Spare some change? Mister?
Oh, that’s right, walk right on by like you don’t even see me. Ignore the homeless problem, and eventually it will just go away, right? Well I’ve got news for you, buster brown: it won’t go away. No matter how hard you try to ignore them, the homeless won’t just disappear. It’s the same way with my recurring thoughts of violent murder; no amount of ignoring or heroin will cover them up.
What’s that look for? I was just asking for a quarter, not for you to suck my filthy hobo dick. I’ve got winos to do that. Oh, now you turn around. You, with your fancy pinstripe suit and a whore on your arm. That’s right, I said it: Your grandmother is a whore.
Now, for Christ’s sake, can you lend me a five-spot? Something? I’ll take a Sacajawea coin, a Canadian quarter, anything. I’m going to go nuts—okay, yes, even *more* nuts—unless I can eat some food that wasn’t at one time wedged beneath the back tire of a semi.
Oh, don’t think I won’t follow you down the block, man. This is the most intellectual stimulation I’ve had since I found half of a copy of The Shining at the bus depot. And it wasn’t a good half either; that shit was ripped horizontally, like a phonebook. All I know is that the dad goes crazy, breaks through a door with an axe and yells “here’s” something. That pathetic enough for you?
I’ll bet you read nice, complete books at your house, don’t you? Books like The Bible, and How to Ignore Your Fellow Man in His Hour of Desperate Need, and Harry Potter. Huh? You read those ones, you human piece of garbage? You make me sick. You, with your regular gait and your stink of hypocrisy. Oh wait, sorry, that’s me. I haven’t bathed in a while. But the point stands!
So, what’s your house like anyway? Some wooden structure of some kind? Must be nice. Know where I live? I live in a box, sir. A cardboard box, uncorrugated. It’s like tissue paper. A stiff breeze would deprive me of all shelter.
That’s right, I’m just like one of those gruff, loveable tramps you see in the movies, except with less whimsy and more blood in my phlegm. Plus of course, I don’t have a beard, but that’s not a grooming thing. If I don’t shave, the other bums try to eat food out of my beard while I’m sleeping.
Tragic part is, the beard is a natural warmer. Without it, I have to use my own steaming feces to keep warm. I wrap them in cheesecloth and use it like a heating pad. So, in a way, your gift of a few dollars for food would really be two gifts in one.
No? That doesn’t get me a buck or two? What do you want from me? I’d get on my knees, but I lost them last week in a game of alley craps.
Stop whispering to each other, dammit! No, don’t “just ignore me!” What, lady, you think you’re better than me? You, with your coherent speech and your lack of screaming night terrors? I fought for this country, bitch, and I’ll be damned if the only thing I won by stabbing that Arab-looking guy behind the Souplantation the other day was the right to be condescended to by some uptight Granny and her ingrate spawn.
You make me puke, more than usual. You, with your fancy wheeled conveyance and adequate medical aid. I farted pus last night. Do you know what that means? Neither do I, but I sure as hell can’t afford to have a doctor look at it. I’ve barely got enough to afford a sex change operation for my cat/wife.
Wait, what are you…no, not the bus! Wait, wait, come on, just enough for a coffee or something, stop getting on the bus, please…
Damn you, you metal yellow bastard! You’ve won this round, but I’ll be back, and next time I’ll be high on milk and gasoline!
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2009 Those Aren't Muskets!