If Frank Sinatra were alive today and had still left his heart in San Francisco, I doubt that he'd go back for it. Or he'd get there, take one whiff of the place and say, "You know what, I'm good. Never mind."
Especially if he found himself in one of the many syringe-and-feces-riddled hives of homeless people openly shooting up and smoking crack and, well, you know. There are plenty of videos online of these places. One, in particular, shows a hallway full of junkies, nodding off and shooting up.
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The City of San Francisco, the beacon of progressive values that it is, hands out roughly 400,000 syringes a month for drug users. About 150,000 end up on streets, crosswalks, and playgrounds.
As for the poop problem, which is somehow actually a legitimate problem, San Francisco has designated "poop patrols" to clean up human feces. Something tells me that they're ignoring the actual problem here.
Yes, if poor old Sinatra were alive today, he'd be heartbroken.
Yes, if poor old Sinatra were alive today, he'd be heartbroken.
Scratch that, he would be horrified. He'd be in a panic. Sweaty, his heart pounding, he'd run. He'd turn onto the sidewalk, but oh no, there are more of them! So he'd duck into a little coffee shop. "Thank God, I'm safe." All that running made him thirsty. So he'd get himself a drink, a nice glass of ice-cold water. But what's this? There's no straw? "You mean to tell me that the city of San Francisco hands out free syringes to junkies, who proceed to take dumps on the sidewalks and puke on public buses, but straws are illegal?"
That's right, Frank. That's right.
