The Fuss Over Playstation 3

I was curious as to what the big deal is over this new Playstation 3 that everybody's been talking about lately. Of course, by "talking about" I obviously mean "shooting each other over", but surely you assumed that was my meaning.

As my Irish luck would have it, I happened to be in the right place and time (who would've thought lying naked under an abandoned car would ever constitute the right place and/or time) when two such people shot each other in a battle for the rights of one such device.

And I must say that I have finally realized why the station of play is such a coveted item! I tell you it is a delight! I have been playing it nonstop since I first pried it from the hands of that half-conscious young man. Honestly, I must have made love to it fourteen times over the course of 48 hours without complaint. As an aside, I will say that, yes, dear friends, you'd be correct in assuming that my libido rivals that of my appetite in ravenous intensity.

But Lord, that Playstation! It's been the best companion I've had since that drug-addled prostitute I used to date back in the 80s. What was her name again? Ah yes...Madonna.

Croc shoes

I'm a filthy hobo and even I hate these goddamn shoes! It's obvious that they were made for retarded kids so their pee couldn’t pool inside them like it would in regular sneakers. I despise them. Not retarded people, the shoes. Well, and retarded people. Only I despise them slightly less.

Something tells me you have more important things to worry about...

Fuck you, city government! I'll swim in the Logan Square Swann Fountain whenever I please! Perhaps you should focus your attention on the drug war currently being waged in the city and not worry so much about people trying to cool off during a heat wave. You don't see the murder rate increasing because of statues that spout water, now do you?

Thirsty? Wring out your sweaty clothing for an afternoon treat!

Weather report:
It's hot outside in Philadelphia. One more day above 90 degrees and we'll officially be riding along a wave of heat! It's like being in a dumpster filled with diarrhea and pubic hair. Imagine THAT!

Or...if you're like Ole Quint and indulged a little too heavily in the 60s, REMEMBER that!

Shoelaces McGee

'Ello dear mates! I woke up this morning after a 2 day LSD binge and discovered that words had been tattooed all over me legs. Turns out it wasn't a real tattoo, just blood scribbled around in a manner so as to form words. Whose blood it was I couldn't tell you, though it tasted like Maude the Doper's, and I truly hope to high heaven that is not the case because that woman has more diseases than South Africa!

Well, Ole Quint had nothing else to do this morning, so he decided to spend the better part of the 8 o'clock hour transcribing the message on a dirty Wendy's napkin his good friend Jerry Blue Balls had been using to soak up a pussy wound. This, my dear friends, is what I discovered tattooed on me leg upon waking this morning:

I call it "Shoelaces McGee"...

I once knew a man,
He went by the name of Shoelaces McGee.
Ole Shoelaces played the banjo,
better then any fool you ever did see.
Well, Shoelaces had his vices,
as men are wont to do.
He could drink fellas under the table,
with a cheek chock full of chew.
On his chest he wore suspenders,
big red ones he'd often jerk.
He'd yank them out like rubber bands,
and they would smack him while he smirked.
All the ladies loved Shoelaces,
and the men they liked him fine,
he sure was a charmin' gentleman,
so long as he abstained from drinking wine.
But if those bubbles kissed his blood,
his mind would start to race.
All reasoning would soon depart.
He'd spit right in your face!
The girls would run for shelter,
And the guys would try to hide.
While he would break out all the windows,
Just to take a piss outside.
The tables they'd get tossed,
while he’d be gunning down the lamps.
He'd run streaking up and down the street,
Until he'd fall from crippling cramps.
His antics would be many,
And last throughout the night.
Sure 'laces might pass out,
but he'd still hold his bottle tight.
And there'd be much anticipation,
as he opened up his eyes.
The townsfolk would be gathered round,
Despite a stench that made them cry.
With every move that he did make,
The girls would give a start.
But it wouldn't bother 'laces,
Who'd often treat them to a fart.
And then he'd stand and smile,
Which would often set things right,
Cause who could resist ole Shoelaces
As he exclaimed, ''Boys, what a night!''

Ole Quint's a fantastic writer of poetry, but he doesn't hold a candle to a Quint fully saturated with LSD and roofies!

Shamus Goldensteinbergbaum

If you've been following my stories of late, you'll know this name well, as Shamus Goldensteinbergbaum has been plaguing the comments section of my website these past few days. Shamus, you see, is my nemesis, and a right trig cully he is! Jewish to the core, Ole Shamus is still burnt up about a fued we had over a delicate transaction that took place between our ships whilst at sea a great many years past. There were some harsh words and blows exchanged, but I will not divulge any of that information in this forum. What happens on the great blue sea, stays on the great blue sea, as they say.

Under the impression that Shamus was dead, I haven't bothered to take any precautions to disguise my whereabouts in an attempt to avoid a ghastly death at the hands of such a ruthless(ly drunk) foe. I now realize my folly. And that, dear friends and faithful readers, is precisely why I will waste no more time in fortifying my most recent abode with the most stalwart of cardboard materials. I defy you to jab a shiv through the walls of my palace! Only I have to ask that you wait a while...I just scored a hety bag of crack. I'm plannin' to cook it up in a few minutes and then I'm gonna sneak on over to Green St. and watch Judge Joe Brown reruns through the window of whatever fool is dumb enough to leave their blinds open in this most murderous of cities.

Shitty pants

I have recently discovered that it is unwise to shit your pants when you are homeless, as you have nothing else to change into, and almost no opportunity to wash.

Pants shitting

I just shit my pants.

Who Doesn't Love a Nice Asian Prostitute from Time to Time?

Now friends, before I incur the wraith of all me Christian readers...allow ole Quint a bit of time to speak his mind before ye judge the title of this post. I assure you, it's not what ye think...

In all actuality, what ole Quint is trying to say is...well, when one feels the need to visit an Asian massage parlor and tip out a few extra dubloons for a little game of rub and tug at the end, one should do so not out of extreme lack of attention from the opposite sex, but because one truly believes in supporting the immigrants' struggles
for citizenship in this greatest of all countries.







Now is that so wrong? I don't believe so. I'd go so far as to say that while I'm not one to frequent such establishments under normal circumstances, I believe it is every citizen's right to do so provided they support the rights of illegal aliens around the country. Think about it. E.T. was an alien. Would you put up a cage to keep him out of your country?









That's what I surmised.













Those of you who actually read the newspapers after using them as blankets on the streets are aware that there has been a great deal of focus on these immigrants lately. Their "Day Without Immigrants" campaign, or "DWI" as I've come to refer to it, has been highly publicized in the media, and as of last week there have now been TWO DWIs in America! I'm not sure we can take it much longer.

It seems to this ole grizzled bastard that everybody is striking nowadays. The cabbies (some of whom surely also missed work because of the DWI) have resorted to striking because of the new rules requiring mandatory GPS installments and the automatic retirement of vehicles over 200 some miles. This means that thousands of people in city of Philadelphia (ranked 2nd on the list of fattest cities in 2005) will have no choice but to walk or ride a bike to get to work! Some of those same people might actually extend their lives by as much as 5 years by doing so, which in ole Quint's humble opinion is a travesty, as those years would surely be wasted on gambling at the slot machines that are expected to hit the city in the not-too-distant future. Then again, if Mayor Street doesn't support that indoor-smoking ban like he said he will, those 5 years will more than likely be negated.

Lordy, it's been over a month since me last posting and here I am off on a rant. Perhaps it should be mentioned that ole Quint just snorted some benzedrine and is currently firing on all cylinders and then some.

I guess what ole Quint is really trying to say here is that I don't care whether you're for or against immigrants, but if you are for immigrants, you should probably get yourself to the asian massage parlor.

Do it for the children...

Slot Machines Coming to Philly

So Philly's gonna be a gamblin' town, eh? Well good, I say! I know hobos in Atlantic City who make damn near $500 a day panhandling on the boardwalk!

Picture this:

Mr. Rich Vacationer gets a little lucky at the slots and begins to feel all warm inside his guts. He struts with confidence along the boardwalk after a hot golden shower with a 67-year-old hooker in the Holiday Inn. As he passes the Tropicana on his way to the Borgata, his eyes fall upon a filthy beggar who's stuck wheeling himself around on a skateboard cause he has no legs to support his body.

"Please suh, a quarter for some food," he begs.

Mr. Vacationer's hands are still swimming in dough as he pokes around in his pocket, despite being overcharged by that call-girl cause she doesn't "typically do that type of thing". So, to make up for the ever growing void of self-loathing in his soul, Mr. Rich Vacationer decides to throw a few bucks the way of the homeless tramp.
Cha-ching!

In short...I can pretend I have no legs too. Hell, I'm already missing one!

Herpes-riddled derelict

Let it be known that Quint McGuinley is not above commissioning a herpes-riddled derelict to rape those who foolishly supplant his position in the soup line when he is left with no choice but to address the onset of explosive diarrhea by temporarily extracting himself from the line in question!



Ask these guys! They've known my wrath!

Tyra Banks' Stylish Armpit Vag

It should be known far and wide that Tyra Banks, the cantaloupe-bosomed supermodel who hosts America's Next Top Model with more over-the-top theatrics than a Crispin Glover movie marathon(see below), sports a vagina in her armpit. Where normal people excrete sweat...Miss Tyra offers so much more!


This news comes to you straight from the street, where yours truly is currently bathing in a sea of newspapers that have been strewn about me weary body for warmth and protection. (Sidenote: They booted ole Quint out of his apartment after a week...something or other about the intolerable stench and unimaginable deterioration of my living quarters.)

Not So Filthy in Philthadelphia

Ole Quint realizes that he has been lax on providing you uproarious tales of his most recent endeavors of late. And why is that, you ask? Well, simply because he's been too busy experiencing them!

I feel it is also noteworthy to add that I've since moved back to the Philadelphia area, my dear friends.


It made all the sense in the world that I should leave the toasty South and return to the sharp bite of the frigid winters that befall the northeastern seaboard. In all actuality, had I stopped to ponder the ramifications of my relocation, I most definitely would have stayed where I was; however, it's near impossible to consider things such as consequences when you're a booze addict with no means of self control.

As luck would have it, I only spent one limb-crippling evening huddled around a steam vent as a means to fight off hypothermia before managing to acquire myself a lavish apartment just outside of the city. Yes, lads and lasses, ole Quint is a homeowner once again!


The sun had barely breached the PSFS building on the morning after my near-death experience at the hands of Mother Nature when I felt intrusive hands on my person, shaking me so terribly that I fully expected, in my delirious mental state, my chilled bones to crack like the engine of a South American commercial airliner.

I made a feeble attempt to throttle the owner of those hands, but in my weakened and malnourished state, my aggression could be compared to that of an elderly women with arthritic joints and a monumental fondness for lithium.

Turns out, those meddlesome hands belonged to a middle-aged man by the name of Jorge Manuel, who has been working steadily to provide shelter for displaced hurricane victims ever since Katrina ravaged New Orleans back in August. My only conjecture is that kindly ole Jorge, with the comb-bristled mustachio and toothy grin, simply mistook me for one of those unfortunate evacuees. I presume he believed me when I mumbled "Katrina took everything" into his ear as he struggled to lift me off the pavement.

And it is owed to that generous oversight on Jorge's part, me mates, that ole Quint happened upon his new abode. Apart from that first dreadful night, the city has proven yet again to be a comfortable fit for this ole sea dog. The daytime is lazy and the nightlife is decadent, just the way I likes it! Also, it's one of the few states in which a weary old sailor like meself can still enjoy a fine cigar at the bar whilst sharing tales of the sea with the seemingly interested prostitutes I've drugged into accompanying me.

Along with recently administering my services in a ménage a quatro with two gorgeous Latino women and a Nubian princess, yer ole pal Quint has managed to tack quite a few splendiferous accomplishments onto his resume these past few months. These fetes include, but are not limited to:

1) Struggling through a 2 hour presentation at the Church of Scientology just for the free coffee and donuts.

2) Challenging Mayor John Street to a jello wrestling competition (only instead of jello, ole Quint prefers utilizing dumpster juice - for its obvious cost effectiveness and pore-cleansing benefits).



3) Losing the dumpster juice wrestling competition to Mayor John Street, who not only caught me off guard by actually showing up, but also turned out to be a fierce adversary worthy of respect...though I shall point out that he is not exempt from my revenge, which is legendary. You can catch a glimpse of my new arch-nemesis on the left, where it appears as though he is grinding up babies to serve to the homeless. I could be wrong, though my intuition is impeccable.

That should bring us up to speed. I'm gonna go try and grab me some ground-up baby at the shelter before Jimmy Two-Teefers grabs it all for himself!