The Quarterly Grain Report

Billions and Billions...

Last week, while on an excursion to McDonald's, a homeless man approached and propositioned me, along with my comrade, for our pocket change. He informed us of the gravity of his situation, telling us of how he had nowhere to sleep that evening, and reassured us that any donated funds would be carefully invested. I couldn't think of any convenient lodging houses that the creature might be able to afford with only pocket change for funds. But he seemed a resourceful creature, having already demonstrated his intuition in finding naive collegians with pockets full of chocolate and crumpled one-dollar bills. And, as a man of the streets, he probably knew all sorts of places that accepted "non-traditional payments" (wink, wink). Places where the entire room is like the floor of a seedy movie house, only the stains on the sofa are definitely not artificial butter-flavoring (unless there are slang terms that I am unaware of).

I whispered to the chap beside me that if he would just ignore the scavenger, he would lose interest and probably go away. But he panicked, and made the mistake of acknowledging him, insisting that he had no coinage. In this way, he essentially put his life in the hands of the transient. The nostrils of the beast flared as its keen olfactory glands detected that my friend was not being truthful. But I, in an attempt to pull us both out of the predicament, delved deep into my pocket, and pulled out sixty-nine cents. I nervously placed the coins into an outstretched, gloved hand without making eye contact. (Looking one squarely in the eye gives it the impression that you don't respect it, and implies a challenge.) Sweat formed on my brow as his nostrils inspected the gift, hesitant to accept anything from man without the proper inspection. But thankfully, the coins appeared to satisfy him. He sniffed them once more, looked at me, and moved on. I let out a huge sigh. Sixty-nine cents seemed a small price to pay to ensure that at least my anus remained a one-way street.

My friend on the other hand? Well, let's just say that he was raped unmercifully by the hobo while I finished my McNuggets. He didn't appear to be, as the commercial says, "Lovin' It," although the same cannot be said of the hobo.

posted by Arthur Croft Yates @ 11:54 PM