The quality of San Francisco's eavesdropping has never really impressed us -- the character of our overhearings always seemed more like disembodied one-chuckle quotes from "Kids Say The Darndest Things" than anything having any real character. But last night on the five, creeping along from downtown to Golden Gate Park, our entire bus was held in discreet rapture by a weisenheimer on a cell phone who apparantly couldn't control the ever-mounting volume of his own voice. Among his golden nonsequiturs:

• "I didn't get ONE thank you. I'll never work for an Asian woman who wasn't born in the United States ever again."
• "So now I've got two pounds of weak pot to get rid of...we never had a problem with the Alaskan stuff before."
• "I have just two questions for you: what size is your girdle, and can I have my pantyhose back?"

And every time one of those popped out, our seatmate (an elderly pink-sneakered matron of the Western Addition) just shook her head and murmured, "Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord."