Fuck the Homeless

November 2007

Once upon a time I gave my money to homeless people. This was mostly out of guilt. I’ve always had the comforts of a bed, toothbrush, shower, toilet paper, and glassware from which to drink my booze instead of brown paper bags. It’s just not fair.
 
But I didn’t only give my cash away because of guilt; I also had empathy. These rancid, rag-covered lumps of cyst- and-barnacle-ridden flesh that slept over subway grates were my fellow human beings; what’s more, they were my fellow alcoholics. We were separated by a college education (me) and paranoid schizophrenia (them), but we could always share a drink: malt liquor, nail polish remover, Listerine mouthwash.
 
Of course, I never actually shared a drink with a homeless man. I could have, but I rarely speak to a stranger who won’t either A) advance my career, or B) get my pubes stuck between her teeth. Ha! Ha!
 
Nevertheless I gave spare change to these vagabonds: my quarters, my nickels, my dimes and mostly my pennies. Until one of the atrocious tramps asked: “Is that all you’ve got?”
 
I had the decency to give this man two or three cents of my money—two or three pennies that I worked for, assuming that it didn’t originate with a check from my parents, which it probably did, but at least they worked for it—and this homeless bastard had the temerity to call me cheap.
 
So I decided that instead of giving bums money, I would give them cigarettes because this would kill them faster, which is probably—let’s face it—what they want anyway. One day, however, I offered a drifter one of my ciggies, and he thanked me by replying: “Can I have the whole pack?”
 
No, you can’t have the whole fucking pack. I should have stabbed this greedy fucker in the eye like Patrick Bateman, the hero of American Psycho, but I was too shocked at this homeless man’s audacity to unsheathe my stabbin’ knife. Beggars can’t be choosers, but apparently they can be fuckers.
 
And they can be violent fuckers. During my freshman year of college I was riding on a public bus, and a homeless man seated behind me asked if I had any change. The driver overheard the panhandler and pulled the bus to the side of the road.
 
“Is everything okay back here?” the driver asked, obviously unhappy to have a beggar on the bus.
 
“Fuck yeah, everything’s okay,” the bum replied.
 
“It better be…” The driver returned to the wheel.
 
The panhandler suddenly withdrew a metal fork from his jacket—within striking range of my neck—and muttered, “Allllllll you motherfuckers gonna die.”
 
Reflexively I removed a one-dollar bill from my wallet. “Here, sir,” I said, handing over the dollar in exchange for my life. “Buy yourself a taco or M&Ms or something!”
 
“God bless you,” the bum said, sliding the Fork of Death back into his pocket.
 
That was six years ago. For some reason the U.S. government still has not eradicated the homeless—I mean, eradicated homelessness—and since Rudy Giuliani lost the GOP primary so it probably won’t happen anytime soon.
 
My girlfriend and I recently walked home from dinner, carrying our leftovers. A homeless man saw our doggy bags and asked us to give him the food. It was an expensive meal so I didn’t want to waste my delicious entrée keeping this sack of shit alive. On the other hand, I wanted to look compassionate and “progressive,” in the extraordinary hope that my girlfriend might swallow that night.
 
Instead of giving him the doggy bags, I walked to a nearby grocery store and purchased a one-dollar box of donuts. It was a hell of a deal… there were twelve donuts in this box! For only a dollar! Holy shit!
 
“Do you like donuts, buddy?” I asked the homeless man, who was not actually my buddy, speaking in the voice that I reserve for babies and dogs. “Of course you do! Of course you like donuts!”
 
The man ravenously stuffed his face with donuts, and then said, “I still want your leftovers.” SON. OF. A. BITCH.
 
You know the absolute worst? When I see twenty-year-olds, who are either college students or graduates, sitting on sidewalks with cardboard “HELP! STRANDED!” signs. Fuck you, “HELP! STRANDED!” You aren’t stranded; you’re too proud to ask Mommy and Daddy for another twenty thousand dollar check from the trust fund. Get a job at Starbucks or Abercrombie & Fitch, you disgusting fucking liars. The only thing you have in common with real homeless people—who actually suffer—is that you also deserve a good bludgeoning.
 
Now, you might be saying, “Gee, Marty, homeless people are annoying and smelly and serve no purpose other than as lab rats for pharmaceutical prototypes, but poor people don’t deserve to get bludgeoned. They’re humans too!”
 
That’s true: poor people are humans, and humans have rights, but homeless people aren’t poor people. Poverty is an economic situation; homelessness is a mental situation. (Edit: this was written a year before the housing market collapsed, leaving thousands of hardworking families without a home. Oops!) Plenty of Americans work hard and still can’t pay the bills—it’s a shame, mostly because I am one of them—but there are plenty of resources available to deal with our financial troubles: welfare, shelters, charity, debt consolidation, and my personal favorite, suicide-by-cop.
 
If you choose not to take advantage of any social services, however—and “opt out” of society by living in the park like a fucking animal—you become a fucking animal. A de facto fucking beast. And what is the compassionate, “humane” thing to do for rabies-infected strays? (Hint: it’s not feeding them Iams Dog Food for a Long, Healthy Life.)
 
Poverty is a serious problem in this country. We should have solutions on the table. Democrats say we should raise the minimum wage; Republicans say we should lower taxes. Some of us say, “Where did Hitler leave the blueprints for the gas chambers?”
 
And I say: it’s not your fault if a crippling mental condition prevents you from contributing to society, but it is your fault if you choose to act like a complete dick about it. So the next time you harass me, homeless fuckers, you’re not getting money… you’re getting massacred.
 
Unless you play the saxophone. That’s pretty cool.