Punked

We had dinner a couple of weeks ago in Fisherman's Wharf and as we were a little early, we decided to stroll around the Wharf, mulling the twenty or thirty things usually running around our brain. On our way back to the restaurant, a roar louder than anything we had heard came at us.

We jumped. About ten feet it felt like, bug eyed and scared. If we were a cartoon character, our hair would be drawn straight up and our eyes would be shooting out of our heads. It was probably about eight feet or so in the air when we realized that the roar was that of the Bush Man, the guy in Fisherman's Wharf who hangs out and jumps out in an attempt to scare tourists and get some money for his effort. It was also about eight feet or so in the air when we realized that about twenty tourists were seeing all of this scattered around the Wharf who were now laughing and clapping at the show. That show, of course, being us scared sh--less.

As we calmed down and made our way to dinner, our blood pressure slowly going back to normal, we tried to figure out what happened. Or, at least, figure out what's more embarrassing-- that after living in the city for over fifteen years we still got punked by somebody we should have known was there or that we got punked by something most tourists had seen coming for miles.