Dear San Francisco:
Last week my team of highly trained yachtsmen, selected by a personnel database so effective it's illegal for the government to use, beat the crap out of New Zealand's team of hobbits. It's maybe the one time in the history of the world when a billionaire triumphing in a yacht race can be called a win for the underdog.
I know I won last week, and won big. But the results of the America's Cup were actually pretty disappointing to me. I was told that if I won I would own New Zealand. Plus City Hall, and your toaster.
I was also told that I would get to marry Supervisor Jane Kim. Or possibly divorce Supervisor Malia Cohen. It's hard for me to keep track.
These were promises, sworn on a copy of Oracle's earning statements. But now I'm pretty sure Lt. Governor Gavin Newsom lied to me. Did you know he's a liar? If somebody knew that, and didn't tell me, they're in serious trouble.
But the biggest disappointment for me last week, the biggest disappointment of all, San Francisco, was you. You let me down in a big way.
I didn't see it coming. To me, San Francisco has always been a beautiful boat harbor. Until last week I didn't even know there were people living here year round. I thought you were all just waiters. I assumed the fact that there were hundreds of thousands of you explained why the service is always so exquisite. It just made sense.
But last week I not only learned that you live here, many of you in apartments the size and smell of my bathroom, but that you were all rooting for New Zealand in the America's Cup. Because apparently you're the kind of people who would prefer to support a small island nation whose population is named after a breakfast fruit than America's leading manufacturer of executive stock options.
The nerve. I come into your home and let you look at my boat, and this is how you repay me?
Well you know what, San Francisco? Fuck you, too.
I know many of you are angry that I've claimed to be giving 95 percent of my money away to charity but couldn't be bothered to pay for my own special little boat race. But you know what? That's what being a billionaire means: Other people buy you things. It's a crazy world. But what are you going to do?
I know what I'm going to do: invoice you. I did my laundry while I was in San Francisco, and somebody else should pay for that.
Seriously: fuck you.
I now have a bigger cup than you, and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm a winner, and you're in debt. You want to talk penis size?
I swear to God, if you were rooting for New Zealand, I will find you and punish you. I've had my top people build a special database just to do that, and I used your money to make it. It's like all I have to do is turn a faucet and your money comes out.
I think I'll take your opera away. I'll just point to it and say: "I want that!" and your government will give it to me. It's just my little way of saying: Fuck You. Fuck you for not clapping enough while I took your things.
And guess what: I had Mayor Ed Lee make me a sandwich.
That's right: I don't even live here, but I can summon your mayor to make me a sandwich any time I want. If any of you ever actually wanted to meet him, you'd be jealous. He puts too much mustard on the turkey but that's okay. I don't actually eat sandwiches.
Also, I think I'm going to buy your apartment just to store my boat.
My point is: fuck you. You should have been grateful to be given the opportunity to clap for things that had my company's name on them. But you weren't, and now you're on the losing side.
And you know what? In a few years we're probably going to do it again. I'm thinking of bringing my really big cup back here, and the Bay will still be pretty and the city will give me even more things and you'll all still be waiters.
Here's my advice for you: The next time I'm here with my really big cup, and you're paying for me to race my boat in the Bay, and I'm having Supervisors David Chiu and Scott Weiner race to make me 300 sandwiches -- just lie back and think of Oracle. That should make it a little more bearable.
Benjamin Wachs is a literary chameleon