This week’s column for the S.F. Examiner is about driving a drunk leprechaun to a strip club… Well, sort of.
It’s only 10 p.m., but when the guy wearing a green suit covered in four leaf clovers with a matching bowtie stumbles into the passenger seat of my cab and exhales a miasma of booze directly into my face, it suddenly feels like 2 a.m.
“Uhm, where to?” I ask.
“Just head that way,” he mumbles, pointing down the street.
I hit the meter and drive.