Slap Shots

I have a dream that the Muni system will someday run noiselessly and on time -- but that will probably remain just a dream.

I have a dream that after the first of January, when smoking is banned in all city bars and restaurants, the unused ashtrays from these establishments will be collected and assigned to an artist approved by Stanlee Gatti, so that a sculpture may be created at the foot of Market Street in the image of a smiling, 100-foot-tall Angela Alioto, and that at the base of this statue, a refillable bird-feeder mechanism will continually secrete pure nicotine, so that long-term smokers may kneel in front of her image and lick her toes.

And finally, I have perhaps the greatest dream of all -- that our great mayoral leader, Willie L. Brown Jr., standing at a podium delivering one of his marvelous and dignified oratories to an eager assemblage of citizens, will set down his notes, scan the crowd with his eyes, and suddenly declare, "Who's the best-dressed muthafucka in this room? I am!"

After nearly eight years, this column marks the moment at which Slap Shots climbs into the flaming rowboat and drifts out to sea. Thanks to everyone for reading, and to the two owners and five editors of the news-paper for putting up with it all this time. I will continue writing for SF Weekly, and selected columns will soon be available at Funeral services for Slap Shots will be held Jan. 1 at the Edinburgh Castle on Geary at Larkin, beginning at 7 p.m. Everyone is invited.

By Jack Boulware

Editor's Note: SF Weekly is very pleased to announce that Jack Boulware will be joining its staff full time on Jan. 5.

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