them to the market.
Left – After a long day of walking my baby calves get smokin’ hot. Of course in my case, it’s more like a long half-hour of walking, but it’s just as bad.
Well, I’m still young, you’re the market, and these calves are my veal, and they are burnt to well-done crispies today. Burnt in, burnt up and burnt out. Even the slightest inclines in this decidedly hilly town are now too much for me, and I can’t stomach them any more than I can foot them.
If you’re a parent looking to take an excursion to the Francisco of San, I suggest you get ready for an unprecedented amount of toting your own kids up and down the inclines, declines, reclines and uninclines, if I may coin two words in a single sentence.
As rare as they are, they’re medium well, and I’ve now got to retreat to my hotel to intersperse heat and ice upon them. Hills man, no fun. Consider us horizontal folk from here out, though we may climb like crazy. We only climb a handful of feet, but our feet always haul us a gaggle of miles so, there you go.
Above – I don’t know if I have to tell you or not, but these hills can be tiring for us junior folk, and that’s a fact.