Now that the horny dog of winter is so very nearly upon us like a horny dog (find another writer that can do metaphors and similes in the same sentence and I'll give you one of those orange biscuits that smell mildly of vomit), our thoughts must turn to those less fortunate than us. Scratch that until it bleeds; I'm doing that whole hard-nosed, dead skin on the end of my face thing. My thoughts didn't turn to homelessnessless cos I care about their plight or nuffink like that, no no no no yes no, my thoughts turned to them because I was contacted out of the blue by West Sussex's leading pornographic magazine to write an article on them for their Christmas edition.
"Why does a pornographic magazine have a freakin article on freakin homeless people just where I wanna be seein a freakin picture of a foxy dame in a Santa outfit, and all associated zero entendres?" I hear you cry in a strangled yelp of pre-orgasmic tension. Quick answer so I don't get waylaid by porn again: they want to extend the life of their brightly-coloured tissue. A quarter way through the magazine they have some ugly chick; for reasons of tradition, halfway has to be the not-so open as the other poses but larger picture. My "Aww Look At The Homeless Folks" would come in at the three quarter point. Provided you make it past the extra large nipples, the delay of desire, and thus soiling, means that readers take in more of the advertising so subtly inserted throughout the magazine: coke bottles, squatting over the latest trainers, and some gal looking erotically quizzical - that one finger pointing to the pouty facial lips - at a reasonably priced copy of Windows Myalgic Encephalomyelitis.
Do you know what I hate more than people, and people who want some explanation for why a pornographic periodical (only in Holland) would ring me up out of the blue? That vocal majority of people who saw fit to poopoo my smart attire when going undercover on the streets of Berlin, with only a laptop to write up my exploits while they're fresh in my mind and a translator to help me talk to folks whose native language is as alien to me as an alien is to non-aliens. If you'll permit me a momentary guttural emission, grar. It was the derogatory sneering of people who doubted my lie about being homeless just because I was wearing a suit and highly polished patent quorn shoes that turned the mood of da homeless homies against me. People suck. If I had my way I'd kill every single one of them, and hope that whatever legal system sprang up in the ensuing vacuum would see fit to free me, or at the very least let me off with time served.
Big fat failure (hi, how are you?). No-one talked to me, apart from my rather attractive polylingual company, but she only talked to me because I was paying her. No-one treated my like I was homeless - or at least no-one treated me how I expect homeless people to be treated, but I wouldn't know if that is an accurate view because freakin society judged me on the clothes I was wearing. If I'm lying to people, you'd think they'd offer me the common courtesy to believe me, especially if money and delaying orgasms is involved. It's just not fair. Nothing ever works out for me. I suppose I should have learnt something from this in case another pornographic magazine wants to pay me to go undercover and prevent its readers from shooting their loads before they buy stuff, but if I learnt from my mistakes I'd have to re-evaluate my morals. Dangerous. If I do that I may end up with proper conclusions about stuff instead of minor attempts at humour, and that's not