An Impassioned Plea to Open the Gates of Flavor Country
The homeless are officially out of control and going buck wild. The incredible burden that they place on us by standing within view while we exit coffee shops with our $12 lattes is an unconscionable offense against the working class. Just the other day I exited the freeway and had to spend time fiddling with my radio dial to avoid eye contact with a man holding a Will Work for Food sign. Obviously, if you wanted food so much you’d have a job, you dildo.
I know what some of you will say: We need permanent housing solutions for them. The job market needs to create allowances for those without a permanent address. Mental health reform and treatment for addiction are making progress. The empathy of society can be a focusing lens for change.
Yes, and then perhaps the Moon landing will be real you dumb dicks. It’s clear that nobody else wants to step forward and solve this problem, so I’m going to be civilization’s reluctant hero like John McClane in an Ayn Rand novel. Sit your asses down and prepare your O faces.
Sit your asses down and prepare your O faces.
The answer here is to return some basic sense of value to the modern vagrant. “Oh but that isn’t so simple since we’ve robbed them of their dignity for years, laughing, after we pulled the ladder up behind us,” you moan from your butthole of a mouth. I’ve figured out how to cut through the obstacles with a samurai sword on this one, folks.
Consider the noble roe deer on the king’s land. The royal forests of medieval Europe were strictly off-limits to the sundry of humanity. The most precious venison was only for the king, baby, and everybody knew it. The deer knew it–you should have seen their conceited prancing at the knowledge that they were future vittles for a monarch.
I’m not reinventing the wheel here–I’m saying that we cordon off our slums and bring back the prestigious pastime of royal hunts. We allow these tin dandies and ragamuffin hopheads some prestige by elevating them to a status of exotic delicacy. No longer will they be at the bottom of humanity, but at the top of the menu: Concrete Lobster.
It’s time to eat the homeless.
If You Let Me Eat a Bum, I Won’t Ask for Any Other Christmas Presents
The thing that most locals don’t realize about the runaway train of homelessness in Los Angeles is that it has served up a smorgasbord of rare palate pleasers the likes of which have never been seen. Take a stroll down Skid Row and you’ll be reminded of walking past the bread makers as a young ingénue, fogging the glass with your slavering breath. You want a taste, but Momma won’t let you.
You want a taste, but Momma won’t let you.
The Taste of Defeat
The shadowy cabal of culinary masters who dictate what gets served to high society agree: while they don’t understand this intoxication with the idea of consuming derelicts, they all acknowledge that this unavoidable compulsion is very real. As mealtime rolls around and our thoughts wander to the fantasy of a feeding frenzy in the slums of Kolkata, it’s important to remember that we are the true heroes of a burdened economy.
The editorial staff of the LA Times in a more noble era readily acknowledged that vagrants should be set to purpose in any way possible for the betterment of Southern California. In a particularly intelligent article published in 1882 they wrote that Angelenos encountering the indigent should not “feed the worthless chaps. It only encourages them in their idleness and viciousness.” I would only differ in thinking that they should feed them–to me.
Let Them Eat Cake to Fatten Them Up
The cruel vicissitudes of life have led many who are down on their luck to pursue decidedly unwholesome occupations in their eternal war on my satiation. It is well known that there is no greater impediment to the joy of a contributing member of society than the pandering caterwaul of the indigent.
In a PBS documentary airing this spring, director Susan Polis Schutz infiltrated an organ grinder’s malevolent nightmare: the Voices of Our City Choir. You can hear the dark and inhuman malice bubbling forth from these homeless throats as they shuffle through pantomimes of Sister Sledge. Their lives may very well have followed a downward trajectory, but their wretched music still manages to invade the ivory tower of my Prius.
Their clearly fabricated backgrounds are as improbable as the genuine mirth they seem to exhibit while doing their best to distract my personal assistant and valet. If somebody doesn’t eat them today, I will have them cooked TONIGHT.
We Can Solve the Homeless Crisis Together
These delectable treats have already been discarded by society, so no reasonable person could claim theft. If anything, it’s a bit of dumpster diving.
Historically it was far more difficult to track down a good meal. Learning railroad timetables to find tin can vagrants? Who could be bothered? With new housing trusts being developed in an effort to stem the brutal tide of forgotten souls, it has never been easier to corner a bum like a frightened animal. Remember: If you’re not a part of the solution, you’re a part of the foie gras.