NOW DON'T START with all that sentimental "it's the end of an era" crap just because the Endup is for sale. Honey, the era of which you bitch ended long, long ago, and your memories have nothing but your fantasies to thank. Club-kid tragedies: Nobody wants to know about your E-monger-whistle-and-overalls period; it's not a badge of honor that in 1993 you once stayed up for six days straight. Crusty disco remnants: You can stop bragging that Sylvester's ashes were scattered in the Endup's garden; the only dust those weeds have seen is the shit you smoked in '73. Friends, let's move into the future.

Now. The real issue at stake is this: Unless the right maniac forks over the cash to keep that 32-year-old beast on the corner of Sixth Street and Harrison alive and cringing, the freaks inside will be let loose. And trust me, San Francisco, you don't want that to happen. These sluts and deviants need to be contained.

You may think, "But wouldn't it be cute if the new owners got rid of all the Gays and started renting the place out to Costco for its company shindigs?" Like what happened to the Rawhide, now called the Hide? I don't think so. Not only would that be the End (or would it be the Up?), but it would also mean that out of sheer desperation, Miss Hoo Hoo would have to work her pumps at dives like the Nag's Head, out on Geary and 17th Avenue. And I'm not sure Miss Hoo Hoo is what the 'Niners-shiny-jacket set have in mind as they nod off to Cock Craving College Girls, grunting, "Uhhnngggh ... pussy." Unless it's OK that pussy also has a dick.

You may wonder, "But what if the new owners banned all that shitty house music and made the Endup hip?" Like if they hijacked the Arrow's crowd and just played '80s meth-lab rock and Interpol CDs? It would be refreshing – not to say inspiring – to witness a new generation of carbuncled alcoholic cokeheads stumbling through the club's black rubber gates. However, the Bitchy Uptight Sober Queens would be in dire need of a place in which to vibe everybody out. If they were deprived of the Endup and its delicious assortment of Totally Fried Strippers with White Lip Sludge and Wide Broads Channeling Carefree Rump Magic on the dance floor, they'd have no one to insult, and the natural order of things would simply fall apart.

And what about the Sloppy Binge Drinking Fag Haggots? Do you really expect us to barf in bathrooms where we might get laid? As if! The Endup's outdoor ice machine is the best! And the Just a Wee Blackout Irish Massive and Charlie's Nose Bandit English Angels? Will they all fit inside the Bitter End? And where do you expect the Transsexual Hooker with the Snaggletooth and Plunger Tits to sling her pussy? Among the Saratoga Crazy Ringtone Dawgs at Ruby Skye? Folks, let's be real! Better yet, let's find the perfect nutbag to buy this sacred hole.