Bums, Booze and Respect.

Holy shit here I go again. Let start this off with bums. Everyday to and from work I would see these bums passed out in their shanty town by the 8th Avenue stop on the N train. They may have been dead. Surrounded by beer and cardboard they once fashioned an abandoned oven into a bed. I can't even say they were productive bums they would be sleeping at 8 in the morning and be in the same spot at 6 when I got home. They may have been dead.
Getting off the N train at Union Square last week I saw a bum at a garbage pail on the platform. He dug out some Gillette roll on deodorant. He was grinning and smearing the clear gel all over his face and smelling his fingers. Attractive.
Coming home on the 6 train a man was spread full eagle stretched across the seats. His shirt was too high and his pants were too low. He may have been dead.
Another time on the 6 train, during rush hour mind you, a deranged homeless lady (that's my favorite of the 6 main varieties of bums, because they are easy to cast spells on and have a -2 dexterity and a +4 encumbrance) was sitting next to a Haute couture European broad talking about shittin and "how the white man be sitting when they shittn' and but down other races like they don't shit". Then then European lady pointed out to homeless lady that maybe she had too much to drink. Wild laughing and more talk about shittin' ensued.

Yeah forgot to mention I went at lunch for St. Pats last month. Took me about 2.5 hours to make it back to office. Upon which time I promptly ordered a pizza. Drinking and having to go back to a desk is fucked up. It does things to you. It somehow convinces you that your job is a game and that you must try to somehow win by doing work. Of course by Monday morning you're like "what the fuck did I do on Friday?"
Then that next week I went to a wine week lunch at a fancy restaurant by park avenue. Holy shit talk about assault with alcohol. You sit down and they are flanking you with gay waiters and wine. It's like shit lady I don't even drink wine, can you hook me up with some Hurricane or Colt 45? Then they give you all these fucking options when you go to order a steak. Here's how I like my steak - cooked. Is that so fucking hard. I felt a bit out of place in that restaurant, especially since I was surrounded by about six glasses of red wine that I wouldn't touch.
And what's all this shit being thrown around in the sports world about teams playing with "[a] Chip on their shoulder?" They need respect. Respect my ass. Who do they need respect from? From the ticket holders that pay their salary? From other players that just care about themselves? Christ it's laughable. Even the suckiest players on the suckiest teams have it better than working a 9 to 5. Respect, I'll give you respect when you fucking bury you parents, cure cancer, invent a longer lasting light bulb and win the triple crown.

I need a hot pocket.