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Monthly Archives: September 2017

You cannot prove it

I don’t think of myself as a heartless fuck of a human being, but when the homeless guy with the sign asking for help is sporting a fresh haircut, clean clothes, and nicer sneakers than me? I refuse to help him.

I have nothing but heart for the truly needy, but fuck that guy.

Before you send me email and Facebook messages telling me that I know nothing about him and he may need the help, save it.

There has to be someone out there that gives less of a shit than I, but they will be hard to find.

There is a really brutal answer as to why.

Its honest, but you aren’t going to like it.

And here it is.

I prefer my homeless a little more pathetic.

I am driven by the visual as a general rule.

If they don’t look like they desperately need my help, I don’t have the heart.

It is not my role to help someone going thru a little bit of a rough patch.

The only thing that gets a dollar out of my wallet is the thought that this dollar is the only thing keeping them from either committing an atrocity to get their drug fix or eating their own foot out of cannibalistic starvation.

That sounds cruel, but keep in mind, I am comfortable with cruel.

My test reader made the point that my last line may not be nice, but at least its honest.

Lucky accident, honesty was not my goal.

Karmically, there has to be a category for people who beg for change when they could totally hold down a job.

Or at least they look like they could.

Karma is normally a lazy shit that rarely carries it own weight.

But every now and then, karma steps up to the plate and knocks one out of the park.

So, that being said, what would karma do? What would satisfy the universe at large when faux beggars abound?

A disease would be sufficiently horrible, but raped in prison would also suffice. (Thats not from me, I just know how karma works.)

Ok, now it has been pointed out that I am somehow wishing for horrible things to handle this total stranger based solely on my fabricated scenario of his life.

Yeah, like that.

Why would I need to know anything about him other than what my mind has generated?

That last line has stuck in my head until I realized why it doesn’t bother me.

And there it is, the answer.

It doesn’t bother me because I suddenly realized that he may not be real.

We are now back to my popular theory that most people you see in life, mostly the homeless, do not really exist.

This is an off-shoot of the main theory of nothing on Facebook being real.

That whole line of reasoning makes ignoring this homeless guy that much easier.

I even had to talk myself out of running him over with my car, a Honda Civic that I know for a FACT actually exists.

In the end, I did not run him over, nor did I give him a dollar.

But I did feel a touch guilty on the drive home.

And then it happened.

Redemption.

I pulled up to a stoplight and saw him.

Walker.

Walker is a crazed homeless guy that walks, back and forth, non-stop.

I have never seen him standing still, sitting, or passed out on the ground.

He is a pure breed.

He doesn’t ask for money, doesn’t talk even if you ask him questions, doesn’t give a shit about those around him.

Almost like we don’t even exist.

Food for thought.

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Posted by on September 22, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Nuns and hidden agendas

I often wonder what is the driving force behind old school shitiness.

I bring this up mainly because I found an old picture of me as an alter boy and I was reminded of what a better person I am than most. (I was an altar boy for a total of 10 days and then I was dismissed as part of the “Sacrificial wine scandal” of 1976. I was a victim.)

And then I came to Starbucks and just got in line in time to catch the tail end of a “How hard is your job?” berating of an irate dick head directed at my favorite barrista.

I was about to say something when the nun spoke up.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

She was loud, she was angry, she had the most delightful jersey-girl accent.

And she was in full habit.

Nothing more intimidating than an angry nun in full habit.

Like a pitbull armed with a straight razor.

Bad memories, like PTSD, come boiling up from my past.

If you never went to Catholic school, its a lot like being a former resident of hell.

But going to Catholic school that is taught by nuns it like being in a prison and wearing a pretty sun dress that shows off your legs.

You know you are getting screwed at some point.

And its your fault.

Before you ask “What is my fault?” understand that EVERYTHING you do in Catholic school  is a sin and you are guilty!

Nuns are married to God, and it looks like a bad marriage.

Now, before my mother weighs in on this subject, let me state that I am a deeply devout man, or I am at least close.

But nuns have a general hatred of anyone with a spark of excitement for life.

And that is when I met them.

The penguins.

It started in first grade and continued to 8th grade graduation.

I had nuns continually riding my ass like a chronic hemorrhoid in a black habit and rosary beads.

First grade was when I was first expelled for accidentally stabbing someone in the neck with a pencil.

And blood is one of those things that cranks up the screaming.

You can apologize all you like on that one, you are not getting away with a slap on the wrist.

3rd thru 5th grade was the hayday of silly reasons to expel me.

There was the gambling ring, the extortion ring, truly innocent slave trading, and a misunderstanding involving a game of show and tell in the girl’s room. (All excuses are ignored when you have no pants on.)

My mother was a slick horse trader and alternated between being the school nurse and substitute teacher for 8 years, never being paid. (The penguins even had fact teaching credentials made up for her that evaporated when I graduated.)

The deal was understood.

Shut your mouth, tow the line and we will let that little bastard stay.

Not bad as far as back room deals go.

Back to modern day Starbucks and Sister Mary-Goomba.

She followed Mr. Rudeness over to wait for his coffee, glaring at him like a mad woman the whole time.

If anyone else pulled this kind of shit, they were either homeless or dealing with a different type of crazy.

Nuns get away with everything.

I got my coffee and began writing this, delighted at finding a solid blog subject.

They can be hard to come by.

“Friggin lesbians!”

This little muttered tidbit came from the guy sitting next to me.

I took out my earbuds, I had nothing playing, and turned to look at him.

Stir the pot.

“I know, right?” Apparent agreement is the quickest way to find out what makes someone tick.

He looked at me, maybe for the first time, then nodded slightly.

“They have a whole fuckin agenda!”

I sipped my coffee and tried to figure out if he was homeless or not.

Crazy was already a gimme at this point.

Some days you rack your brain trying to figure out a subject to blog about.

And then some days, they fall out of the sky, like some sort of literary coffee cake, to be paired with a delicious roast.

Mmmmm Coffee.

 
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Posted by on September 15, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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