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!
