Posts Tagged ‘bums’

The bum with the golden voice

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

I’m not in a charitable mood.  The story of the bum with the golden voice went from 5 seconds of getting choked up to who-gives-a-fuck.  He recorded a commercial for Kraft Macaroni & Cheese which may or may not air during the Super Bowl.  It’s surreal, in a counterfeit way.  I’m sure the bum was paid more than I make in two months for that bullshit.

The bum is still humble for now; only a matter of time and money (and pussy) before some gopher in the recording studio–LUCKY to be working in the field–is sprinting to get the bum another $15 bottle of purified tap water, or else. Actually that’s happening now.

The bum is back on top of the Abrams tank of capitalism instead of under the treads like so many.  Another newsie story had him arguing with his daughter in an LA hotel, loudly enough for the police to be called.  No arrests.

There was something that originally drove the bum with the golden voice to drink and drug and I suspect he’s fast remembering what it was.

The bum says he’s been clean for two years, referring to drugs and alk, but the truth is no one is clean, he’s back in the same slaughterhouse of deadlines and responsibilities.  The newness and fame is waning and it’s time to go back to work.  Welcome back!  Isn’t it better to be the handle than the bristle end of the toilet brush?

O Golden Voiced One, we need more commercials, more relentless voices to chip away at the last bit of cobalt-colored sanity in our brains.  Does Macaroni and Cheese even need to advertise?  Jesus Fucking Christ.

bloodwords: We will not be undersold!

Sunday, 27 September 2009

The bum on the corner holds his sign: ANY AMOUNT WELCOME GOD BLESS. Whether he’s scamming or not he’s superior, he can toss away self-respect or dignity long enough to collect coin, and everything he makes he keeps, no tax. What good is self-respect if it doesn’t pay off?


Welcome to The world’s shortest love story! I found a matchbook in the street. I ignored all of the matches still intact, noticing only the space where one had been ripped out and used. That was the match I wanted.


Kayaking. Why?


Frisbee on the roof, neon orange plastic bleached white by the sun. What does this have to do with winter? It’s over.


Giant tortoises never write books, or maybe they do, they just procrastinate the first 100 years.


Why are you surprised by problems? So much of our economy is based on people that never learn.


I read the obituaries, aka People You Will Never Meet. It’s the only part of the paper promising an end to suffering.


Only very still fish prefer to swim in formaldehyde.


I can’t cry.