All the Priests are Becoming Doctors
A homeless man came up to me yesterday and lifted up his arm. Along the bone ran a gaping wound, held together ineffectually by office staples. The wound leaked a clear liquid. I gave him the contents of my pocket—70 cents. That was probably enough to buy more staples. Enough to keep that wound within the semblance of a cure. Just like my effort. I’m so great it hurts.
Some girl at a New Year’s Eve party offered to show me her breasts for a dollar. I had the dollar but refused her. Then I explained supply and demand. She was angry. I bought some gum with the money and chewed it until all the flavor was gone.
At the DMV, while I waited for my new license to be printed, a lady walked in with a stroller. At the same time I happened to notice a sign on the wall that read No Eating or Drinking. I turned to the lady and motioned to her kid, “Excuse me, ma’am, read the sign.” Then I realized she wasn’t going to eat the baby, she was just watching it or something. But you never know.