Holes In My Bucket

To be satisfied with what one has; that is wealth. —Mark Twain

I used to make (and spend) a lot of money. I was in the soup. A player.

I had a shoebox full of tightly banded rolls of twenties and fifties, never carried less than a thousand dollars cash, drove three cars (and rented more cars every other week just for the novelty), sent money to my mother every month, meticulously tithed 10 percent off the gross to my favorite church, ate expensively, drank $10 a cup coffee in The Polo Lounge, loaned money to my neighbors generously, did drugs, chased women, paid for sex with Heidi’s girls yada yada yada …….. until I couldn’t stand it any more, got anxiety attacks, quit, holed up in my apartment for a year (not working at all) drying out and writing “Bring Me Your Love”.

I believed that God would always insist on me having many holes in my financial bucket until I turned around and did the right thing. So I turned around. Got a square job. Dropped into a veteran’s sober living facility. Got more square jobs. Started helping the homeless. Helped little old ladies across the street. You know the drill.

I have a much smaller bucket now, but a lot fewer holes.

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Unpoddy Trained

Somebody’s lying. Ain’t no way half of these monkey-butt, barn-raised, broke-ass, no class prison ghetto clowns here at the homeless veterans’ shelter spent more than five hours in the military.No way. Uh uh. I don’t believe it.

You can’t tell me that the military put up with this shit more than a few days. Not unless these guys spent their entire military “careers” in the brig.

Hell, half of ’em aren’t even poddy-trained yet and they’re approaching retirement age. How did THAT happen? I mean, how does a man manage to go through nearly his entire damned life without knowing how to use an indoor, water-powered toilet? Where’s he been shittin’ all his life?

The other half are all right. I can deal with the men like me who weren’t drafted, whether they be ex cons or ex drug addicts. They’re still stand up men. But the draftees, the unpoddy-trained, are startin’ to get on my nerves. Unfortunately, the unpoddy-trained are the ones who get hired on to the staff here. Who else is going to hire them?

I’ve blown up three times here so far. This homeless shelter sucks. Once, I told the whole mess hall what I thought about the unpoddy-trained. Don’t worry. My car is tuned up and full of gas. My blanket and pillow are still in the back seat. I’ve had six fistfights in the last two years and haven’t lost one yet. Push come to shove, I’m gonna poddy-train at least one of these dipshit motherfuckahs, hop in The Pig and move it on down the road.

If you’re wondering about the contradiction between the linked video above (click the picture of my scowling face) and my vitriolic text here, let me explain it to you this way:

It’s one thing to bemoan the plight of the homeless. It’s quite something else altogether to live with them.

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