Ug. I don’t even want to bring this up in a family-oriented blog but I must. I need to vent about my neighborhood non-bathing, muttering, crazy/scary guy who was playing with his bits and pieces at the bus stop the other day. We will call him Moby Prick.There I was, traveling in my car with goodwill ambassadors from another country. At the stoplight on the corner, Moby Prick was sitting on a bench inside of a bus shelter staring painfully, with animal longing, at a young lady seated to his left. She may have been 16 years old – maybe less. This could have been like any other day except for the fact that Moby was manipulating his region, which was fully extended inside of his filthy sweatpants. It was rather obvious that he was setting up things for display, to catch the attention of the young lady.
I don’t know how she kept her eyes fixed on the CVS sign across the street because the thing in Moby’s hand was epic. Like a monster! And what did I do? I split when the light changed.
I’ve gone over a few heroic, righteous should-have scenarios in my head because I lost an opportunity when it presented itself. I’m mad that I didn’t do anything constructive the other day to help the girl at the bus stop. Moby Prick escaped and I am Ishmael.
What would you have done differently? I’m sorry, but I just don’t see me calling 911 to report a homeless erection. If I see this guy again, and that is likely because he lives at that bus stop, is there something I can do when he Queequeg’s his harpoon?
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