Wednesday, September 5, 2012


“Schizophrenia Stud.” Punked by HARTline once again. Poor USF or APA, or whoever paid for this charming sign that had the “y” obliterated on the inside of this goddamned bus, by the holder so it wouldn’t fall on some mope’s head. As if these dolts can read words bigger than “ beer” and “dog.” Boy, I’m feeling venomous, today. I’m feeling vicious because I’m sick and  I spend lifetimes on these night mares and I know how stupid it can get. I just didn’t know how stupid until later on.

Meanwhile, while I was still young and innocent at ten o’clock yesterday morning, I started thinking about my friend from the homeless shelter, Holly. Holly is a high note and a bright spot. Holly went to Metropolitan Ministries, rather than sit around and feel bad or just do any one of the many self-destructive things one can do. She has some physical and mental problems, as do I, The difference is, it would have taken her a couple of years to get her disability; I got full coverage immediately. I shudder to think what the Feds think about me; 1) let's give it to her before she dies, or 2) she’ll win aces up, she’s such a mess.  Holly chose to get some retraining and she found a job! In a Funeral home. She popped up two days ago on FB. 1) No, she’s not going to be an embalmer, she’s going to be an Administrative Assistant. 2) And, no, we can’t be Professional Mourners together. Well, shit. This takes away the opportunity for some fabulous hijinks and stories.

When Holly and I lived at the Homeless shelter, we were bar none, the worst. The drunks, hos and the druggies didn’t know what to make of us. We said EVERYTHING and meant it. We were without doubt, horrible. We were the Gang of 2. What didn’t help was the fact that we look like two of the sweetest little middle-aged ladies you ever saw. Then, we open our mouths and out pops evil. I think her new job is really missing out on an opportunity. Professional mourners used to be the thing. We could bring it back. We’d wail and gnash our teeth; throw ourselves on the coffin and curse Uncle Louie for ruining Butrice’s life. Then we’d stop and say “Oh, wrong funeral.” It’d be great. I can hear the lawsuits lining up as we speak. Holly probably can too and needs this job too; that’s why she told me to go somewhere else and play.

On that note, the ride to the doctor’s was entirely uneventful other wise, but it more than made up for it on the way home. It all started with the obligatory, the bus-takes-evasive-action-AGAIN-in-twice-as-many-trips-to-avoid-crunching-by-car. I really hate that. I can catch myself pretty well, and in spite of PD, am fairly agile But being ill, does something to the synapses or something and I’m slower and have a touch of non-agility. I nearly missed catching myself. The poor lady behind me crunched her nose, but was okay. She was with her lovely husband and they were delightful. I felt badly for them.

Trauma forgotten, we continued west down Fletcher Avenue which runs spang into USF and intersects with Nebraska Avenue, so we can run south. The people are fairly “normal,” the landscape is not. We start out with Greek Marble Discus Guy, tiny peenie and all, hurling his discus into the traffic on Fletcher. Yippee! Lemme move, will ya. Farther west is Grimley Whatever. I have to explain him. He’s been around since before I was born. This trope is this 30’ tall metal guy, legs apart, arms apart at about waist height and width, usually holding… something relevant to what is being sold. In Los Angeles, he graced a Golf Shop, horribly I might add with spray painted pink shirt and some kind of bastard knickers, thus, he was dubbed, the “Grimley Golfer” by my dad. He’s Been “Grimley Babe the Blue Ox Guy (I forget what we was selling there), Grimley Pancake Guy (ditto), Grimley Urgent Care Clinic Guy, always with painted clothes and accoutrements to match. Today, he’s Grimley Wrench guy, holding a tin wrench wearing giant yellow hard hat, in front of some almost-shade tree mechanic. Same guy; the bastard hasn't changed in 50 years. I bet they use the same cast-mold. Enterprise is wheezing on life-support here on Fletcher Avenue in Tampa.

We get to the intersection at Nebraska Avenue an Fletcher Avenue and what do we have? The Todd SuperStore, which is some kind of Super Porn store that pretends it’s Hi-Class by appealing to only the most inventive of sleaziest of women among us. Bachelorette "party" favors. "His and hers valentine dildoes." and "french ticklers." Gah! . The sign reads “Get your 50 Shades of Grey Products Here.: As far as I can understand, in my usual, jump-in-with-both-feet-and-mouth-off-with-no-knowledge-whatsoever-but-my-suspicions and, we have the same old sadism and buggery and intimidation in an office setting overlaid with overtones of job promotion. Ho hum. Sorry. I don’t see what the up roaris about. Maybe next time we can put it in a Restaurant and call it "50 Shades of Tray." Same shit Write about something new and different; of course that wouldn't make 70 billions dollars, you whores.

Anyway, after that 30 seconds of thinking, the REAL fun starts. It begins, when the bus stops, and  Ms. America gets on with crutches. And not just any Ms. America; This is the Ms. America who won the"I Have Issues" category, if there is such a thing. She spends 5 minutes arranging her crutches, making sure we all see what a poor little thing she is. She spends ten minutes powdering her nose. Another 53 putting on rouge, mascara, the whole bit. 10 minutes fluffing her long mane. She really is pretty, but it's going to last all of 15 months. She’s wearing her best flea market outfit, were the entire bottom half looks like it went through shredders and it’s all badly tie-died. Now, hair, combed and fluffed to her satisfaction, she proceeds to raise her arms and do these very non-discreet monkey-gang signs… to absolutely no one. Oh, and wielding first her cigarettes then her mascara tube, because after all, Maybelline and Camel are all about secret gang signs no one else knows. I’m 2 seats behind her, just mystified; I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m about to see more.

First, we have to pick up a couple of guys, because the bus doesn’t have enough B.O. and we still don’t have the Stock Character, Guy with Basket of Laundry and 1 empty seat left next to Ms. America. We're either playing "Love Boat," or "Airplaine," it just depends on what level of disaster you choose to pick. Me, I'm leaning to "2012, end of the World." I always get gleeful doing the Apocalypse. This is the best fun since the Knife Fights at Happy Acres.. Sure enough, he shows up right on cue. He’s obviously a "playah"; he's wearing cheap chains and has turkey wattles and an open shirted polyester shirt. Day-glo white chiclklet teeth right out of Monkey Ward, 30 years ago. Hormones, hold me back. He plunks his basket down next to Ms. America. She purrs or more like gargles at him “I’ll guard your laundry.” So then she STANDS up, crutches and all on a moving bus. The bop heads. They proceed to pretend they’re on “Knot’s Landing and he’s Patrick Duffy or somebody, and she’s Victoria Jackson, or whoever. I never watched that shit, so they could be Ernie Borgnine and Shirley Booth for all I know.

Anyway, next stop. I hear banjos and Goddamned if Deliverance doesn’t get on board. How in the hell the bus driver stays sane I’ll never know. All I can say is, if he’s on drugs, I want to know what those are and he needs to share. This guy never turned a hair. The only reason we didn’t film an episode of “Tiaras and Toddlers” is because there were no toddlers. There wese mountain men and mountain gals. They were a gittin’ on their groove too. It was…. Well, I don’t know what it was, but I made some observations. I expected some do-si-do-in and a hootenanny and maybe the Clampetts. Actually, the Clampetts are light-years beyond this class of homo sapiens.

They also had some “relatives” on the bus that they hadn’t seen in what? 40 years? 5 minutes. Who knew? The way they carried on, it was like they’d all been in POW camps and never expected to see one another or get any nookie again. Horrifying. And why in the hell is it necessary to grab one another’s non-existent ass? Go out on the street and grab a fence pole. You’ll get the same thrill.

Of course, my smart ass turns around and hollers “I love family reunions, it brings a tear to my eye!” The bus, mostly black, know me and laugh. By this time Miss-Issues-America had left. I was glad; she was annoying with her uber-non-existent gang signs. If you want to fake a disorder, fake Tourette’s.Syndrome. You can get away with cussing. Don’t make up a disorder. Assholre.

First you see; then you smell, and it smells like rotted biscuits overlaid with piss, shit and beer.; Parkinson’s sufferers don’t have the greatest sense of smell, thank god. But why is it, you can spot these moke igmos a mile away. They have this color, pinkish-unwashed look about them. You can just tell that they live on the street and don’t give a shit. And if I got accosted by one drunk yesterday, I got accosted by 40. Anyway. The bus driver will tolerate just so much of this. It finally got quiet; most of the 'billiels dwindled off as their stops came by, and there were 3 of them left, 2 men and one woman. This is how the conversation went:

1st drunk: “I get to kiss you on the hand. It’s in the rules” (to woman; gotta love the logic) because you put your hand in mine

Woman: (Sounds like Popeye on steroids. Her voice is so gin-soaked it's been sitting in a vat for the last millenia; she looks like dried up woman-jerky, just deep and GRATING and loud) “uh-huh, I say Bullshit, NO” (I love feminism AND logic to boot)

2nd drunk: … (woman has just been ramming her tongue down this dork’s throat; he’s so drunk, he’s almost comatose. Good, he can’t see what he’s been tonguing.)

Woman: (to 1st man) "SHUT UP!" (this loud and she turned around and screeched this at the bus,because someone laughed; no comment) "This is the MAN I’MA GONNA MARRY AND I GOT THE ENGAGE RING TO PROVE IT; I HOCKED IT!" (Shows imaginary ring. Ah yes, another Cinderella story)

1st drunk: "I thought he was in jail?" (along with all her other fiancés)

Woman: …

2 nd drunk: …

1st drunk: …

Me: I’m off the bus to the store; nothing make me hungry like confused strife.

My last encounter with the day was with (surprise) another drunk at the bus stop who saw easy pickings. I disabused him of that notion in 2 sentences. In all of this hoo haa, and fun and hilarity, my suspicions were played out. Not one person approached me who was in their right mind. People do cross the street. The cane and glasses do bother them. If I am friendly and approach, people are people.. The only idiots the the drunks and drugged ones and they are easily handled. It was a good day. One I won’t forget soon. It all started with :”Schyzhophrenic Stud.” Who’d of thought?

Because it's an inaugural post, I am starting a new blog for a very different purpose over on tumblr. it is here:  and it is for Dad Blog Silly Names; I am running a little contest. It will not be forever and if you have a nominee, or just have a dad you want to talk about drop  me a line at homeless Thanks dadblunders and all the daddies thank you.!
Post a Comment