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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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Gentle versus a solid ass kicking.

Dylan Thomas was an English poet in the 50s.

Like all poets that means he was all about the pent up, whininess that permeated the overwhelming majority of poetry from that era. (Test reader is a poet, after reading that line I was told to go fuck myself. I think I am onto something here.)

However, in the realm of pent up emo angst, Thomas was a god and should have sacrifices made in his name. (There has to be perks for being the top of your field, even if its whiny.)

But, and this may be a valid question, why should morning coffee and Dylan Thomas go together?

Good question, let’s ponder that over a cup.

Heading into my favorite “Coffee and healthy sandwiches” place is difficult, there is a shopping cart blocking the door.

I tried to move it slightly, only to find that the back wheels are locked up. (This happens when you take a cart away from the boundaries of the supermarket.

Magnetic locks are cheap, easy and impossible to remove without disabling the cart.

Unless you are willing to pick up the back wheels and carry.

Like a wheelbarrow that is totally back heavy and unwheldy.

I take in the pile of garbage in the shopping cart and suddenly it hits me.

Homeless, and he parked his cart out front.

Like a homeless valet service was tipped an extra $20 and told to “Keep it up front.”

I went in.

Ordering was delightful.

The nervous young lady at the counter was splitting her time between me and the collection of people at the end of the counter.

  1. End of counter roll call:
  2. The manager.
  3. The assistant manager.
  4. A kitchen helper whose attendance might be just cuz.
  5. A large gentleman of Samoan descent whose button up, collared, untucked, white shirt says “Security”. (I wanted to call him Boagrius after a warrior from ancient Greece, but no one would get it. I hate being the only one who reads. Plus, Achilles killed him in glorious combat.)

“So what do you want?” Boagrius is big, but polite. (Fine it stays.)

“He needs to go. He is scaring people from using the bathroom.” (I am not sure this is a bad thing. Most men’s rooms look and smell suspiciously like an uncleaned monkey hut at the zoo.)

“Ok.” 

Good, I didn’t miss the opening scene. I hate that, it ruins the movie.

Boagrius saunters over to a table on the far side of the room.

It is pure serendipity that as I cream and sugar my coffee and then move to a table, that I have a perfect vantage point to watch.

The “Person of interest” is sitting at a table right next to the bathroom entry hall.

And interesting, he is.

Homeless is a gimme on the basis of BO alone. (If my busted nose can get a whiff more than 10 feet away, you need a serious delousing and a bubble bath. (And no toys, you are in there to get clean, mister.)

Older, natural aging or meth? (Both?)

There is a small cup of coffee on the table. (It has however, been torn up. This says meth to me, something I have seen them do. I don’t get it either.)

Along with 3 notebooks that I can see words and drawings on from 20 feet away. (This appears to be one of those homeless researchers. Usually, they focus on conspiracy theories. Chem trails are big with them for some reason.)

Bogrius is a big kid, Samoans are not a tiny people.

But he is polite and professional.

“Pardon me, sir?” (Leading with a polite “Sir” is a solid move, right up until it backfires.”

“WHAT?!?!” (Backfires)

As an opening line, that is a line drive home run.

The pure angst and whiny persecution in his voice immediately makes me name him Dylan. (And you thought I forgot about the Dylan Thomas shit at the beginning, didn’t you?)

“Sir, management would like you to leave.” (I like Boagrius because he stays on script, no deviation. A nice quality in a huge security guard.)

“But I bought a coffee!?!?” (Universally, this will be even the most unacceptable homeless guy at least an hour or two in the majority of coffee places. Like a low price ticket for admission.)

“Management called security, sir.” (Solid argument. Boagrius is not new to this.)

“What if I call security on you?!?!” (Plot twist, some of you saw that coming.)

“I am security.” (So who would you call?)

What happened next really bothers me.

Mainly because I didn’t hear it.

Boagrius leaned in and spoke very softly.

It couldn’t have been a threat, his body language was wrong. If anything, Boagrius and Dylan both relaxed halfway thru the comment, whatever it was.

And then Dylan got up, and gathered his notebooks.

He and Boagrius left together.

Dylan lifted the back end of his shopping cart and began to roll away.

He stopped.

Turning, he reached out and rapped on the window, pointing at the manager.

And flipped him off.

Defiant to the end.

“Do not go gentle into that good night”
“Old age should burn and rave at close of day”
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Dylan knew his shit, I wonder how he took his coffee? (The poet, I mean. The homeless guy is drug addled to the point of possibly not knowing anything of value anymore.)

 

 
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Posted by on August 4, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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My sensitive side.

Can I interest you in a Ghetto Latte with a shot of stank in it?

A homeless guy in line at a Starbucks is not a unique situation.

Caring, soft-headed individuals will give them gift cards to obtain high-priced coffee drinks and food. (The studies all show this is damaging, but people think they are helping rather than empowering and prolonging the homeless situation. Nobody reads anymore, so this will go on.)

But that is not the case this morning.

The gentleman wearing 3 layers of dirty clothes and a truly impressive aura of BO and urine does not have a card.

What he does have is an understanding of Starbucks courtesy policy.

“Venti hot water.” His voice is gravelly, feel free to speculate why. (METH!!!)

Starbucks will give hot water in their branded cups for free.

The reason is that they sell Via, an instant coffee product that I have an abusive relationship with.

I got my own hot water right after him and joined him at the cream and sugar kiosk.

On any C&S kiosk there is chocolate, vanilla, nutmeg and cinnamon powder, all with the idea of dressing up your coffee beverage. (As a people, we are a spoiled pathetic bunch.)

While I creamed and artificially sweetened my coffee, the homeless barista mixed all of the available powders, along with 8, count em 8, sugar packets, into this evil bitches brew.

His concentration was like a witch concocting a potion, allowing for the witch to smell like shit that somebody peed on…2 weeks ago.

Half of the previously full powder containers were empty by the time he was done.

I have to admit, I was really curious what the final product tasted like.

He sipped it every now and then, tasting the flavor.

I would have asked for a sip, but the urine smell was dampening my appetite.

Plus, since my immune system is not what it once was, I was iffy on my ability to shake off the plague, influenza or whatever was causing those lip sores.

Eventually, the homeless barista left, yet his stench remained.

It was a chilly morning, but the air conditioning suddenly came on.

I applauded the manager’s efforts to clear the air.

Perhaps another thing to include on the C&S kiosk would be Fabreeze.

It would be a great way to break the ice with a rancid smelling street dweller.

“Good morning! Would you mind if I Fabreezed you in an effort to cut down on that feeling of imminent vomiting and the crawling feeling on my skin?”

Tell me the truth, wouldn’t you have a different view of the homeless population at large if the stench of BO and urine was replaced with Ocean Breeze™ or the lingering scent of lilacs?

I know I would be more inclined to pony up some change and ease off on the taser-reflex.

I know there are those of you that, for reasons unknown that are probably rooted in childhood abuse, disagree with me.

Can’t help you.

BB King once said, “Some people, if they don’t know, you can’t tell them.”

He was right.

Because there is no Fabreeze for stupid, that stench lingers no matter how long the AC has been on.

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Little Orphan Meth-Head

“Its a hard luck ROCK, for us.

Its a hard luck rock, FOR US!”

 

“The pipe will come out, tomorrow.

Bet your bottom bitch that, tomorrow, there’ll be crack….”

 

This visual is killing me.

Out in front of the supermarket, is a folding table.

Taped to the front of it is a poorly xeroxed pictures of smiling kids.

A sign on the table asks for donations for foster kids.

The little honey behind the table, I assume to collect the donations as they roll in, is a human being that has lived a hard life.

Meth is not even in question, there has DEFINITELY been meth.

Missing teeth tell a story all their own.

But, and here is the kicker, this is all about her.

Meth will do that to you, make you the main character in every story.

And she is on the phone.

Angry.

Practically yelling.

“These fuckers want me to sit here like a retard, begging for change for minimum fucking wage!”

Wow.

Let that sink in.

Take a minute.

Got it?

Lets move on.

If we take our clues where we may find them, we have the tragic tale of Little Orphan Meth Head.

She is not homeless.

How do I know this?

She has a house arrest ankle bracelet, so she lives SOMEWHERE.

She is making minimum wage, but has not walked off the job, so, at some level, she gives a shit.

Lots to love, lots to hate.

Plus she has a potty mouth and doesn’t give a shit who hears it.

Sliding over into love here.

I am hiding just inside the automatic doors in the store, out of sight.

However, my presence is making the automatic door stay open.

When no one comes out but the door stays open, eventually she will notice and the jig will be up.

Next epic line.

“I don’t give a fuck where they put those little bastards!”

Big step to the hate.

Do what you want, but don’t fuck with the kids.

They have a hard life too, but they had no choices, unlike our orphan.

Run your whiny mouth all you like, addiction is still not a disease.

I contemplate for a few minutes what to do.

Do I get involved? Complain? Try to talk her down? Something?

Something it is.

I play wallet roulette.

I reach into my wallet and grab the first bill from the middle and pull it out.

I don’t organize my money, so today, it could be any one of 3 ones, 2 fives, a ten or 2 twenties. (I am really sweating the $20s. I am charitable, not rich.)

In the end, I folded the ten and stuffed it into her box while holding my finger over my lips.

Crazy bitch actually smiled at me.

I left before Annie attacked Daddy Warbucks.

It was a beautiful moment, but lets not try and fool ourselves.

The sun will come out……Tomorrow!

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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At least wear a condom

There is something to be said for old school making out.

There is also something slightly uncomfortable about not being one of the makeout participants.

But there is something evil in the delight washing over me as I watch other non-participants being REALLY uncomfortable about the aforementioned making out.

There is a thirty-something couple that is sitting on the cushion seats at Starbucks, making out like they are cheating on someone.

There is no inappropriate touching going on, everyone is fully clothed, but I am beginning to suspect that either their lips are stitched together or he is performing some sort of dentistry on her with his tongue.

Table to their right is inhabited by every disapproving old lady you have ever met.

Old ladies come in pairs as a general rule.

Its a lot like a buddy system, one to talk trash, the other to nod their head.

And, from the looks of it, these two old biddies are just about to shit themselves.

On the other side of our amorous couple is the Creeps.

The Creeps are just staring.

Creep #1, we will call him Peeper, he likes to descretely peep out of the corner of his eye and pretend no one sees him looking.

Creep #2, we will call him Alpha Creep, doesn’t give a shit, he is just blatantly staring.

Alpha Creep has enough of a pervy creep vibe to him that he may start masturbating at any moment, and it would not shock me.

Getting back to our carnal customers.

We could call them Romeo and Juliet, but that seems a little too easy and over done.

So, Fred and Ginger are going at it like he is leaving for the war tomorrow.

I would say get a room, but they have two untouched cups of something in front of them, so they have technically paid the rent on the 2 spots on the cushions they currently inhabit.

I mean, if a homeless guy can buy a small coffee and sleep in a chair, then two fully clothed patrons who DON’T stink can dry hump on the table.

Plus, its kind of sweet.

I mean, making out as an art form seems to have been on the decline for the last decade.

And I don’t understand why?

I mean, done right, making out is one of the more erotic things two people can share.

And we all seem to forget that in pursuit of the infamous “Hook Up”.

Evidently, hook ups are happening left and right.

By the way, they still don’t have cures for STDs, but they are all on the rise.

Which is why the hook up is not something I can do.

Remember the movie Jaws?
I stopped going in the ocean because of that movie.

I am sure that I will become that rare statistic that will be eaten by a shark.

Same thing with STDs.

It would be just my luck to catch something and my shwantz would fall off and scurry away like a frightened snake.

Who needs that type of stress?

But, I am liking Fred and Ginger.

To be perfectly honest, they aren’t boring, they smell nice and I am not worried that they might attack in a drug fueled rage.

So I say, let them stay.

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Got something to say?

For God’s sake, wash your ass!

I don’t think I am asking for too much here.

I cannot name a time that Starbucks ever had a stank like this going on.

And the sad part is, it’s a self inflicted wound.

Starbucks did it to itself.

It all has to do with free electricity and lax policies concerning the homeless.

Every table is wired in a starbucks.

They do that so people like me will stay awhile.

The longer I stay, the more I will buy.

But here is the flaw in the plan.

The homeless will spend a dollar and stay all fucking day.

The government gives away cell phones with chargers and free cell plans.

The one thing the government does not give away is charging stations with free electricity.

So here is the one flaw in Starbuck’s plan.

I am positive that I am the customer they planned on with the whole setup.

As opposed to a $1.50 sale to someone who will then sleep in a massive BO stupor for 10 hours.

I can guarantee that little scenario is not on any business plan at the corporate office.  

I broke my nose years ago playing hockey, so I don’t smell much these days.

But the stench of the unwashed ass of the homeless guy at the next table is killing me.

“How can you be so cruel? You don’t know what his life has been like. Walk a mile in his shoes…blah, blah, fucking blah.”

Cry pussy, cry your eyes out.

All actions in life have consequences.

A dozen minor decisions pile up into 1 major issue.

Ignorance of the laws of life is no excuse.

“But thats not fair!”

Right, its not.

Doesn’t mean thats not how it is.

Sorry to get real on you, but that little rant I found balled up in the back of my head, so I dusted it off and put it out there.

Shit in my head has a shelf life.

I keep nothing past the due date.

That little philosophy will not win you a lot of friends and it will lose you a few, but at least you know that the ones that are left have a little backbone to them.

Excellent sign of people who I will piss off is that they use the phrase “There is nothing funny about ___”

Censoring yourself is like an addiction, it seems harmless at first and then you realize one day that it effects everything you do.

Trust me on this one, you don’t wake up one day with this type of literary tourettes.

Its a place you end up, not a place you begin at.

There is a scene in the epic tale Cyrano De Bergerac where Cyrano talks about being his own man:

“But, to sing, to laugh, to dream,

to walk in my own way,

free with an eye to see things as they are,

a voice that means manhood.

To cock my hat where I choose.

Not a word, a yes, a no?

To fight, or write.

But never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart.”

Edmond Rostand was the shit.

I wonder how he took his coffee?

 
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Posted by on October 14, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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As plain as black and white

A stray comment from the next table caught my ear this morning.

“I don’t want this to sound racist, but”

And I swear, I almost laughed out loud.

The reason for my barely controlled outburst is that, when someone starts a sentence with that phrase, you KNOW that the following sentence will be racist as hell.

This morning, the second half of that sentence was…

“That black guy has complete advantage in this heat.”

Backtrack for a second. The questionably racist millennials at the next table, are dumb, being in their early 20’s thats a given, but they are also white and insecure.

They have an expensively grunge look to them.

So we know that they come from money, but have issues with that.

It is hot out.

Southern California in late September can be a bitch.

When the two Twitterheads walked in, they mentioned the two homeless guys out front.

I didn’t think much at the time, but now that is a key point here.

The two homeless guys are your usual homeless, dirty and smell like piss, by coincidence, they happen to be black and white.

So to put the story together, they feel that the black guy has an advantage in the heat.

Here is the simple facts.

It doesn’t matter what color they are, the fact is they are both drug addled as to be wearing several layers of clothing and that sitting in the blistering sun without shade to beg for change makes sense.

No matter what color you are, its a bad idea.

For a $1.15, they could get a small coffee and sit in the air conditioning for several hours.

However, that would take $1.15 away from their drug of choice. (This comes from the professionals that work with the homeless. You have good intentions, but you are dumb and don’t know.)

Back to our young and dumb kids.

I would call them racists except they are too dumb to get it.

And I don’t have the time.

Every second I would spend trying to belittle and educate them would take away from amusing myself and quite frankly, I am more selfish than I am socially conscious.

With the exception of my kin, the youth of today are a sadly misguided bunch, raised by retards and fed the kind of silly shit that makes Bernie sound like a good idea.

Its like the whole ethanal debate. (Its a joke, and a dumb one at that.)

So, as I watch the two kids and sip my coffee, a question pops into my head.

Should I get another cup of coffee?

I mean, this one is almost empty and I am really not feeling that twitchy edge of caffeine that I like.

If you have enough caffeine, there is a natural twitch bordering on tourettes that, in my case, causes me to type horrible things, often against my will.

But it is important to have a hobby.

In the end, there is nothing to be done about the dipshits.

The are young and part of what they think is a much more accepting culture.

They will protest that they meant nothing by it.

Like Louis Armstrong said, “Some people, if they don’t know, you can’t tell them.”

Smart guy, played a wicked horn.

All that, and here is another reason to hate these kids.

Who the hell comes to Starbucks and gets a $5 juice packet.

You are in a legal crack house, kiddies.

So buy some goddam crack.

There is only one thing to do.

Get another cup of coffee.

 
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Posted by on September 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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