Being Poor Is Absolutely The Worst Thing Ever

“Yo! How long you gonna be in there, dog?”

I sighed. It’s bad enough that, since September of last year, I’ve lost my job, my fortune, and my steady supply of high-grade prescription painkillers. Even worse that I spent four months in a state penitentiary for financial crimes that I assure you I did not commit. And downright abominable that I’ve developed a seemingly incurable case of venereal warts that make my John Boehner look like a goddamn pinecone every time a pretty girl walks by.

But the absolute worst part is that, as part of my parole conditions, I have to spend the next half year living in a halfway house. Specifically, the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ’s Center for Sober Living and Bible Study, which is in a bad part of downtown between an abortion clinic and an abandoned Piggly Wiggly. It was there, in the house’s second floor bathroom, that I was trying to take my morning constitutional when I was rudely interrupted by the question that began this post.

“Who wants to know?” I replied.

“Dude who’s gotta shit.”

“Well, ‘dude who’s gotta shit,’ it’ll be at least an hour before I’m finished. I suggest you take your business elsewhere if you don’t think you can wait that long.”

“Yo, fuck that,” said the voice, followed by the sound of a booted foot kicking the door. “I gots to go. Who that in there?”

“Me? Three-Fingers Pete. You know, the skinny Italian fellow who lives on the first floor.”

“You ain’t Pete. Pete ain’t sound like you at all. You that fancy fat motherfucker who rooming with Little Mack, ain’t you?”


“Stop fucking lying, man!” More kicking at the door and a few fist pounds before the door flew inwards. The invader and I were immediately at each other’s throats, and it took a team of orderlies to finally tear us apart.

Anyhow, that was my morning. And given that it’s my first day at the halfway house, I can only assume that it will get worse from here. I’ll try to update this blog from time to time now that I’m a free man again, but don’t count on it. In the meantime, I’m off to make an alcoholic beverage that I learned about in prison called “pruno” in hopes that it will make me drunk enough that I can actually get a solid night’s sleep for a change. Toodle-oo.

Categories: Culture, Drugs, Idiots, Legal, Violence

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