TLC has a special on Richard SandrakThe World's Strongest Boy. You've got to check out his photos on his website. It looks like someone did a poor photoshop job putting this boys head on someone else's body. But it's him! Extremely creepy.
She was on the corner wearing a purple tank top that came down mid-thigh. The rush-hour traffic swelled onto the street buzzing by her as she moved to her own tweaker beats. I was steadily approaching her, having just left an angry day of work, digging through the messenger bag that was slung across my torso. I intermediately looked up at her as I was getting out my sunglasses. She tracked my advance.
Through the tank straps I could make out sagging sweet potato breasts resting on top of her drooping broad belly. Her feet were bare. Obvious dark cracks crawled up her heels to her ankles. The legs caught the sunlight in patches all the way up to where the tank top ended, reveling a highway of needle marks.
She smiled a toothless grin, foam at the corners of her mouth. I could smell the urine of dozens of people on the Spring air.
My mind raced with questions: how can you stand there barefoot in all this filth? Do your marks itch? How long have you been a junkie? What do you charge for a fifty-fifty?
Tugging down at the bottom of her top, she started letting out a soft whine. It grew more guttural as she flipped up her tank top reveling that she wasn't wearing panties. I was now to the side of her waiting for the crosswalk light to change. I couldn't help but look back over to her. She pulled up the swag of abdomen flesh reveling her patched dirty blond pubic hair.
I let out a loud laugh and turned the brilliant kind of red reserved for Chinese New Year parades.
The green man appeared on the pole across the street. I leapt off the curb, placed my hand over my mouth and laughed for another fifty feet. I fumbled for my cell phone and called the first number on speed dial to share the immediacy of this site. It was my mom's voicemail. I left her a message saying, "Hey you'll never believe what I just saw. A homeless beaver in the Mission. Call me."
I just got into altercation on 17th ST while leaving a message for Monica on her voicemail. This young black guy and girl were walking towards me. The girl was also on her cell phone. The guy yelled to me, “Hey you! Hey you! Which way are you goin’? Which way are you goin’?” He wouldn't move out of my way so he pushed into me.
I said, “Obviously forward.”
“You want me to kick your ass whitey?”
“You’ll be dead in thirty seconds if you touch me.”
“I’m gonna bust your head in, whitey-mother-fucker.”
“You’ll be DEAD if you touch me.” I shook my head like a mean big bad-ass black woman.
I moved forward, still on the phone with Monica’s voicemail. He started to pursue. I kept my same pace leaving a message for Monica detailing what was happening. After half a block he turned back around. I circled the block to see if he was still around but I didn’t find him.
So I’m back at work, tense and ready. These fuckers must smell it on me.
Gill says I need to go buy myself some pepper spray. I'm think I need something like a tazer.