Where tape worms start their day.
Now up until this point, I was totally into the story. It had a likable protagonist (this miscreant), an epic journey (the trip here), adversity (the Holiday Inn plus Lou Gehrig’s leprosy or whatever) and now it was trying to chug towards the happy ending. But did I want to give him money? His suffering was kind of poetic, I didn’t want to ruin that. And then BAM! Motherfucker took his leg off.
I didn’t know whether to throw change and clap or snap a photo for future enjoyment, but this dude just bent down and took his whole left leg right off his body and kind of waved it around, explaining why it was hard for him to make money because he didn’t have that goddamn leg!
Like a robot I reached for my wallet and tossed him my last $5. While you might call me a fool, you've probably never been in an alley with someone who’d just taken off a limb. I consider it a minor victory that I managed to restrain myself from giving him my entire wallet and the pants I pulled it from. I escaped while he was reassembling himself, marveling at the ingenuity of a hobo with the courage to take off a leg and enough left over to support his sick wife at the Holiday Inn. Amazing.
And then a month later in a different part of town the same son a bitch pulled it on me again, only his wife had a different disease this time. I had been shanghaied by what is probably the oldest trick in the one-legged hobo handbook.
Shake Hands with Mr. Winky
Most times I consider myself to be a well adjusted and fairly polite individual. If I have to piss outside, I will do it on the side of your house instead of the front door and I always tip my waiter. But mostly I don’t want to touch your crotch-laden hands.
So imagine for a second you’re walking down a busy street in the middle of the day and, on the horizon, you spy a figure in loose-fitting pants and a rumpled shirt and, you may have to squint to be sure, but you’re pretty sure the dude is holding up his pants with one hand while his other one is waaaaay down in there. Way down. Like reverse reach around way down. Did his balls drop their wallet? Did he lose an engagement ring in there like some sort of three camera sitcom/gay pornography hybrid? Hard to say but he’s clearly doing something.
As you approach, the man catches your eye and, lacking any telepathic abilities, you’re forced to assume based on his actions that he just decided you’re a plumber from hell, and man has he been looking for you.
Hells yeah! Our balls are as taught and shiny as doorknobs! Thanks Ball Shiner!
From my own experience, when a partially-panted individual retracts their cheddar claw from the hatch to come towards you in what is either a hand-shaking motion, or a face-smothering gesture, the best course of action is to flee and not leave it up to chance, even if that means bolting directly into traffic. Which I did. Much to my chagrin, the individual followed, hand extended and, as I could now see, a proud thatch of pubic thistles bustling forth from what appeared to be canvas trousers.
At the time, the prospect of being an automobile accident victim seemed a better choice than a meet and greet with dick palm. Fortunately, traffic was so backed up that day that no one was traveling at such a speed that I could not be avoided. After a quick sprint away from some angry motorists, I escaped with my soul slightly scuffed but still intact.
The Trash Can Shitter
So sometimes I get hungry for pizza and I go to a pizza place and get pizza. Zany, I know. On this particular occasion, before ordering my delicious slice, I asked for the location of the lavatory. This not being a popular chain, rather just an independent business being run from a 60-year-old building, the washroom was located in a dungeon. I ventured downstairs, through a long winding hall and finally came across the room with a little man symbol on the door. You know that feeling of pride you get when you follow someone’s remarkably simple directions and they pan out just as planned? I had that.
When I opened the door I saw a dude shitting in the garbage can. Funny thing about opening a door and seeing a dude shitting in a garbage can, for a second you just watch. Because, for that second, you’re not really sure if you’re actually seeing a dude shitting in a garbage can. Because honestly, why would that be happening? Especially when literally four feet away is a toilet.
So the man looked at me and I looked at him and everything was about as still as a Mexican stand off scene in an old Western movie. Only in lieu of a passing tumbleweed, there was the shit this man was snaking into the trash can. And so I closed the door.