Disclaimer
This essay may be offensive to: Blacks, Whites, Asians, Italians, people who think Elvis is alive, people who think they’re Elvis, Elvis, Baptists, Catholics, the KKK, Tammy Faye, Satanists, white trash, recycled trash, he or she who is politically correct, ugly people, pretty people, homosexuals, heterosexuals, nuns, asexuals, rabid dogs, dog lovers, rabid dog lovers, rabid lovers, lawyers, waste management technicians, people who actually feel a tingling sensation when using shampoo on one half of their hair, young people, old people, dead people, democrats, republicans, anarchists, politicians’ girlfriends, politicians’ boyfriends, models, scientists, model scientists, the butcher, the baker, the candle stick maker, you and what army, rock groups, anyone who’s ever line danced to “Achy Breaky Heart”, Trekkies, nerds, fat brain surgeons, those who like their toilet paper with the sheets coming over the top, vegetables, minerals, stoics, people who say “duh” a lot, intellectuals, men who dress like women, women who dress like men, Men who dress like women who dress like men, those who like their toilet paper with the sheets coming under the bottom, Not Me from “The Family Circus,” PBS, the MTV generation, Baby boomers, the Kabul's tribe of North Africa, hookers, fleas, ducks, mice and the people who make commercials with the women smiling about feminine hygiene products.
GOD BLESS THEM ALL
-Anonymous
Well let me tell you. I think the homeless can eat shit. This ugly stranger rises in front of me like a monster in a horror movie. “Got any spare change?” I avoid eye contact. “Got any spare change?” I pretend that I don’t speak English. “Got any spare change?”
He places himself on garish display like a rejected circus performer. His tattered rags reek of sweat and piss. Green snot swings from his nostrils. Crusty flakes cover his face. Dried blood sticks to his pores. Rotting blisters swell on his feet. Crabs crawl on his scalp and in his beard. My kind of guy!
I don’t know him, I don’t like him, and I don’t want to talk to him. But he takes it upon himself to strike up a conversation. He tells me I’m a fine strapping Lad. He orders me to smile. He asked me how I feel. Like and infant crying out for a nipple, he craves my attention. Wow! I have a brand-new friend. “Got any spare change?” Get he fuck out of my face!
He stares at my hand, hoping to see a coin. I stare back into his eyes and see blankness. “Got any spare change?” I got plenty of change, homie, but none of it’s spare.
What do I look like, the fucking King of England? Why don’t I just hand over my checkbook so you can buy a shopping cart full of crack? I’m a concerned citizen, right? Wrong! What do I gain by throwing this bloodsucker a couple of dimes? I worked for everything I have. I didn’t gamble it away or blow it on dope. Do you really think a quarter and three pennies are gong to buy you a new life?
When I refuse to fork over the dough, this smelly subhuman has the nerve to say, “God bless you.” From the looks of thing, God doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you, you sorry glob of feces.
Ah, the homeless. Their “home” is a refrigerator box containing broken bottles and other useless objects. They peep out from under cardboard crates, cursing me under their breath. They parade up and down the street day after day, year after year, screaming at invisible foes. Their hearts are pumping, but their brains are stalled. Their minds are warped from booze, neglect, religion, and war. They contribute nothing to society. Their unnecessary lives are carried out on a dead-end street. They are vegetables sprouting from the pavement. The homeless are the walking wounded, the living dead. They’re America’s finest.
It’s getting to the point where I can’t venture out to a newsstand, a corner market, or a fast food joint, or the bank without some parasite attempting to get chummy. “How the hecks are ya?” he asks me. He’s my buddy because he wants something from me. You need some money for food, huh? You’re hungry, are you? Well, open your mouth, because here comes a steaming brown loaf!
Most schmucks can attain entry-level employment if they really try. But the homeless are talent less. That is, unless you consider spraying Windex and picking lice from you underwear to be talents.
Many people like to say it’s the government’s fault. They cry that the feds threw these people on to the streets. What an idiotic notion! All the government did was to step back and force these people to live by their own wits. If you can’t figure out how to survive, something very simple happens—you die, just as you would in the jungle. It’s convenient to blame a distant symbol. People hate to take responsibility for their own actions. People hate to admit that they shape their own lives. People make me fucking retch.
Where the fuck are their families? Everyone wants to blame politicians, but no one wants to point a finger at the family. Instead of looking at me or seeking aid from pedestrians, the homeless should contact their friends and relatives. Or is it possible that they’ve already alienated those people with their infantile dependence? Maybe they’ve pushed everyone’s tolerance and goodwill a bit too far. Perhaps no one cares about them. They’re truly alone.
If that breaks your heart, why don’t you invite them to come and live with you? Because you’re talking out of your asshole! You feel compassion up until the point where you’d actually have to do something. You couldn’t stand the stench for five minutes. When you see them eating your last avocado and smidgen of goat cheese, fouling your Jacuzzi, and using you crowbar to pry open your money vault, you won’t be Saint Francis for long!!
I’d tell the homeless to get off the curb and take charge, but I’m dealing with human beings. It can’t be done, I don’t expect people to change and improve their lot. Most people are liars and scam artists. Many of the homeless appear down and out but really have thousands in the bank. Many of them just don’t want to work. They’re lazy and lack initiative. They enjoy siphoning money from passersby. Then they run with their accumulated change and purchase a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 or a jumbo crack rock.
There are a handful of people who were victimized due to no fault of their own. These are people who may have worked hard and tried their best but got smacked in the face with some disaster, a layoff, a fire, brutal violence, or just plain old bad luck. These people should be helped. But not by me. No fucking way. I have as much desire to aid the homeless as I do to suck their scabby dicks.
It’s bleak out there. In the future, there will be more people, more traffic, and more aggravation. There will be fewer jobs and less housing. There will be more homeless. I will be expected to pay for their mistakes – their overdoses and liver problems, their court fees and prison costs. Shit—I could have used the cash to buy an Ipod and upgrade my computer!
But don’t think for a minute that I prefer the rich. In my eyes, you’re all green diarrhea. I share no sense of community with any of you. I have no feelings of brotherhood. If I had my way, both the homeless and the super-rich would be lunching on the same fecal banquet.
What fun can it be to merely survive? Why continue living? Instead of writhing on the sidewalk staring at me, why not end your suffering? Omit yourself. If you can’t enjoy life, you might as well go out with dignity. The homeless are in their graves already. They should jump from the highest skyscraper or throw themselves on to railroad tracks while a bullet train is passing by. Better yet cops ought to round them all up like cattle and start shooting.
In a perfect world, the homeless would be lying lifeless in the gutter. In death, they’d find the meaning which eluded them in life. They’d finally have a purpose. They’d be pigeon food.
So now that you have put yourself through all that now tell me what is your perception on the subject? Don't be shy this could be fun.......



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