So I'm walking to a bar the other night. My favorite type of bar, which my friends and me call an Old Man's bar. You know the type. Dark and dingy, with a disgusting bathroom that hasn't been cleaned in twelve years and has that cloth paper towel dispenser that you pull on and it rolls around and basically recycles itself. A place you can still smoke in even though it's illegal, has piss beer on tap, but has a killer juke box. A place that has people who should have been extras in the flick, "Barfly," especially that real old timer named Schmidty who is tossing boilermakers using raw gut whiskey.
So I'm pumped to kick back and enjoy, when suddenly on my way some homeless guy approaches me. "You got fifty cents for a cup of joe?" He asks. ”Oh yeah, I do. Hey, guess what? I work so I can support your fucking coffee break! Hey I have an idea, why don't I give you a twenty spot, you can hit Starbucks and get a triple mocha, soy, caramel, wheat grass cappuccino? And then you can go to a titty bar and use the change to get a lap dance? Or hey, maybe I'll give you my credit card and you can go to a book store and get "Panhandling for Dummies, you fucking dunce!"
These street urchins are always asking me for money. And I'm thinking when did someone stamp ATM on my damn forehead? Do I look like a cash machine? No! But I do know that I have a big forehead, but the last time I looked it didn't say Bank of Cooper on it. Oh, and the best part, the best part is if you don't give them any coinage suddenly you're the jerk-off, the dickhead, the Big Bad Wolf. Shit, man I don’t want to huff and puff and blow their box down! But these guys look at me like I'm some kind of unsympathetic prick. And when you do deny them, they always have a come back, a polite comment that is said with total hate. They have their own language, and I think it's called Bumonics. They’ll say something like, "Have a good night," which when translated means "Screw you, Mr. Tight Pockets." Or they will say, "God bless you!" which means the same as "Have a good night." (Of course my response to "God bless you" is usually, "Yes he has blessed me more than you, because the last time I looked, I wasn't fucking homeless!")
This kind of shit drives me crazy. The other night I see a guy. And this is a big guy. This is a really big guy. Actually to be honest, a really, really big, fat fucking guy. Basically a Range Rover on feet. This guy could take the place of fifty sandbags and help stop a flood. And he has no shirt on. This Biggest Loser reject has no shirt on and is out in public! His flabby gut is hanging out, almost down to his knees and basically he was sweating butter and gravy. Oh, and to make it worse, he had no belt on, so his ass crack is in view for everyone to see. (Bon appettit to the people eating on the patio he was next to.) So then this sloppy motherfucker has the nerve to ask me for cash for food! For food! I'm thinking, "Dude, you've eaten enough!" Try a new path, you Louis Anderson/H.R. Puffenstuff hybrid! Re-organize and re-direct your bum marketing strategy. Ask people for a few bucks for Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers, and I'd bet you'd do a lot better. Hell, if the guy told me that is what he needed money for, I'd hook him up with a fiver and try to get him to meet Valerie Bertinelli!
To be continued...