Bums Need Bush, Too

I was on a stroll today with my sister. In case you pictured me sitting in a stroller, getting strolled around by my sister, you're wrong. In saying that, I do not mean that I would be opposed to being pushed around in a stroller. I also do not mean that my sister would be opposed to pushing me around in one. She'd probably even stick a pacifier in my mouth and be highly entertained. What I mean by it is...we do not own a stroller. Because that would be weird.

We were walking down the street, just as people on strolls tend to do, and a woman approaches us.

"Do you gots a quarter?"

I, being the inconsiderate asshole that I am, completely ignored the woman. What's the point of answering? My answer is "no." I can either say "no" or I can ignore her. Either way, she'll understand that I'm not about to reach into my pocket. People need to learn to talk less and act more. This is the statement I'm trying to make. So, like I said, I ignored her.

"I say, do you gots a quarter?"

My message has obviously been misconstrued, so I tried a new approach. I looked the other way. This is also another way of saying "no" without actually having to open my mouth. Because that would be a hassle for my fragile jaw. Which is why I write.

"AY! AY! YOU GOTS A QUARTER?"

Since the woman had "turning of the head" mistaken for "please yell in my face," I tried yet another universal symbol for "no." I obnoxiously cleared my throat, like I was about to say something, and then I didn't say anything. Why the throat-clear? I'm not really sure. I did not realize how unnecessary that was until after I did it, which goes for most voluntary actions of mine. At the time, I was thinking I was being mischevious. Because obviously, a throat-clear means one thing: your throat is now in top-condition for speaking. It's cleared, it's ready, and the time is now. Say something. Your throat wants is, and so does the person waiting for your response. But then...you choose to remain silent. And to me, that's a slap in the face. That's like if I bought a ticket to a concert, got all dressed up to go, got in my car, drove to the concert, and then refused to get out of the car and actually see the show. I thought for sure this woman would finally get the message.

"YOU GOTS A QUARTER OR NOT?"

Then it hit me: I'm the only one who overanalyzes things like that. Actually, forget the "over." I'm the only one who analyzes things like throat-noises.

My sister, who tried a more straight-forward approach than I, turns to the woman and says:

"No."

At the time, it did not occur to me that I, too, could have done that.

"OOH! OOH! BOO! AY AY, BOO!"

Then the woman goes from making monkey noises, to trying to scare us like a ghost, to resorting to ebonics, then back to the Casper Clamor.

At this point, I'm severely confused, and also kind of pissed. Please do not try and scare me. That is weird and unusual. Who does that. What the fuck. Where did you learn that. When did that strategy ever work for you. Why do you think that will get you a quarter.

The Five Ws of Understanding Bums. Which, by the way, will never be answered.

I have nothing against bums. Except that, on certain occassions in my past, they have scared the shit out of me. Maybe you're getting angry at me right now.

"YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT BEING HOMELESS, YOU SPOILED BRAT."

And you're right. I don't. But I'm not here to understand them. I've come to learn that my purpose in life is not to understand the problems of everyone else in the world. I'm just here to share stories. And my next account happens to involve a bum.

(I'm using the word "bum" here because it's short and therefore easy to type. I could try and please the public by writing, "unemployed resident of a certain dwelling they are temporarily unoccupying" but that is 1) confusing and 2) a waste of my time and 3) not even politically correct, since I just pulled those 10 words right out of my ass.)

I was sitting in the car with my friend. We'll call her Lopey. (What? I'd bet a thousand dollars that J.K. Rowling made up the name "Hermione", ten thousand dollars that J.R.R. Tolkien made up the name "Bilbo", one million dollars that Dr. Suess made up every word he ever wrote, and I'd bet my life that my elementary school librarian made up the fact that Elvis Presley died of a peanut allergy. Why can't I make up stuff, too?)

So Lopey and I were sitting in her car outside of a coffee shop, catching up on lots of things. What we want to do with our lives, what we miss about the past, whether or not our second toe is longer than our big toe...you know, the usual. And then a man appears out of nowhere. He looks like Santa Claus, but he's wearing a long trench coat that's ripped at every other seam, he's holding a huge stack of what seem to be photographs, he has a bit of a limp, and he's staring right at us. I could have summed that all up by saying he looked like Santa Claus on crack, but I thought I should embellish on that one.

"Allo gulls!"

And he appears to be British. And not that Cockney-British, like Scary Spice, I'm talkin' Proper-British, like Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady. (I apologize for the allusion that not many of you will get, but for those of you that do, I salute you.)

<'''''

(That was me saluting. Five quotations for five fingers. Or you may look at that as the profile of a man looking to the left with five strands of hair and a prominent nose.)

--------->

(That was me. Pointing to you. This one was less of a challenge.)

So Brit-Bum continues with his sentence, as most people tend to do.

"Are you two sisters?"

"Yes!"

Lopey likes to lie.

"I knew it, I just knew it! You two look exactly alike! I can see the resemblance!"

Crackheads like to see things that aren't really there.

"Yes, we're twins, actually!"

Lopey likes to fuck with crackheads.

"May I come over and chit-chat with you?"

British people like to have "chit chats."

"Uhhhh..."

Lopey is regretting her gregarious approach to the situation.

"Alrighty, then!"

Honey Bummer don't give a fuck.

"Uhhhh..."

This is when I tried the "head-turn" thing again. Yes, still meaning "no." Yes, still not being understood.

"I'm actually on my way to meet Taylor Swift right now, so I don't have much time to chit-chat."

What?

"Would you like a cigarette?"

"Sure!"

Lopey takes one.

"Here, have another!"

"Uh...okay..."

"And another!"

"No, two is fine, really."

"No, no, take another, I insist!"

"Okay..."

"Have another!"

"Uhh..."

"And another! And another! Here, here, have another!"

Brit-Bum continues to take one cigarette out of his pack after another, throwing them into my lap (yeah, he had approached my window, not Lopey's. Things like this just don't surprise me anymore.) and continues to toss them into my lap. One, two, three, five, eight, fourteen, eighteen, all but two go straight into my lap.

"Wow...thank...you..."

"Oh, no worries! I'm going to meet Taylor soon, and she'll give me plenty more!"

"Okay!"

"I actually know many people who want to see me right now, but I can't meet them all tonight. I know Vince Gill is waiting for me, as well as Keith Urban and Toby Keith. But I told them I have to meet my wife tonight."

"I thought you were meeting Taylor Swift?"

"Yes, my wife."

"Taylor Swift is your wife?"

"Yes, did you not know? I'm her husband. Here, I have a picture of her to prove it."

Brit-Bum pulls out a picture that has been ripped from its magazine.

"OH....yes, yes, that is her, alright. That's Taylor."

"Yes, she's waiting for me right now in a limo. You girls come on over with me and we can all ride in the limo."

"Errr....uhhhh..."

"Yes, yes, just get out of your car, walk on over with me over there ---"

Brit-Bum points to a giant patch of bushes.

"And then we'll all meet Taylor!"

"We can't right now..."

"Oh, so you don't believe me? Well do you have internet on your phone?"

"No, no I don't."

"I know you do."

Brit-Bum pushes his head through my window.

"I see that fancy phone; I know you have internet on it. Come on now, just go to taylorswift.com, and you'll see me standing there with her. It's the first page of the internet site. Just go to it."

"I don't have internet!"

Lopey the Liar.

"Go to it. Right now."

"I really don't!"

"You know what, that makes me angry. That makes me very, very angry. I thought you were nice girls, but I see now, you're liars. You're a bunch of liars and I don't like that one bit."

Brit-Bum starts to walk away from us, but not before turning around to start screaming.

"HAVE FUN LOOKING AT PORN ON YOUR PHONE WITH THE INTERNET! HAVE FUN ON YOUR INTERNET PHONE KEEPING ALL THE FUCKING PORN TO YOURSELF AND NOT SHARING WITH ME! JUST BE SELFISH AND DON'T SHARE ANY OF THE INTERNET PORN WITH ME! DON'T LET ME LOOK AT ANY PORN! EVEN AFTER I GAVE YOU CIGARETTES! FUCK YOU, YOU BLOODY WANKERS!"

And then he starts throwing all of his shit onto the windshield. Chucking it, as hard as he could, onto Lopey's car.

"Roll up the windows roll up the windows roll up the windows!"

And roll up the windows we did. And then we drove off. And no, we never looked up "the internet porn" on "the internet phone." I do hope that Brit-Bum found his cyber-vag at some point that night. Bums need bush, too. Especially Brit-Bums.

Poor, poor Brit-Bum. And poor, poor Taylor Swift.