The homeless made it to my block. In a Mad Max caravan. Blue 90’s V8 Dodge Ram truck. Windows covered with those foil sunshades. A Winnebago. Both with bike frames and bike wheels on racks on the roof and chained up in carts behind them. Parked out by the grocery store.
I said hi to the main guy yesterday. Little dark man. Full beard. Mexican but eyes crazy like a New Guinea headhunter. Teenage looking Toltec girlfriend and the Winnebago’s full of cardboard and plastic bags. People going in and out partying. They have a kid. A little girl. And I don’t.
His girlfriend. I get half hard even glancing at her. Woman’s hottest traits are youth and poverty.
I like them. But they run the Dodge V8 at stochastic intervals to charge some battery. Guttural sound that makes it through earplugs. I can think no thoughts. Someone should talk to them. Would I do it without a handgun. Don’t want to threaten anybody. Don’t want to fuck with his kid’s life. She lives in a warren of old grocery bags while her parents shoot fentanyl.
Maybe they’re running the truck to charge her tablet for school. To watch the Criterion Collection.
The more meetings I have the less work I do. I don’t care about my company. The wealth of its stakeholders. I hope they all die. Don’t care about the campaign my management feels new urgency about. Push people. Get it done. Set calls. Each call creates more calls.
I take notes. The call meanders. Hoping the guy shuts up before he brings up some other idea that means more meetings. More work. Some notes I have to act on. Dig through my transcript later for two meaningful bullet points. Action items. All day thinking just let this be over.
A postmortem. Meeting about the meeting. New 9 hour ideas for me to execute. Colleagues email. They need to be seen contributing. Have you talked to Brody, someone says. He’s the expert. I don’t know who Brody is. I hope Brody’s dead. My penis is shrinking.
The guy lives in a Winnebago filled with trash. Easy punch line. He looks at me. Thinks “shit could be worse.”
But maybe he’s thinking dammit, I have to get high again. I have to blast in this teenage fentanyl pussy. When will it end.
delicioustacos 
I’ve been a professional writer for 25 years. One day, in the early days, maybe 20 years ago, a prison work crew came to clean up the park in front of my townhouse. I’m thinking: sunshine, exercise, no rent, hot meals guaranteed. I should’ve just stolen some catalytic converters instead of whatever bullshit project I’d been doing all week.
And the award for dumbest comment goes to…this guy from Dec 3rd at 6:47am. You list all the positives, but none of the negatives. Those workers had no freedom. Their “hot meal” as you put it was some disgusting slop that’s barely edible. The free “rent” they get is for a cold cell where they can and probably do get fvcked up the arse. As for sunshine and exercise, those two can be enjoyed by literally anyone with freedom. You are just like many other DT readers: myopic in your analysis and statements. You remind me of the average roastie who lists all the benefits that men get from marriage, without all the potential risks and downsides. There is nothing “professional” about you and your job as a “writer” can easily be outsourced to a pinoy or a fuckin AI chatbot.
Lmao
Nobody gets “fvcked up the arse” in jail or prison in the USA other than those who like that sort of thing. You are correct about the food, though.
The primary penalty of incarceration in the USA, Canada, etc., is boredom. Crushing, sanity-sapping boredom. The awful food is part of that.
You would molest your daughters
That’s a complete and ridiculous failure to understand his writing. There’s absolutely zero chance he would molest his own daughter. Do you understand him at all?
No. He’d just write about his fantasies on that topic that here.
thinkin about moving to LatAm. chile or argentina. not sure when, or even how. have just enough for the flight and maybe a few months of fun, before i have to join the local cartel. problem is i hate the sound of their language. same goes for the SEA area. only tolerable oriental language is nipponese, but their people and culture seem too robotic, unless of course they’ve been drinking. but i’m sober now and even just a few beers gives me a headache. i guess God just wants me to suffer in this First World hellhole. i can talk to the RV mexican guy if you are willing to pay. my rate is affordable. if he brutally assaults me, so be it. or he might invite me in for some of that sweet Toltec teenp*ss. you never know. don’t judge a book by it’s cover.
Thankfully. His line continues; yours whimpers and whines into oblivion. Because his genes want to exist, while yours only desperately want to impress and seek (worthless) social standing. My male descendants (through multiple females) will deal with Winnebago-folk’s male descendants, and probably reproduce with their female descendants. That’s ok.
Swarthy and dull and standing 4’11”, the Winnebago people are still evolutionarily waaaay more fit, given the fact they bothered to show up. Tell us more about all the monkey-faced Filipinas you ran away from instead of impregnating.