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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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December 2006 / January 2007 Contest Results |
“Homeless... Please Help.”
By Christopher Ahart,
Virginia
There is a man who stands at the intersection of Cary Street and
Thompson. He holds a cardboard sign that reads, "Homeless... Please
Help." (I added the punctuation.) He's there every evening holding his
sign, staring at the drivers of the passing vehicles with the most blank
expression on his mustached face. Every so often he lazily swings out
one of his pudgy red hands with the palm only so slightly open. He
rarely utters a syllable. In fact he looks bored, if not disillusioned,
as if his occupation lost its luster decades ago and all of this is mere
force of habit. His eyes don't register the plight of his homeless
state. He appears to have no sense of urgency, as though the direness of
his straits is only as dire as a ride on a slow Ferris Wheel. (I'm about
to sound cynical and feelingless, so forgive me if you're one of those
bleeding hearts.)
This man also has the most neatly groomed mullet I've ever seen. His mustache
is always trimmed. His clothes are always clean. His dirty work boots
appear to have been intentionally and artfully soiled, but if this is
the only article of attire on his body with which he hopes to inspire
compassion and empathy in the passersby, he needs to go back to Homeless
Training Camp or something.
Every time I see him I am stirred with a
blend of anger and apathy. Tonight, on my way home from work, I saw him
there at his usual post and he looked almost pristine. He clearly had a
fresh mullet cut, and his cheeks were even rosy like that old fart who
used to do those soup commercials. Yet there was his sign (which was a
clean slab of immaculate white poster board), asking me -- albeit
indirectly -- for my help.
I looked down at my grease-soiled work apparel.
I looked at my filthy sneakers, which used to be white but are now
coal-black. I looked at the untamed tufts of hair sticking out of my
hat, and the dark circles under my eyes. A more than faint aroma of
burger grease and industrial cleaning products emanated from my body and
made their persistent ascent to my nostrils. Then I took another
sidelong glance at our friend, the Immaculate Mullet Man, and thought,
"Buddy, you gotta be kidding me."
Last summer, I saw this same man in the 7-Eleven in Carytown. He was
strolling up and down the aisles wagging that bloated hand of his,
parading his ever freshly trimmed mullet like he was some kind of show
pony.
I was with my sister at the time, and he eyed her lasciviously
once or twice. I pulled a six-pack of Miller Lite (because it's cheap)
out of the cooler and turned on my heel to head to the register. Mister
Nape Drape himself approached me and mumbled something incoherent under
his breath. I thought he was making some lewd remark about my sister and
was immediately on the defensive. I looked at him and said, "Excuse me,
sir. I didn't catch that." He said, "Hey, man. Why don't you buy me a
beer." I laughed out loud and responded, "Honey, you have to
take me to dinner first."
True story. Ask my sissy.
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