"You a cop?" the first man asked.
"I guess you can say I police words. Or you could say I'm a journalist. You know what? Yeah, just say that, it's a lot clearer. You guys seem pretty homeless."
"That's fair to say."
"Great. I'm hoping to borrow some of your time for an article I'm writing about homelessness in America or, if this turns out to be a bust, dinosaurs in hats."
"Well," the first man said, "I'm Ernest, and this is Carl. You keep that toilet paper flowing and we'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"Or you can put sombreros on us and we'll pretend to be velociraptors," Carl chimed in.
"Yeah, either way."
This was going to be a piece of cake.
Look at you, being fancy. Where you goin'?
If the no research I had done to prepare for my stay in Homeless Country was any indication, the homeless, as a people, are a lot more animal-like in their sexually indiscriminate nature than their human counterparts. There is no complicated courtship process, no formal lines drawn regarding who belongs to whom, and no need for wooing anyone of the opposing gender. Sex just degenerates into a primal act designed to provide pleasure and whatever it is that women are supposed to get from sex. The dating scene at Great Mount Homeless should be a total orgiastic free-for-all, like sloppy, cursing, unshaven Olympic Village.