The Quintessential McGuinley: A Guide to Hobo Refinement

Judgment Day is Nigh!

2011-01-18T17:29:00.004-05:00

Well ladies and gentlemen, we're now a few weeks into 2011 and I have to say...ole Quint harbors great anxiety for the future. I ask you to please direct your gaze to the below image. This is not a scene from a movie, friends. This is a picture that was taken in Philadelphia, PA on New Years day at the annual Mummers parade down Broad Street.

Firstly, in case you're wondering how I managed to get my hands on a camera, I admonish you for your lack of faith in Ole Quint's skills of acquisition, but I'll tell you nonetheless. When I witnessed a certain drunken someone snapping this very shot, I merely followed said besotted person until he required assistance in snapping a picture of he and his lovely bride, as they always do eventually. Being a man of charity, I volunteered my services. Being a cold-hearted thief by nature, I then ran off with his camera.

Secondly...do you realize what this means, readers? It means that Judgment Day is actually happening! Not only that. It means that Terminators are real and Jesus is apparently one of them! Before you dismiss this as the inane ramblings of your friendly neighborhood drug casualty, let me assure you I've done some research on this topic since witnessing the above scene, and it turns out that Cyberdine is a REAL company. And guess what they make, people. Fucking exoskeletons!! How could the United Nations allow this shit to go down?!

To top it all off, the Mayans are backing all this shit up on their website. Below is a countdown I took directly from their website at the time of this writing, which tells us exactly when the Terminators are going to finish their campaign of human destruction. Interestingly enough, it's almost 1 year and 7 months after the Judgment is set to begin! We're talking about Terminators and Jesus here. I'm sure they could probably annihilate us in a week's time if properly motivated, maybe less. So just imagine what they're planning on doing to everybody over the course of almost 2 years? Waterboarding? Nipple electrocution? Repeated viewings of Glee?!

This is a game changer, my friends. As I see it, we only have 4 months left of life as we know it. Sure, we might be able to fly under the radar for a while like the resistence army did in the Terminator movies, but I'm not so sure now that they've teamed up with Jesus. I'll tell you one thing...once the computers become self-aware, they are going to know and control everything about us: our banking and credit information (at least I'm good here), our home addresses (good here, too), even if we're obligated by Megan's Law to inform neighborhood residents when we move into the area (err....). The world will be in total disarray. You can forget about updating your Facebook status during the Apocalypse!

Well, I just can't have that. Clearly I don't expect a long life as it is, given my appetite for hard drugs and alcohol, but a mere 4 months will not fly for this old salt. There are still so many things I haven't done. Like Four Loko. I know...I know! It's been around for a while now. How have I not tried Four Loko?! I'm sure you're all very disappointed in me and I don't blame you. But believe you me, with this latest revelation, I am going to set right out to acquire a case, and by God I will set the record for human consumption in on sitting!

As for what you can do, well, I suggest you contact your local state representative and demand that they tell President Obama to declare war on Cyberdine. At least then we'll only have to worry about Jesus. And I'm not so sure that would mean the end of days. After all, aren't the Beatles bigger than Jesus? Last I checked, there are still two of them alive.

The Holidays Are Upon Us Once Again!!!

2010-12-02T13:14:00.002-05:00

Ahh yes, another Thanksgiving has come and gone and we're into December yet again. What happened to the summer, let alone fall? I'm proud to say the beard is abundant and flourishing, and I'm once again considering a gig as Santa at the Gallery for some...uh...gift money.

I've done the gig before, as you undoubtedly read about here. That unfortunately didn't go so well, but hey, that's the suburbs for ya! This time I'll stick to the city and perhaps lay off the opiates. Or at least consume less of them. Then again, I'm sure my tolerance has increased since 2004, so maybe I should consider increasing my intake for maximum performance.

Well ladies and gents, consider this my advertisement and make sure to bring your children to the Gallery downtown this holiday season. I'll be sure to (try my best to) keep a dry, urine-free knee for them to sit upon as they tell me what they want for Christmas. Ho ho ho!!!!!

Thanksgiving is about Giving (booze to homeless people)

2010-11-18T22:29:00.000-05:00

Thanksgivin's coming up next week, boys and girls. Make sure you get your comfortable asses out to a shelter and volunteer your services at the soup kitchen before heading home to a delicious home-cooked meal at your ma or pa's. Or your girlfriend, wife, boyfriend, or husband's ma or pa's. Or your mistresses or cabana boy's ma or pa's. Wherever you happen to be going, it's all the same.

Even if you want to start the party early and pour some bloody mary's into a flask and have a few glugs as you work the ladle, that's not frowned upon. 'Specially if you were to be so kind as to allow for ole Quint to have a pull or two while you dished him out a bowl of hot turkey porridge.

So make sure you pack the family in the car and make your way down to the homeless shelter as you listen to ole Arlo sing his heart out about Alice's Restaurant. Teach your kids about the meaning of Thanksgiving. Remind them of their duty to give back and Squanto and pilgrims and all that shit. But most importantly - in case you didn't pick up on the subtleties above - bring a flask or two filled to the brim with hot, liver tickling booze. It's good for ya and ole Quint will be truly thankful for it. I'm allergic to turkey anyway. And bullshit. So don't tell me you're flying to your Aunt Tilly's in Spokane. Make it happen!!!

Trick or Treat, Smell My Rancid, Homeless Feet

2010-11-01T13:23:00.003-04:00

Ole Quint loves Halloween. A happy belated one to you and yours by the way! You see, this ole badger was preoccupado yesterday. I'm not sure if you know this, but Halloween is something of a hallowed event for individuals of my status. Marinate in that wordplay, cullies!

Think about it...of all the days in the year, which is the one day that deems the practice of walking up to a home and asking the owners for food acceptable? And which actually encourages that you look weird whilst doing so? Precisely! Halloween. Do the math, people! If we homeless are known for anything, its that we are hungry and we look weird. Okay, maybe also that we like wine and drugs, but that's more of an "every other day of the year" type of thing.

All Hallows' Eve is the one day where us hobos get the chance to feel normal. We can walk up to your door as though we're neighbors, exchange a few pleasantries, and then you toss some candy into our sack before we part ways, without you ever feeling the need to threaten to call the cops or boot us in the ass. Also, we don't have to head over to the shelter to attempt to wrangle up more presentable attire. The worse we look, the better.

In fact, a few years ago I was nearly comatose after a bottle of Thunderbird, stumbling around neighborhoods in a blacked-out stupor. I woke up the next day in a bush in Washington Square with a bag filled to the brim with candy, and no memory of having to go door-to-door at all. It was like all the payoff with none of the work. I can only imagine how that went.

"Oh honey, look at this, he's a zombie."

"Oh my, don't eat our brains now!"

"Uggghhhhhhhh...."

"So realistic. I'm gonna give you two Snickers!"

It's an age old gambit that is virtually fool proof. And if by some great miracle, you are homeless and happen to have a trace of self-esteem left in you, and your pride cannot fathom the humiliation of trick-or-treating as an adult, all you have to do is time your visits so that you arrive at the door at the same time as a group of children. Then the home owner will think you're just the dad or uncle. And even if they speculate otherwise, they're not likely to confront you about it. It's much easier just to throw some bags of M&Ms in your bag and let you be on your way and out of their lives forever. Or...at least until the following week, when they're leaving work and you're throwing yourself at their car windshield so you can get a few wipes in with your filthy washrag, just enough so that they feel obliged to pay you for your efforts. Only then you're no longer accepting candy. Then the only currency you recognize is cold hard cash money. Or hooch. Or drugs. Those two are always cool.

Philadelphia Phever

2010-10-18T10:41:00.017-04:00

Being a residency-challenged individual, your humble narrator can't help but keep abreast of the news. Since I'm literally covered in newspapers every night, I'd say I'm probably better read than Oprah's book club. Let me tell you, there's nothing like a bottle of hooch and the Philly Inquirer to occupy a lazy Sunday morning!

Well, I couldn't help but notice that the Philadelphia Phillies are in the playoffs again. Rah rah! Go team! And so on and so forth. I have to be honest, though - while I enjoy a good ball game as much as the next American or Japanese man, there's not much I enjoy more than tailgating in South Philadelphia. Take my word for it, a little bit of grifter conversation can go along way towards acquiring for oneself a succulent buffet of hot dogs and ale. And ole Quint has deep pockets. A good tailgate will keep me fed for a week. Two in the winter!

But what I look forward to most is that change that occurs a few hours into the scene, where most people end up looking and acting more homeless than the genuine article. Young guys stumble into each other, spilling beer all over themselves and pissing all over their cars. Women squat next to those same cars, asses akimbo. Shirts come off. Pants get soiled. There's puking. So much puking. It's like being home! Or...like being under the overhang of the Philly library's roof if you want to be an asshole about it.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that deep down inside, we're all the same. So stop fucking kicking me the next time you happen by me sleeping on a steam vent in Fairmount on your way home from the bar! The next time, it could be you...

The Prodigal One Returns!

2010-10-15T13:11:00.007-04:00

I'm...I'm...ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIVVVE!!!!! Damn all ye besotted whores who lacked faith! Quint McGuinley will never die! Oh I've heard the rumors...that Ole Quint crumbled under the weight of his debilitating addictions; that he acquired one too many sexually transacted diseases, which ravaged his poor ole body til there was nothing left but a scab-covered, soulless stump; that he got banned from going into the free library and no longer had an opportunity to document his adventures for you, his ravenous audience. Okay, so these rumors are almost 100% true. Let me just tell you that it will take a whole lot more than a few crippling addictions and sex diseases (not to mention sex addictions) to render this ole mule lame! This sea biscuit is old school!

To reward all ye faithful who have periodically checked back to see if Ole Quint was still churning out the good word, I shall reward you with this wonderful picture a dear old friend of mine snapped of me down at the local watering hole. Or maybe it was a drawring. Who's to say anymore with all the special effects that have been unleashed in the world of late. That damned James Cameron opened Pandora's Box when he made that dratted Avatar!

Oh, and balls to the Free Library! I've been bartering my many talents (mostly intimidation) for computer time at the local Starbucks wifi hotspot.

Going Green!

2008-03-19T08:44:00.001-04:00

It seems lately that going green is all the rage, so in honor of St. Patrick, ole Quint is adopting greenness as his new mission. No more brown stuff for me. It's all about the marijuana, my friends. And the green beer. Al Gore for presidente!

Frigidelphia

2008-02-12T12:37:00.001-05:00

It's so cold outside. So goddamn cold. The shelters are packed like tenement homes in NY during the early 20th century, and that does me NO damn good! How's a man to find time to appreciate quality porno in the company of so many onlookers?? Not that I'd have a problem with it, as I am an accomplished exhibitionist with plenty of hours logged displaying my sexual prowess in public settings, but let's just say I could see it raising a few eyebrows within the institution.

Hell, they'd probably have me committed, which is something I want to avoid at all costs. Sure the room and board come cheap, but ole Quint has more than enough electroshock treatments on his resume, and they are nothing like those delightful massages available via the electronic chairs at Sharper Image. Albeit, I did lose control of my bowels in one of those, too, but that was more likely due to the smorgasbord of whiskey, shepherd's pie, and muscle relaxers I consumed just prior to plopping down for some much needed buttock kneading. What a hysterical mess that turned out to be! You know, history tends to repeat itself, as they say, and a recurrent lesson in my life seems to be that people lose their minds a little bit once loose stool is introduced to almost any situation. However, in Japan I've found that such an experience is not altogether an unwelcome one.

So, getting back to my point, as you have all undoubtedly surmised, the purpose of this post is to acquire for myself someplace warm in which to hibernate the rest of the winter season. Ideally, I would sublet your home or apartment, with arrangements made to allow that certain talents I possess might suffice in lieu of monetary compensation. Other things you should know about me: I snore, I have impeccable fashion sense, and I have my own testicle grooming razors, and will not use yours under any circumstances unless all of my blades are dull and it happens to be a Sunday, in which case the stores will most likely be closed, and well...it's kind of hard to accept a last minute modeling gig when you're best attributes are entangled in a steamy, unrelenting vegetation of pubic hair. Get the picture? Good. I ask that all interested parties contact me directly for an application. Please have 3 forms of ID, 2 credit cards, and your social security number at the ready.

American Idolatry

2008-02-07T15:47:00.000-05:00

I auditioned for American Idol this past summer when the caravan rolled through Philadelphia, and unfortunately - most likely because I am grossly over the age limit, and not because my voice can't be likened to that of an angel, because it can - I did not get to go to Hollywood. Of course, I showed up anyway. And was arrested. Something about not wearing clothes and selling illegal substances to minors - I don't know, I let my lawyers handle anything related to "the man".

Well, none other than Simon Cowell showed up to bail me out. At first I thought it was because my talent was so obvious that he decided to rescue me from rock bottom and deliver me to tinseltown himself. Turns out it was just so his bodyguards could drag me into a nearby alley and hold me down while he spat on me and told me I'd never make it as a star. Those English folk are so brash! Good hair though. I will say that.

So I hitchhiked home and found love with Alexis Cohen, the Willem Dafoe look-a-like who also failed to score an invite to Hollywood. We shared many a story of woe and loss in the one bedroom apartment she shares in Allentown with her mother, amongst a good many other things. Like our love juices, for example. And a violent passion for colorfully-tinted circular sunglasses, zuba pants, and snap bracelets. Oh, and a talent for motivational speaking for the purposes of encouraging others to pursue their dreams despite oppression from everyone who knows better.

Long story short, I had to break things off with Alexis. She was too clingy. Hell of a butt, though. If you're into heroin chic...

The Bible is Fun

2008-01-08T11:23:00.002-05:00

While some of you may recall that ole Quint is vehemently opposed to "bible bangers" who think their fairy tales are any better or more unique than those believed by the deranged people of other nations, yours truly had the good fortune of stumbling across a tattered copy of said good book in a dumpster next to the free library this past weekend, and man what a read! How it got there I'll never know. People just don't understand good writin' these days, what with their scripted reality television and talentless pop star scandals.

Now there was no cover or anything, but it does not take a genius to recognize the handiwork of the almighty. Riveting. Truly riveting. That Voldem...er "He Who Cannot Be Named" character would surely have sent shivers up my spine had my years of rampant LSD abuse not numbed the ole nerve column to such sensations. And Dumbledore!! Holy God, what a character! Rumor has it he prefers the attention of the men. Makes me kinda wonder why all those religious fanatics are so opposed to such things, with it clearly being referenced in the bible for all to see. I'll just never understand zealots, I guess. If I had known their book was so amusing, I would have started attending church a long time ago. And not just for free bread and wine. Or to occasionally borrow money from the collection plate. Although I'd still do those things.

Recent increase in volume

2007-12-21T12:45:00.000-05:00

Many of you are probably wondering why the sudden surge of posts. To that I can only respond that ole Quint has picked up a new hobby: crystal meth.

On Handouts During the Holidays

2007-12-21T12:37:00.000-05:00

I view my life as a home-challenged individual as somewhat of an adventure, and not something for the upper classes to look down upon with disdain. I am not a blemish you can cover up with your fancy makeup. There's no need to cross the street if you see me coming. I won't pester you for handouts. I realize that you don't want to give away your hard-earned money to some non-working scourge, and I can respect that. Besides, I have much more fun robbing you.

My thoughts on Japan

2007-12-19T12:51:00.000-05:00

I am of the opinion that the best Japanese game shows are both entertaining AND violent. And if the violence is of the sexual variety, all the better! I once spent a week at port in Japan back in the mid-80s doing shooters of rattlesnake venom with Dom Deluise and Gary Cherone from Extreme. After about four days, the hallucinations were so intense that we came up with the brilliant idea to start our own clothing company. Long story short, Cherone lost the notes, and a few short years later our EXACT idea emerged in the form of FuBu. That's true. I'm going to start a wiki page on it one of these days...when I get around to it.

Organized religion

2007-12-14T14:52:00.000-05:00

I was molested by priests as a boy. Christian fundamentalists made me who I am today.

Buttcheeks

2007-06-14T09:49:00.000-04:00

Mine are chapped! Damn it to high hell! Rode the mechanical bull at some dive bar last night. Can't say that I remember doing it, but sure enough I'm bloody and bruised. Ole Quint looks like he had a particularly rough night in the prison showers - not that he'd actually know anything about that kinda thing. But seriously, no wine and candles. Just hate thrusts. Yarrghh I need a benny.

Alone Time with Milton Street: How I Boosted the Confidence of that Stupid Bastard and talked him into Making a Fool of Himself By Running For Mayor

2007-03-09T12:24:00.000-05:00

I was sitting under an overpass recently, smoking a hand-rolled cigarillo that I had filled with nicotine from discarded cigarette butts I collected on the street, when all of a sudden Major John Street's crazy brother Milton sidled up next to me.

"Quint," he said. "I'm sad. Do you have time to talk?"

Never one to let down a fellow homeless person in need, I said, "Sure, Milton. Like a smoke?"

Without looking up, he gently pushed my extended arm away, and I could tell that this was serious business.

"Hey big fella," I said, shaking his arm. "Hey ole pal, what's the matter?"

He sighed.

"Well, it's like this, Quint. I'm an old man and I'm not gettin' any younger. I haven't really left much of a mark in this world, and that bothers me. My little brother's about to finish his second term as mayor, and while I'm proud of him, I just can't help but feel a little envious, ya dig? I mean, little brothers are supposed to look up to older brothers, right? What do you think, Quint?"

At this point, I rose to my feet and administered a bastard of an opened-palm slap across his mouth, cutting his lip a little in the process. He stood up in shock, his hand holding the side of his face.

"Well now, what in the hell was that for, dammit?!"

"That's philosophy, my friend, and the truth will hurt you every time."

He looked as though he were about to say something rash before reason took hold. "Well hell, Quint, that's some deep mothafucking shit you laid on me just now. I don't think I'm followin' ya."

"It's like this, Milton. Remember back when you owned that hot dog cart and you used to kick me whenever I stumbled over drunk and tried to steal from you?"

He laughed heartily. "Hell yeah I remember that. Damn Quint, we did have some good times, huh?"

"Yes, we did, Milton. Lots of good times."

"But what does that have to do with philosophy?"

"To be honest with you, that slap was more about getting back at your corrupt ass for kicking me all those times. As far as dispensing advice, why don't you try and beat your brother at his own game? It's common knowledge that he's a deplorable mayor. All you have to do is win the mayoral election and do a better job than him. That can't be too hard, now can it?"

"Holy shit, Quint, you're absolutely right. But how in hell do you think I should go about doing that? I'm not nearly qualified! Technically, mayoral candidates should have been residents of the city for at least 3 years and just last year I couldn't run for the House because they said I lived in NJ."

"Well then I suggest you woo them with song. You have a powerful singing voice, Milton. Don't be afraid to use it."

"But I get stage fright. I'd never be able to sing my heart out in front of a crowd."

"Stand behind a prop."

'Like what?"

"I always use a coffin."

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Every time."

"Man, I should be paying for this kind of advice."

"Don't worry, I'm keeping a tab. And as far as the residency issue goes, just say what I always say, that you live where you sleep."

"That's beautiful, Quint," he said with a tear forming in the corner of his large, twinkling eye.

"You sure you don't want a toke?"

"Hell no, man, that stuff causes heart attacks. You got any hooch?"

"Surely," I said, handing him a recently acquired bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. "Drink this."

He gulped freely, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve afterwards. "Hot damn, that is some beautiful shit right there. If I get elected, I'm gonna make babies drink that shit, it tastes so good."

"You're after me own heart, Milton, you truly are"

"I appreciate you sayin' so, Quint."

"By the way, my honest nature compells me to inform you that there was a little bit of urine in that bottle."

"What in the hell? Who's was it?"

"Billy O'Malley's."

"I thought so."

"It tastes better mixed in," I said.

"I agree. It reminds me of Grandma's lemonade."

We exchanged a momentary glance of confusion and mutual defeat before resuming the conversation.

"You have any place to stay tonight?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, sure, I'll just head over and sleep at the local shelter or something, no problem..." He avoided my gaze like a little kid who wants something but is too afraid to ask.

"Oh don't be foolish. You can sleep here next to ole Quint. But just for the night!"

"You mean it Quint?! Do you really mean it?"

"Come here you bug-eyed son of a bitch, let's huddle together for warmth."

"Goodnight, Quint."

"Goodnight, dear Milton...and good luck."

That bastard deserves all the embarrassment he got for kicking me in the asshole over a few raggedy old hot dogs! No one gets one over on ole Quint! I hold a grudge better than a haunted house in Japan!

Toe Licking Sickens Me!

2007-02-09T10:32:00.000-05:00

Contrary to popular belief, I am NOT the mysterious toe-licking bandit running amok around the Art Museum, but thanks for thinking of me all the same! While I will admit that I like to employ a wide variety of shameful fetishes in my arsenal of sexual perversion, feet just don't do it for me.

Perhaps it's because I'm homeless and I usually only hook up with other homeless women, who don't have feet so much as pincushions for the purposes of jabbing hypodermic needles - as if there's a need to keep up pretenses anymore. It's not like you have any job interviews coming up in the not too distant future. Yes I'm talking to you, Bertha, you unfaithful slut!

I apologize for that outburst, readers. Back to the subject at hand...

Occasionally I am blessed with the opportunity to open mouth kiss girls who confuse my odor and shoddy wardrobe as "punk rock chic" before I get the chance to beg them for money as they stumble out of the bars at 2am. But they don't ever seem to be into the toe stuff. Most of the time I usually just end up peeing on them.

Abstinence Causes Seizures

2007-01-17T11:26:00.000-05:00

I apologize for neglecting you, my dear friends and readers, but you see I've had something of an illness these past few weeks. And that illness, me dears, is called withdrawal.

Ole Quint, you see, decided to make a New Years resolution to abstain from hard alcohol consumption for one whole month. In my humble opinion, that is where most people go wrong when making resolutions. They don't set a time limit. Lazy women who decide to diet or go to the gym will inevitably be on their fat asses watching Maury send kids to boot camp in less than a month. The reason being is that these gelatinous blob monsters that call themselves women don't see the light at the end of the tunnel. That's because they have mentally committed themselves to a full year, despite the fact that if they simply set a time limit of a single month in the first place they might have seen the positive results that would have served as incentive to keep them striving for the finish line of fitness. I call this my "The Little Engine That Could theory". Learn it.

Ole Quint is smarter than any fat woman you meet. He realizes his weakness. Therefore, I swore off hard alcohol consumption for one month, and one month only. And you may have noticed that I said "hard alcohol consumption". Well I applaud your perceptivenes! You're absolutely right. I said that because I knew there was no way in hell I could quit the booze altogether. This is another example of me being very smart. After Hanky Joe tried quitting two years ago and died of a seizure-induced heart attack, I knew better than to attempt the impossible. So I continued to drink a 12-pack each night to stave my demons.

Well, I tell ya, I must have had quite the capacity for spirits, because despite my efforts, my physical cravings went unsatisfied, and I still ended up having the most terrible seizures! Unfortunately for me, my body is so lithe and graceful from my years at sea that onlookers thought I was performing a one man ballet, and rather than assist a man in need, they began stuffing money into my rucksack as a way of payment for my beautiful shaking, which I guess was kinda worth it in the long run. But God knows the damage those fits did to my body! I just thank the Lord that, unlike my poor friend Joe, my heart held out every time. I credit pilates for that.

The sad part is I only stuck with the resolution for 3 days. The rest of the weeks I spent away were dedicated to rebalancing my addictions, which I am happy to report, are back to "mildly debilitating" status.

The Fuss Over Playstation 3

2006-11-22T12:04:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-06T10:23:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-07-19T14:02:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-07-17T14:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-13T09:31:00.000-04:00

'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

2006-06-16T09:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-15T09:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-14T10:33:00.000-04:00

I just shit my pants.

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

2006-05-05T10:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-03-03T16:30:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-23T12:09:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-01T11:43:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-10T16:46:00.000-05:00

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!

Who is Quint McGuinley?

2005-10-25T16:33:00.001-04:00

Quint McGuinley has no tolerance for laziness. He has even less patience for people who label themselves workaholics. While it is widely known that he harbors great disdain for religious zealots, ole Quint abhors the spiritually inept.

At times a tireless opponent of corporal punishment, Quint will be the first to cut a man down for disrespecting him or his possessions - it should be noted that he lumps women into the category of "possessions". Even so, Quint is a champion for the people and believes that women deserve equal treatment.

Quint Quintly McGuinley subscribes to the theory that drugs, when taken in moderation, can expand your consciousness; however, he imbibes, inhales, snorts, and shoots to excess just to prove that he maintains an open mind.

Having sailed the seven seas for the bulk of his tenure on this planet, Quint respects Mother Nature and all of her offerings. He currently resides somewhere on the east coast of the United States, where he spends the majority of his time torturing cats by the railroad tracks.

Bum Cuts off Other Bum's Dangle

2005-10-14T13:39:00.000-04:00

Bearing an expression not unlike that of a newly enlightened teenager whose mother has just walked in on him hovering over the Victoria's Secret catalog in the midst of his daily ritual of self-love, this man is being detained by Russian authorities for killing a tramp and keeping his penis as a trophy.

Rumor - or thorough investigative reporting - has it that his motive was jealousy triggered by a lust triangle involving the victim and a female hobo. Apparently all three were boozing it up good and right, as most transients tend to do in their free time, when in the waning hours of the evening the other two left to trade V.D.s like they were Pokemon cards, leaving our hapless loner feeling neglected.

Apparently, those pangs of rejection evolved into a thirst for blood. Penis blood! After strangling the transient, known by many in the Moscow streets as "Sniper" due to his alleged role in the Chechnyan army, he proceeded to sever the man's very manhood at the root and keep it for his own. That'll teach Sniper to go stickin' his weiner in girls that other hobos like!

Hmm...this story kinda reminds me of my good friends Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally...(see my April/May postings)

New Alligator Terror Cell Discovered in Philadelphia!

2005-10-07T12:16:00.000-04:00

If my last post didn't serve as all the proof you needed, Philadelphia police captured several alligators when they busted what must surely be a local terrorist training facility. It's all in the pictures, mates...

Alligators Terrorizing the Everglades

2005-10-06T09:24:00.000-04:00

Although you will never hear Quint McGuinley refer to himself as homeless (as he is merely a wandering adventurer who prefers the outdoors), there have been many nights when I've been forced to resort to the transient lifestyle in the name of self-preservation. Last night was one such time...and it led me to discover a shocking new development in worldly affairs!

I have somehow in the past month arrived in Michigan, where the nights are considerably colder than what I could have expected in sunny Florida. Sure I probably should have thought about that before relocating, but my main priority at the time was to get as far away from hurricane season as I possibly could. Truth be told, I was actually aiming for Alaska, but who knew I'd have to travel through that wretched Canada to get there?!

So, as you might have guessed, the night time chills are almost unbearable in Michigan when your bedroom happens to be the great outdoors and a nightly coat of dew serves to provide wetter dreams than you ever imagined possible. I had complicated what otherwise would surely have been a moderately cold evening by consuming several root beer floats on a wind-whipped beach of rocks and gravel off of Lake Superior. The ingredients of said beverage I had borrowed from a local malt shop that had since closed its doors for the season; only instead of root beer, I cleverly substituted several cans of Genny Cream Ale I had also borrowed from a nearby liquor store that had closed for the evening.

In hindsight I realized that this concoction probably wasn't a good idea, as alcohol tends to thin the blood and make one colder than they realize, and well, ice cream certainly isn't a cup of hot chocolate, now is it? Now that I think about it, what a delight that would have been...a cup of hot chocolate...some rum...

A thousand apologies, dear readers. I was off on a tangent once again! So there I was, on the beach, struggling to fall asleep despite the violent shuddering throughout my body, when all of a sudden it hits me! Newspaper! That's all I'd need to get me through!

I run to the nearest newspaper machine and kick through the front of it, surely breaking no less than three toes in the process, as I was barefoot at the time. I reach inside the metal box and grab several issues that would serve as my blankets for the evening, when all of a sudden, illuminated by a nearby street light, I barely make out what appears to be a half alligator/half snake monster!

Upon careful inspection of the article, I discover that a 13 ft. snake had partially consumed a 6 ft. alligator in the Everglades when all of a sudden the alligator blew a hole in the serpent's stomach so large that it adds new meaning to the term "irritable bowel syndrome"!

This can only mean one thing, dear readers: the alligator in question was a terrorist and a suicide bomber and there is no hope left for humankind! This is an animal that has been around since the time of the dinosaurs; its species is renowned for ability to survive! It's widely known that they can outrun a horse on a straightaway for the first 30 ft! Surely we could have beaten the human terrorists, but this is simply too much.

Though, on a better note, it seems as though we have the Burmese Pythons on our side, which is something...

Perverted Scientists Photograph Giant Squid Masturbating!

2005-09-30T14:43:00.000-04:00

Yar I imagine it's about time old Quint posts a new entry in this ole computadora of his, as it's been quite a few weeks since I last communicated with ye. And Lord in Heaven is there ever a lot to discuss with ye, the first of which being a matter near and dear to me beating heart!

While I've spent the past month stumbling about the country in a haze of denial thicker than Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, apparently some crazy Japanese scientists stopped singing karaoke long enough to sneak risque photographs of some giant squid humping a tightrope underwater.

I'll have it known that a famed sea captain such as meself does not appreciate the perverted antics of the Japanese any more so than he does the natives of his own country; even if they did invent the Super Mario Brothers! According to this ole salt, they've stepped straight off the plank this time around!

Now I've voiced me opinion on the matter quite a bit since I first saw the vile pictures, and I hold no shame in admitting that several of me esteemed colleagues - most of whom I have had the pleasure of meeting at bus depots and subway stations throughout me travels throughout the southeastern coast - have chided me for such thoughts.

"Quint," they would say, "How can you pass over a profound nautical discovery such as this with a critical eye when this is exactly the type of breakthrough you have been searching for your entire life? And how exactly can you chastise anyone for being obscene when the stories you have been telling me for hours now are the raunchiest tales I have ever heard?!"

These bold questions were often addressed with relentless beatings.

Let it be known to the masses that ole Quint McGuinley will not soon forget these most recent antics of the Japanese! I can fight fire with fire, or perversion with perversion, if it be necessary! Do I need to whack off a God damn manatee in order to get some recognition as a serious oceanic expert for crying out loud?! Then so be it...

Explosive Diarrhea Makes for an Unwelcome Dinner Guest

2005-09-06T11:08:00.000-04:00

You read right, people! Ole Quint McGuinley shat himself at a BBQ this Sunday, and he's not particularly proud of himself for having done so. Sure my adventures are well-known and as varied as they come, but it's not often that one so grizzled as myself receives an invitation to break bread at the home of a celebrity!

Okay, so perhaps the invite wasn't necessarily directed at me or even anywhere near me, but when I became privy to the information that legendary screen actor John Glover - perhaps most notable for his stunning portrayal of media mogul and dare-I-say rebel Daniel Clamp in "Gremlins 2: The New Batch" - was planning on grilling it up in his backyard along with several of his closest friends, well I just couldn't pass up the opportunity.

Actually, to be completely honest, I was just walking by his home and happened to have the good fortune of being in the right place at the right time. I saw Mr. Movie Star hamming it up with his friends and decided that I would do whatever it took to join such an extravagant event; even if that meant I'd have to play rhythm guitar for Styx for an entire summer's worth of shows at redneck amusement parks! (Which it wouldnt, but I'd do it if it did.)

Also, as an aside, I like to consider myself largely responsible for the success of the Gremlins franchise due to the extensive marketing campaign I undertook just prior to the release of the second film that involved me, a Samoan prostitute named Gertie, and fourteen Eagle Scouts parading around the streets of Rio de Janeiro screaming "Boycott the Gremlins! Cruelty to Gremlins!" Sure it wasn't a positive promotion of the film, but you know what those crazy cokehead P.R. people say, any headlines are good headlines!

Back on track...

I arrived at the backyard gala at 10pm, exactly 7 hours after it began, in hopes that everyone would be far too drunk to notice an additional guest. Thankfully I was correct in my assumption...as I usually am. Glover, a master grillman, sought to showcase his talents with the spatula, and immediately set about preparing an abundance of food for yours truly. He threw an arm around my shoulders and spit on my face when he talked. I shuddered with rage. It took every ounce of me strength to restrain from murdering him straight out.

Ever the overzealous one, Glover cooked enough food to feed a village, and as everyone had already eaten way beyond the normal capacity for non-competitive eaters, they remained where they sat, sipping margaritas and basking in their wealth of their friend. Never one to waste food, I set about the task of eating everything myself.

So, that is how, after consuming 3 entire packages of hot dogs smothered in grape jelly, insanity hot sauce, and a liberal coat of pages from Mitch Albom's "The Five People You Meet in Heaven", this ole sailor felt a mighty rumble stirring 'neath the poop deck. The thought struck me that p'raps I should run and find a suitable latrine for the mass exodus that would soon befall my bowels, but as I was in the middle of a waltz with Glover's wife at the time, I decided it would have been rude for me to have done left abruptly. In hindsight, this was a bad decision.

In mid-turn, I lost control of everything below the waste. My legs turned to rubber as my spastic colon ejected the contents of my intestines all over the patio and Mrs. Glover's dancing shoes. In an instant, all eyes (and nostrils) were on me. I could feel the other guests burrowing holes into my face like bees around a hive. I did the only thing I could think to do at the time. I administered a heavy-handed open-palm slap to Mrs. Glover's right cheek and watched her go down. "Look what you did!" I shouted.

The guests were so terrified and confused that they didn't know how to react. I jumped in the pool to wash up and used a tablecloth to dry myself off; then I demanded that Glover fetch me something nice to change into...you know, for the mockery his wife made of my present attire.

As I changed into my new clothes in front of all the attendees, I happened to overhear a conversation between one of the younger guests and our most accommodating host. "Mr. Thompson," the teen asked, "who is that man anyway?"

Momentarily forgetting the fact that I could be incarcerated for trespassing, my attention was presently arrested by the fact that the young man addressed Glover as "Mr. Thompson".

"Mr. Thompson?" I asked. "Don't you mean Mr. Glover?"

The two of them looked at me as though I were completely out of my mind. Now the reason for that could have been due to the fact that I had just defecated in the middle of their Labor Day BBQ. Or, I guess it could also have been because I tried to direct the attention away from myself by blaming everything on the hostess while simultaneously serving as her judge, jury, and executioner and open-palm slapping her across the face. But it seemed to me at the time that they had never heard of anyone named Glover before in their lives. (On a positive note, this could also have meant that they are not familiar with Danny Glover's body of work either, which is good for them.)

"Who's Mr. Glover? My name's Dan Thompson. Are you at the right party?"

"You mean to tell me you're not John Glover, the man who played Daniel Clamp in 'Gremlins 2: The New Batch'?"

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about, mister! Joey, call the cops!"

"Well now, let's not be hasty. This is all just a clever misunderstanding, of course."

"Get the hell out of my yard!"

I did as was requested, holding my belly and chuckling with glee all the while as I marched off "Dan Thompson's" property. Those celebrities can be so humble sometimes, trying to hide their identities even after you've already figured them out! Either way, I'm guessing that little incident occurred at what must be Glover's summer house because I've found out via the World Wide Web that his real home is in Maryland! Maybe I should write him a letter and thank him for being so accommodating during such a messy time.

Charlie Tomato Ruins My Plans with his Selfishness

2005-09-02T09:03:00.000-04:00

As I'm sure you might have guessed by the end of my last post, ole Quint fell off the wagon again. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I tripped while trying to get on and fell flat on me pretty face. However, while it's common knowledge that my relationship with sobriety has always been doomed to result in those dreaded irreconcilable differences, I never expected to give in so quickly. Ah well, it was the thought that counts, as I always say.

I never ended up going back out to sea with ole Charlie Tomato after all. Turns out that little "something" he had to take care of involved the brutal murder of his wife, the torching of his pool house, and then engaging the local law enforcement in a nine hour standoff before he ran outside of his 3 story mansion stark naked with a pistol blazing in each hand, forcing the police to fill him with enough lead to feed Ethiopia for a year. Apparently the Ethiopians will eat just about anything you give them, so why not lead?

For the past month I've been wandering about the Key West area in a daze, ultimately coming to grips with the reality of my present situation and the fact that I've become a hobo. Rather...the fact that I've been a hobo for the past several years. It's quite disconcerting when I take the time to breathe it all in. Ole Quint McGuinley...most probably the greatest sea captain there ever was...resorted to a mere mortal on land...and a poor one at that!

Then again, I've never had trouble finding sustenance or shelter. I've not been hard-pressed while nourishing my promiscuity with the female species either. I will admit that some of the women I've bedded these past few years could easily be remnants of the Mesazoic era, but they've allowed me to get the job done and that's what matters, right gentlemen? Yaargh...that's right!

It's Labor Day weekend. Lots of barbecues to crash and liqour to drink! I think I'll gradually make my way back up north along the eastern coast in hopes that I might find passage on a cruise ship. Argh wouldn't that be the life? Rich debutantes flaunting their arm candy wives as their children run wild on deck, drunk with glee (or liquor that ole uncle Quint would undoubtedly serve them illegally!).

But as with everything in my life, I shall walk the unfolding red carpet that is my future with easy steps and nary a care in the world. Who has time for worry when Jack Daniels is your friend?

New Lifestyle Choices

2005-08-03T16:08:00.000-04:00

After a few weeks of gentle rumination as I wandered the streets of Key West, graciously accepting handouts, and enjoying the musicians from the sidewalks surrounding the outdoor bars, I finally managed to secure myself a nautical adventure worthy of one so grizzled as myself!

After a particularly harsh night full of excessive inebriation and throwing pebbles at drunken beach-strolling vacationers in hopes that they might run and leave their billfolds behind in their haste, I, Quint Quintly McGuinley, have decided to take control of my life. From this point forward, I shall not engage in wanton behavior that might perpetuate my seemingly downward spiral into a life of addiction and dependency. Instead, I shall grab hold of the wheel and steer with stunning clarity into a new horizon full of accomplishment and satisfaction.

This is my challenge to myself. Apart from combating my inner demons, I shall make personal visits to those I have wronged in the past and show them the man Quint McGuinley has become. I shall also offer them my services free of charge in reparation for any wrongdoin's I might have suffered them. And to prove that my resolve is strong, ole Quint McGuinley shall also return to the homes of his bitter enemies in hopes of building a dialogue that might generate understanding as to how things went wrong in the first place. Surely my good intentions will be met with negative reactions at first; in fact, most of these people will more than likely try to kill me on sight, as I have surely tried to kill them in the past. But it is my belief that only good can come of this, and I have no intentions of backing out.

I recently made the acquaintance of a seaman who is known to go by the name of Charlie Walsh, or ole Charlie Tomato, as I like to call him. I came upon ole Charlie stumbling blind drunk down a crowded street just the other day, and as I immediately recognized that we shared several traits in common, it became my duty to allow him to assist me in handicapping me own sobriety. As Charlie's tongue was very loose at the time, he confessed to me the reason for his extreme inebriation, offering the sensitive tale of his wife of forty years and her recent infidelity with his best friend, who also happened to be the first mate of his ship.

Charlie's slurring speech allowed me sharp mind to form several immediate connections. Not only would he be requiring a new first mate for this supposed ship, he would also be vulnerable and willing to any suggestions of extreme and reckless spontaneity that any potential new best friend might purport to offer during such a time of desperation. Ahhh the weak minds of men so easily brought to their knees by the antics of the female species! If only my friend Charlie Tomato would have known to begin beating her on the day of their nuptials he would never have found himself in such a predicament in the first place!

At some point in our time together, I let slip the fact that I am a very skilled sea captain myself, and that I have also fallen on hard times in recent years. My little friend's ears perked up ever so slightly at this, and his eyes squinted in an attempted to record the transpiring conversation with as clear a mind as he could muster. When I made mention of the fact that I returned to Key West in search of work, his eyes grew wide again, and my eyes nearly burned from the brightness of the lightbulb that formed above ole Charlie's noggin.

"Let's go to sea together!" he said, slapping his hands on my massive shoulders. "I can assemble a crew in a few hours. We'll leave first thing in the morning!" Then, as if he doubted himself, he added, "Well...maybe not first thing. I have something that I want to take care of first! How bout we make it the next morning?"

"Excellent!" I said. "Just call on me whenever you're ready. I shall be where I have been for the past 15 evenings...slumbering under that tarpaulin you see covering the lifeguard vessel on the beach o'er yonder!"

My new best friend smiled as though I had just done him the greatest favor in the world. He looked as though he was preparing to hug me; then looked as if he noticed via my facial expressions that Quint McGuinley is not a man known for enjoying hugs with men; then thought better of things and offered his hand for shaking. I promptly extended my own hand and clamped down on his with the force of a retarded kid who has recently been told that he can't play Xbox after dinner, and Charlie respected me for it despite what the strain on his face might have suggested.

It was this good fortune that prompted thoughts of transformation in me mind, and also why Ole Quint shall forever turn his back on drugs, alcohol, thievery, violence, fast women, Mexican food, and organized religion. It is my belief that a lifestyle devoid of such excess shall purify my newfound enlightenment while fostering a life full of serenity and happiness. Yes friends, I am sorry to inform you that your comrade in arms has changed his ways forever.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am starting to get the beer shakes. It's about time I go score a bag of reefer from the skateboarders in the bank parking lot, sell half of it to the skateboarders in the high school parking lot at a substantially higher price, use the profits from that transaction to buy myself a fifth of whiskey, and then find a secluded spot on the beach where I can toke the smoke and sink the drink all the while basking in my newly discovered serenity; then, during the peak of my inebriation, I'll assert my masculinity by starting a fist fight with a man or woman for almost no reason whatsoever, wash the blood and sweat off my body in the ocean, steal clothes from an outdoor clothing rack, repeat my dealings with the skateboarders, and finally hang around the front door of the seediest bar with intent to pick up the most desperate woman who exits. If all goes well I should be asleep by 3am with plenty of time for sleep so that I can wake up and go to mass before heading over to the park for Taco day!

The Longest Day (redux)...

2005-07-12T16:17:00.000-04:00

Sweet merciful Dennis Franz I'm in worse shape than I thought! That little seven mile run I committed to last week turned out to be a bit more difficult than I expected.

As I was just about to clear the first quarter mile of my journey, I felt something seize up in my good leg and crumpled to the ground like a drunk with a wooden leg who foolishly attempts to run across a 7 mile bridge. The embarassment was severe. I quickly regained my composure and hobbled over to the guard rail overlooking the ocean, raised a white-knuckled fist into the air, and cursed the gods for their brashness. I vowed revenge.

A kind old man with a dirty yellow golf shirt and wrap-around glaucoma sunglasses motioned to me from a faded Grand Prix as I lay huddled on the ground kneading the ball of pain that had formed in my quadricep. The old man spoke in a voice that was tinier than Farrah Fawcett's nipples. Okay, I realize that as far as nipples go, Farrah's papilla mammae are titans in a world of men. In all seriousness, they resemble small uncut sausages. But in the grand scheme of things, they're actually quite small. We shall run with that idea for the analogy.

I cupped a hand to my ear and asked him to repeat himself. "Would you like a ride, my friend?" he asked. I simply couldn't imagine what it must have been about my present circumstances that conveyed helplessness and painted me as a specimen in need of hospitality. Surely it could not have been the fact that I lay heaped in a ball on the cement! OF COURSE I WOULD LIKE A RIDE, GOD DAMN IT!

After crawling the distance between the guard rail and the Grand Prix, I propped myself up by holding onto the trunk and then proceeded to hop on my wooden leg until my ass was firmly nestled in the backseat. "Andelay!" I shouted. Beads of perspiration cascaded down my forehead like Mexicans at a slip-and-slide party. The fat little droplets burned my eyes and further ignited my murderous rage. Again I cursed the gods!

Old man McGillicuddy proceeded to drive me over the bridge and into Key West. Though I still cannot comprehend how my travel companion managed to see the road whilst wearing those ocular monstrosities, I did not dare ask him for fear that my inquiry would cause him to second-guess his abilities and careen into the wrong lane.

Father Time dropped me off a few blocks away from Duval Street. I thanked him for his generosity and swore to one day repay the favor. It was a touching moment uncharacteristic of one so grizzled as myself and I was grateful for the bonding experience with a man old enough to be my father. Realizing that my masculinity was at stake, I punched the old man in the face and yelled "How dare you touch me there! I most certainly am not gay!" loud enough for everyone within earshot to hear.

As I sauntered away amidst the din of honking horns and angry catcalls, I started whistling the theme song to "Different Strokes" and ruminated that I'd like to father a few children of my own some day. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to those Drummond children in real life. Obviously, they are no longer working in television. With their intelligence and captivating personalities, they're surely doctors or lawyers by now!

I redirected my course towards a comfortable looking bench distanced approximately half a knot away. Fully aware that Key West has the largest homeless population per capita in the whole country, and afraid that one of the brigands might be occupying the bench by the time I covered the distance, I momentarily forgot about my sore leg and sprinted for the empty refuge.

At about the halfway point, my eyes connected with those of a particularly imposing derelict who was digging through a trash can on the other side of the bench. He recognized what I was on about and snarled. Crumbs from an old peanut butter sandwich powdered his chin and spittle lent a shine to his bottom lip. The bench was his territory, and he wanted me to know it.

Fearing that my reputation would suffer if I yielded to his wishes, I redirected my course once again and charged the hobo like I was Gary Busey...well just about anywhere. His angry brow lifted as his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open, allowing a large portion of partly chewed peanut butter sandwich to escape what would have been certain doom in his bowels. My enemy formed the ready position, and though I can't be sure, I believe my knuckles shuddered with excitement.

I was upon him seconds later. One quick jab to the forehead proved to be enough to knock him off balance. A quick thrust with me wooden leg came down so hard on his thigh bone that I believe mine ears detected a cracking sound. Old man strength coursed through my veins as I lifted the large metal trash can high above my head with the intent to smite me nemesis from this mortal coil. It was then that the transient surprised me. Like a feral animal backed into a corner, he proved to be quite ferocious when warranted.

The savage grabbed onto my good leg with both hands and fixed a monster bite on my calf muscle. The pain was dull and bearable, as all of his teeth had rotted out years before, but it was enough to catch me off my guard and force my very hands to drop the trash can onto me peg, causing me to fall on top of me adversary. I would see that he'd pay for such a bold move.

A quick elbow to the face served to slow the monster, and I repositioned myself so as to have the upper hand. I had to give it to the bastard...he could certainly take a beating. After several minutes of trading blows back and forth, I looked around with a partially closed eye and happened to notice that our little quarrel was attracting something of a crowd. A boy of no more than 10 stared at us with an expression of awe and bewilderment. He resembled a young Haley Joel Osment, my mortal enemy. There were tears streaming down his face as his mother struggled to tear him away from the scene.

"Give it up, marauder!" my enemy gargled through a mouth of blood. He simply didn't know when to quit! A quick headbutt to the face knocked him to the ground, and I held him there with my left hand while I loosened the peg from my stump with the intention of using it to bludgeon him about the frontal lobe. The hobo noticed what I was doing and flew into a rage. He contorted and bucked his body so violently that I'm surprised and somewhat disappointed that he didn't break his own back.

The brigand's erratic movement served to loosen my grip, and he scuttled towards the bench in a mad dash. Refusing to be thwarted, I kissed my wooden peg and prayed that her aim be true as I heaved her at my foe's skull. And true she was! My peg made a target of the transient's brain stem; seconds later, he slumped to the ground. I grabbed onto the wheelchair of a particularly nosey woman who gathered to witness the battle and forced myself into her lap. "Ride! To the bench, woman! Posthaste!"

The terrified young lady revved the engine of her motorized cart and delivered me to my spoils - or in this case, my spoil - at a very dramatic speed of 5 mph. I looked down at my opponent, who was unconscious as I suspected and in no shape to endure more physical abuse. Had he extended his fingers, they would have been touching the leg of the bench and I might have felt obligated to proclaim him the winner. But as things ended up, the bench was mine!

I leered at the stunned spectators, winked, lowered me cap on me brow, and streched the ole bones in preparation for a few hours of much needed shut-eye. No sooner had I closed me eyes when all of a sudden there came a gentle tapping on me arm. I lashed out violently and gripped the hand of me assailant with a mean's to displace the bones. As I pulled the brigand closer to get a good look at him before extinguishing his life force forever, who do I see but the curious young boy whose mother had tried to drag away a few moments prior? And what does the little scalawag have in his hand but me peg?!

I apologized for nearly causing irreparable damage to the skeletal structure of his hand and gave the boy a large chunk out of a partially eaten donut that I had salvaged from a dumpster not more than a few hours earlier as a way of saying thanks. He smiled and nibbled on my peace offering. I rubbed the little rascal's head and was about to tell him that he would make a fine leader some day, when all of a sudden the imposing homeless man to whom I had just given the thumping of a lifetime took advantage of my newly acquired blindspot by rushing me; effectively flipping the bench in the process!

We thrashed about like schizophrenics during a fire drill. My assailant clasped his hands together and brought them down on my kidney with such force that I urinated in me pantaloons. I retaliated by hooking the bastard's ocular cavity with my index finger.

Pools of thick blood collected on the cement beneath us. Several of the spectators ran away and those who were brave enough to stay paid the price in projectile vomit. Police officers arrived at the scene with absolutely no idea how to handle the situation.

A severely obese teenager dressed in what appeared to be an outfit made of rubberbands and paper clips was vomiting so uncontrollably that he shot one of the officers in the face with a stream so forceful it knocked the man off his feet. Tears plummeted from the kid's tear ducts like the falls of Niagara as his hands gripped the top of his head and he started spinning around like a doomed helicopter crying "Why?" in between chunks of the Whopper he had for lunch and his own bile.

Young Fatty McGee stopped whirling around long enough for a brave officer to run up and mace him in the face. Another policeman ran up behind him and clubbed him across his back hump so savagely that the behemoth of a teenager dropped to the cement with a sound not unlike that of a cold pancake smacking a wet windshield.

The cops started rounding up everyone they could. Several large black vans pulled up to the scene and officers rushed out by the dozen. They were dressed head to toe in riot gear and began beating anyone foolish enough to run to them seeking protection. By this time I had beaten my assailant to within an inch of his life and was convinced that I had quelled any remnant of aggression in his person.

Cops where everywhere. One of the men who arrived in the van climbed on top of the vehicle and fired a tear gas projectile into the crowd. I picked myself up, hurriedly refastened my peg to its rightful place, and taking advantage of the thick cloud of smoke, decided to make a hasty exit to a park accross the street.

Though I was unable to see through the cloud, I heard several officers scurrying about trying to round up any would be troublemakers. Thankfully, I had been tear-gassed so many times in the past that it takes triple the normal dose to knock the fight out of ole Quint. As the police searched around in the mist breathing comfortably with their gasmasks, ole Quint hobbled along with no worries whatsoever.

I crawled under a truck parked across the street from the scene and stared out as the cloud of gas dissipated. Bodies were strewn about. People were coughing and wailing and rubbing their eyes as cops ran around clubbing them over the heads with batons. No one was safe from the wrath of the KWPD. No one but ole Quint McGuinley that is!

Living in close proximity to homeowningly-challenged individuals for so many years has forced me to grow accustomed to the dark side of human nature, but I have never witnessed a scene as startlingly horrific as the one that occured the day I tried to cross the 7 Mile Bridge on foot. The sheer thought of it made me hungry.

After a brief and much needed nap in my shady nook under the truck, I casually arose to face a new day. Much of the carnage from earlier had been cleaned up, though I could still see a few spots of sawdust where there had previously been blood and vomit stains.

I lit a marijuana cigarette and strolled through the park thinking about how fortunate I am to be Quint McGuinley. As me right hand dug around in me pocket for a toothpick, me fingers touched upon a note. A 20 dollar note, mind you! I had forgotten that I had sold some of the homemade pottery that I borrowed from Tress!

Deciding that she wouldn't want ole Quint to go hungry, I looked around and spied a cozy outdoor cafe not more than a knot away. It appeared as though one had the option of sitting at the outside bar if they so wished, which seemed like a good idea to me since my skin and clothing had developed a filmy mixture of blood, vomit, and urine. Fortunately enough for me, there appeared to be a single available seat at this outside bar!

As I neared what would soon become my refuge from starvation, I locked eyes with an attractive blonde with full lips and a heaving busom who happened to be walking directly towards the empty seat. She smiled at me. I tip me cap and smiled back. I watched patiently as she turned her back and made a move for the stool. And then I rushed the wretched whore!

Seven Mile Bridge

2005-07-01T13:35:00.000-04:00

Alas, I have reached the magnificence that is the Seven-mile bridge leading into Key West! It is a wondrous sight to behold as the setting sun paints the lapping waves a myriad of vivid colors before splashing into the sea for its nightly slumber. Honestly, I've seen less color at a diversity parade! Ha! Who am I kidding? You'd have about as much luck getting Ole Quint to a diversity parade as you would trying to limit Rosie O'Donnell's portions at an all you can eat buffet. But you get the point...lots of colors...wonderful to behold...blah blah blah. Moving on...

Since no one has seen fit to offer me safe passage in their vehicle as they make their way across the bridge, I have been forced to travel the entire distance on foot. Being that I am an outstanding physical speciman, I plan on running all seven miles at full speed. I'd be willing to wager that I just might even beat a few cars to the other side, provided that there's a modicum of traffic, of course.

It should be near midnight by the time I reach the city, and there's an "X" marks the spot on my mental map directly over the "clothing optional" bar that's located in the center of town. This is favorable because not only will young ladies be unable to form opinions based on the humility of my wardrobe, but even more importantly they will be afforded the viewing pleasure of my flesh galleon, Moby Weiner. It still strikes me as odd that there is an establishment within the confines of the continental United States that fully embraces the legal shedding of one's clothing, and yet more often than not that is exactly the type of behavior responsible for Ole Quint's frequent prison vacations! I guess I'll never understand the law.

Police Chase en route to Miami

2005-06-20T16:34:00.000-04:00

Ole Quint's a tired soul, mateys. This posting is the direct result of 96 hours of rapid-fire neuron activity, none of which even closely resembled sleep - unless you'd consider the brief moment I zoned out after whacking my prefrontal lobe against Tress' station wagon windshield.

How did I end up banging me noggin' on her windshield, you ask? Well, I felt that the least she could do for an old friend such as meself was to overlook my borrowing of her vehicle for at least a few days worth of my journey to the Keys of West. And so, just like that, I tacked a note to the back of her mother's ass before I left informing Tress of the favor she'd be grantin' me.

At least, I had all intentions of leaving a note, but it may have escaped me memory as my concentration was otherwise engaged at the time - let me just say that her mother has a superb derriere! And now that I think of it, my failure to leave written notification of my plan might explain why Ole Quint ended up in a high speed chase on I-95 in a last-ditch effort to evade the several state troopers that were tailing me, and also why he ended up driving off a particularly steep embankment in the first place! Surely Tress believed her wagon was stolen!

I'm actually quite embarassed that it hadn't actually dawned on me until now why the cops were tailing me! I just made a run for it because, well, given me spotty background, I figured it would be in me best interests to avoid any interactions with the authorities.

But either way, now all ye know what happened to me noggin', and the way I see it, a bump on the skull is a fair trade for avoiding what quite possibly could have been a lenghty prison vacation. And avoid it I did! Ya think the cops in Florida are gonna risk death chasing some drifter like meself down an embankment that's steeper than Gwen Stefani's chest(pre-surgery)? Hell no! I'd wager my vas deferens those lazy bastards didn't even want to catch me. That would mean they'd actually have to get out of their air-conditioned cruisers and work up a sweat!

So as he writes these words, yer ole pal Quint is enjoying a particularly strong libation in a drab establishment located somewhere in a lovely town called Miami. Have you ever heard of such a name before? Ridiculous! I'd personally call it "Titville" because titties are all I've been seeing since I got here, but Governor Bush is something of a coward when it comes to embracing such name changes. My letter to his secretary suggesting that they modify "Tallahassee" to the much more approachable and easier to spell "Watchthatgirlpee" has of yet gone unanswered.

Near Death in Tallahassee

2005-06-06T16:58:00.000-04:00

I spent last evening lighting firecrackers in the ass of a young lady who called herself Tress. The sparks caused serious damage to the fleshy cheeks of her milky white buttocks, but she begged Ole Quint to continue. The entire ordeal went on for several hours; I believe her to be a masochist.

After the light spectacle, I bedded Tress on the back lawn of her house. It was a bizarre scene even by my standards, and her family did not seem at all pleased to witness these strange events unfold. Her father attempted to castrate me with a steak knife, which I thought was rude.

All in all I enjoyed myself at Tress' annual family barbecue. Ole Quint was most grateful for having been invited in the first place, though I probably wouldn't have been if Tress hadn't nearly killed me with her car several hours before the party. She was running last minute errands in a vain attempt to sculpt an evening of bliss for her parents, and she was half-blinded by stress and cooking sherry. Fearing she would fail a breathalyzer and be convicted of drunk driving or worse, she begged me not to report the incident, and offered sex in exchange for my silence.

Never being one to take advantage of a woman in distress, and noticing a recently purchased bucket of potato salad in the backseat of Tress' station wagon, I suggested a different solution to our dilemma. A look of horror spread across her face as she imagined how events might unfold at a family party with yours truly as the guest of honor, but a police cruiser passed by shortly after my suggestion and Tress hurriedly motioned for me to get in her car.

We returned to her quaint, one-story house with the charming backyard patio and she spoke of her recent divorce while I helped her retrieve decorative lawn furniture from the shed. Tress' manic behavior irritated me, so I suggested she gobble down a few blue pills that I had bartered my shoes for the previous evening in hopes that they would quell her anxiety.

And just like that, ole Quint created a monster. Her parents showed up around five with their criticism unchecked at the door, expecting a few minor flaws that they could exploit like immigrant landscapers, and what they got was a daughter dancing around the house, half-naked and fully drugged, entertaining what appeared to them to be a middle-aged bum who reeked like a sumo wrestler's taint.

It was Tress' decision to put on the fireworks display with her ass. We had already eaten and several of her family members were growing antsy, asking to play games like charades and pictionary. Tress would have none of it, and insisted on something more exciting.

I was merely her assistant in the debacle...holding the stick as I lit the fuse of the rocket that was perched a mere 3 inches above her backside. Her parents, though useless to stop the insanity of the situation (as everyone learned when her father tried to castrate me and I knuckle-punched him in the solar plexus), refused to leave because they were fearful that the escalating severity of their daughter's antics would result in her demise.

Sometime in the twilight hour I sobered up enough to realize that I was growing bored (and not to mention chaffed) with the repeated sessions of rough intercourse, and the realization that Tress' parents had witnessed the entire night's events had finally struck me as odd. I unlocked Tress' legs from around my neck and spread the massive tree trunks that are my legs to pry her arms apart; then I stood up in all of my naked glory and winked at Tress' mother and father.

The mother fainted - probably in awe of the magnificence of my genitalia - and surprisingly enough the father issued a subtle, but mischievious grin. Though Quint has sailed the rough waters for most of his life, often sacrificing female companionship for several months at a time, he has never been one to resort to the affections of a man, and a quick shake of the head made that clear to the old man, who promptly bowed his head in tears.

I gathered the few articles of clothing I had that were strewn about the patio like evidence at a crime scene and slipped around the front of the house to make a swift and necessary departure, pleased to leave behind the mingled aroma of burnt ass, sex, and cold burgers. I have to say that even though Tress is a woman, she paid her dues like a man.

Truckin'

2005-06-01T12:07:00.000-04:00

Tis me, lovelies! Ole Quint has returned to ye. And despite your worries for the safety of yours truly, I can assure you that they are completely unwarranted. Sure my skin is soft and pleasing to the eye, but I assure you it possesses the fortitude of Achilles' ballbag!

Allow me to bring you up to speed since me last entry...

After spending about a week in the vice-like grip of a particularly strong sheet of LSD, I commandeered a 14-year-old boy's bicycle as he delivered newspapers on the streets of West Virginy. Then I headed South, continuing on my path of enlightenment with my eyes staring in the direction of my ultimate destination...the docks of the lovely Key West. I set off about two weeks ago and presently I stand just shy of the border between Georgia and Florida.

The weather is hot and I reek like the greenish yellow liquid that rises in between the plastic trash bags in the backs of waste collecting vehicles before spilling onto the sun-beaten asphalt during the humid summer days. I'm sure you've smelled it. Surprisingly, it doesn't taste half bad. It's quite deceiving.

Before you judge me, why don't you tell me how one should survive when travelling several hundred miles on his own with no money and very little possessions. I tried eating grass! Sure it looks pretty, but it's not that appetizing! Come to think of it...it's not unlike a Mexican prostitute.

LSD

2005-05-11T10:21:00.000-04:00

LSD packs a powerful punch.......
I think I'll eat some with my lunch.......

Head Bowed; Tail Between Legs

2005-05-06T11:32:00.000-04:00

Argghhh...I guess an apology is in order for me hastiness in ending the last post, but you try posting stories of your life from a barn in south Virginia! Damn snakes and rabbits crawling all over me! I'm used to a more oceanic lifestyle; not this rubbish! But since barns provide an easy, and not to mention free, refuge as I make me way south for a much needed respite of undetermined duration, I guess I'll have to make due.

By the way, I expect that you'll accept my declaration that "an apology is in order" as my actual apology, because you and I both know that it's as close as you'll come to receiving an outright mea culpa from ole Quint, who is more man than Blackbeard and Magellan combined!

After losing my head a bit during that last post, I enjoyed a smoke to calm the ole nerves and decided that it was irresponsible of me to turn on you, oh faithful reader. But those are exactly the type of psychotic reactions an unhealthy dose of lysergic acid diethylamide inspires in a person who hasn't slept in 92 hours.

So allow me to offer the remaining details I originally intended to include in that last post...

Joe grabbed Sally about the waist like a caveman on amphetamines with a stubborn erection, and upon reaching the doorway of his new abode, he heaved her inanimate body so that she was halfway inside the entrance. Then he grabbed her legs and swung them around and grabbed the handle to lift himself inside. At that point he slammed the door shut, forcing my spy to relocate in order to accomodate the lack of visibility.

Apparently, Sally woke shortly after the door was shut, and unlike Joe, she remembered everything that happened with an idiot savant's clarity. Just as he crouched down to mount her, she whirled around and booted him in the crotch hard enough to propel one of his testicles into his stomach. I know what you're thinking, and yes, my spy's hearing is that precise! It should make no nevermind that he's deaf in one ear. The man knows when he hears a testicle flying into a stomach!

Oddly enough, Sally's a sucker for needy men, and just as she reached the door, she turned around to see ole Joe huddled on the cold, steel floor of the railcar, and she felt sorry for him. So she ran over to him and turned him on his back and ran a filthy hand through his even filthier hair, and she medicated Dingy with another dose of heroin to help him through the crippling pain of stomesticulitis. That's when Joe insisted that they consumate their newfound mutual respect for one another by engaging in sexual congress. Sally agreed and what ensued was the most gruesome, animalistic love-making this world has ever known.*

And that's the last I heard of Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally. I'm glad they found someone with whom they could share crack cocaine with during the horrors of a dreadfully hot summer in a stuffy steel railcar, but if I come back next winter and those tramps still believe they're entitled to my home, well I assure you they have another thing coming! I'll napalm the damn place!

*This statement stands true so long as we're not considering New Jersey, because everyone knows that 90% of those indigenous to Jersey are wretched abominations of human beings.

A Needle in a Haystack...Or Just in Joe's Arm

2005-05-06T11:25:00.000-04:00

It's been a few days now since my close call with Dingy Joe and Sally, and aside from a repulsive bruise on my right bicep caused by Joe's pipe-lashing and a handful of fingernail scratches under my eyes, you'd never know that less than a week ago I kicked death in the gonads and lived to tell about it. Yes, my friends, oxygen has been tasting that much sweeter since that afternoon.

Sure, I was merciful and perhaps weak by allowing two of my enemies to live, but as they are nothing more than unintelligent addicts from the bottom of the barrel, I am content with the knowledge that they lack the necessary accouterments to track the musky scent of yours truly. And let's be honest, even if they did, I'd surely pound their faces into mashed potatoes with Washington and Lincoln! Who are they you ask? Why they are my fists, good reader; so named because they closely resemble in size the two flanking heads on Mount Rushmore. And they prefer French, or as I prefer to call them, "Freedom greetings"...two kisses, one on each side of the face.

Because you are my trusted companions and dare I say...friends? No, I don't like the sound of that. We'll stick with the former label. But even so, I feel I should let it be known that I have eyes and ears from Hoboken to Madagascar. Sure, several of these eyes and ears are about as accurate as those formerly employed by Hellen Keller, but more often than not I can depend on the paranoid delusions of the operators of said eyes and ears to steer me clear of any serious predicaments.

The facts as I have gathered them thus far hold that not long after I left, Joe snapped out of his heroin daze and limped back towards the railcar. He seemingly had no recollection of the afternoon's previous events, and just as he reached for the handle on the door to pull himself up, his roaming eye spotted Sally's unconscious form slumped on the ground to his left.

Now it is rare for a heroin addict to retain a sexual appetite whilst in the ravages of the drug, but as I have told you before, Dingy Joe is not your average human being. His libido rivals the intensity of an Indian kid at a spelling bee competition, and I shudder to imagine the thoughts that danced inside his head like a Parkinson's patient with bladder control problems upon first noticing Sally's helpless form lying prostrate on the ground.

At this point, according to my sources, Joe grasped Sally around the waist like a sack of...well let's see...I used retarded midgets last time...hmm...a sack of full grown...no wait, that won't work either. Damn it! A sack of shit! You're all a sack of shit! End of post!

The Final Showdown

2005-04-29T09:07:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the delay in posting, gentle comrades, but it's difficult to find time to type while struggling to survive amidst the chaos of the streets. It surely is a jungle out there!

A lot has happened in the two weeks since we last communicated. As you know, I plotted the demise of two of my friends, Dingy Joe and Strychnine Sally, who at the present time share the misfortune of also being my mortal enemies. That plan did not go as smoothly as I anticipated, but everything has a funny way of working itself out in the end.

As I informed you in my last post, the idea was to have Joe "take over my lease" on the 15th and have Sally show up on the 16th. But ever being the horrid wench that she is, Sally forgot which day we had agreed upon amidst the clutter of LSD flashbacks that regularly swamp her neurotransmitters like fat kids at a Star Trek convention, and she showed up a day early. Just as I began walking away from the railcar fully satisfied that my plan was coming to fruition, my nostrils detected a stench with an all too familiar blend of urine, fecal matter, and dead horseshoe crabs that I recognized immediately as the calling card of Strychnine Sally. Curses!

Knowing full well that I had to face this dilemma before it festered and exploded like a zit on the face of one of those fat kids I was talking about earlier, I picked up an old railroad spike that I saw sticking out of the grass, tucked it securely in the waistline of me pantaloons, and turned to face a very agitated, and seriously drug-addled Sally, who was already pounding her firsts against the sliding metal door of the railcar.

Joe opened the door slowly to steal a peek at whomever it was causing the racket. He didn't bother to remove the needle from the inner crook of his elbow.

"What's goin' on out here?" he begged in a tired drawl that is a common characteristic of a man entangled in a heroin daze.

"Getty on outta my house, you!" Sally screamed. "Quint sold it to meh fair and square!"

Fully aware of the escalating tension, I decided to sneak around the car and allow them to fight it out, but just as I made my move, ole Dingy stumbled out of the car and spotted me.

"Hey Quint, what's she on about? Is this all true?"

"Quiiiiiiint!!!" Sally shrieked like a banshee, all the while hobbling in my general direction.

"Keep away from me ya brigands or I'll brain ye!" I shouted, unsheathing the railroad spike from me pants and slashing wildly in front of me.

There's one thing you should always keep in mind when dealing with deranged hobos, and that is that they wake up to death every morning and they smile. And rightly so! Why fear death when hell boasts a warmer climate than Philadelphia? Such is the logic of a hobo.

Sally was on me like that busty blonde was on Jerry Maquire in the film of the same name when she screams, "Don't ever stop fucking me!" Except Sally was screaming, "How dare you fuck me!" and instead of having intercourse with me, she was clawing at my eyes with her overgrown fingernails.

I began to wonder where exactly my plan had gone so wrong, when all of a sudden Sally landed a knee in my groin and I fell to the ground like a sack of retarded midgets in mid-coitus. My peripheral vision detected Joe standing off to the side, a sly grin on his face, and I recognized immediately what was happening. Joe decided to employ my logic by watching Sally and I kill each other off so that he could escape with nary a scratch on his person. We'll I'd have none of that!

As Sally jumped on my back and attempted to bite through my right shoulder, I regained my grip on the spike that had fallen on the ground at my feet, and swung it around hard and smacked her squarely on the face with the blunt side. She plunged to the ground in much the same fashion as I imagine that same sack of fornicating midgets would, only there would also be snakes and rats inside the sack, and the sack would be on fire...and one of the midgets would have SARS.

She appeared to be unconscious, but I decided to give her a swift and solid boot to the gut just to be sure. While not dead, Sally was definitely down for the count. Either that, or she's one hell of an actress, and if that's the case, the lump I had just administered to her forehead should be halting any auditions she might have in the near future.

Joe pulled a length of pipe out of his trench coat and whirled it about his head like a madman. I pounded my chest and charged at him like a bull with incredibly large testicles. We clashed like titans as we wrestled to the ground.

My attempt to drive the spike into his solar plexis was thwarted when he walloped me on the right arm with the pipe. A normal human being might have cried out in pain, but I bellowed a war cry the likes of which this world has not known since the days of Crazy Horse the wild Injun, and I jabbed fiercely at my assailant.

Joe attempted to ensnare me in a headlock, but as he did so, I jerked his arm behind his back and slammed his face into the dirt. That's when I realized that the needle still dangled from his vein like a turd too long to expell in one push. But a new detail had also grasped my attention. Joe had yet to shoot the hit!

Seizing the opportunity, I injected the drug into Dingy Joe's arm and waited for him to lapse into a heroin induced coma. I did not have to wait long. The reaction was immediate and powerfully effective. He no longer struggled against my grip, so I backed off in an effort to regain my composure.

Sally was still sprawled out in a heap not far away and Joe remained slumped on the ground in a vegetative state with a vacant expression on his face; one that I had seen many times before. In a way I was sad to leave. After all, these people were like family to me. Only they were slightly less abusive that me own.

Leaving Home Should Not Be a Moment of Sadness. It Should Be an Opportunity for Exacting Revenge

2005-04-14T09:06:00.001-04:00

Hello again, dear friends. I feel that I am obligated to inform you that today is a day of change for ole Quint McGuinley. The time has come for me to move on from the abandoned railcar that has been my home for the greater part of a year now; my main reason being that the city will soon be shrouded in a blanket of humidity that I anticipate will cause the atmosphere inside the steel car to rise to oven-like temperatures.

Sure ole Quint wakes up with the sun and spends most of his days wandering around barefoot in air-conditioned supermarkets to avoid the ravages of such a climate, but that's not the point! The point is that I am a complex human being who requires frequent lifestyle changes in order to feel secure. That might not make sense to a lot of you, but I am not here to explain myself. I am here to chronicle the insanity that is my existence; not babysit simpletons!

Forgive me for that outburst. I just did fifty squat-thrusts in 20 seconds and a bead of perspiration found its way to my left eyeball. Argggh!! I could punch a hole through a man's pectorals when that happens!!

Before I go off on a tangent, I just want to let you know that the decision is final. I already drafted a blood contract with Dingy Joe that entitles him to 100% of my railcar property on the 15th of April, which is this Friday...tomorrow. What I neglected to inform him is that I also made an agreement with Strychnine Sally to move in on the 16th.

The way I see it, they'll fight like savages over the rights to my railcar and probably slaughter, or at the very least severely maim each other in the process, allowing me to slip away with no worries and no reparations to be made. And right around the time winter rolls around again the police should be removing the yellow restrictive tape from the perimeter of my railcar, providing me easy entry to my former quarters and a warm refuge from the frigid air.

And before you launch an attack on my personal integrity for hatching such a cruel design, please permit me a second to explain my position. Dingy Joe has yet to receive his comeuppance for accosting my belt. Sure, I bare-knuckle boxed the fella, but he could have at least told me he had the AIDS! The way I see it, that's TWO strikes against him! This is only ONE revenge scheme!

If Dingy survives Strychnine Sally's brutal onslaught, then I will forgive all previous wrongs...provided of course that he returns my belt in the same condition it was in when I last saw it. If he cannot, then God help him.

As for Sally, the only thing she ever did for me was give me a nasty case of the clap! That filthy harlot would do the same to me if only she thought of it first; and if she owned her own railcar, of course. To hell with the whole lot of 'em!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to return to packing my rucksack and leaving a healthy dump under the makeshift bed of grass. What kind of realtor would I be if I didn't leave a welcome gift for my tenant?

Recipe for Living a Long and Happy Life Despite a Lifestyle that Promotes Death and Suffering

2005-04-08T09:03:00.000-04:00

It's Friday, me gentle friends, and ole Quint has learned a few things since his last posting. Firstly, it turns out that I do not have the AIDS after all. A thousand apologies for scaring you, but apparently my self-diagnosis was a tad premature and the cause of my sickness was merely a nasty case of the 24 hour flu.

While it is common knowledge that I have been known to jump the gun from time to time, it is not something I'm proud of. But then again, I wouldn't be a man if I confessed my feelings, so therefore I shall not. If you are looking for someone to pour his heart out to you, I believe Oprah is on every day in the afternoon.

Secondly, no one of sound mind should bare-knuckle box Dingy Joe, as he currently has the AIDS. As much as I wish this knowledge was available to me prior to our bout of fisticuffs the other day, I am confident that I am impervious to the immunodeficiency disorder and my mind is at ease. You wish to know my secret, don't you? Well, I'll never tell.

Fine! I'll impart my wisdom to you. After all, I'm a drunk and I won't get around to securing a patent for my technique anyway. It's really quite simple and it amazes me that scientists haven't discovered the cure themselves.

If you want to avoid the AIDS - especially if said AIDS was acquired during a recent confrontation with a homeless man named Dingy Joe - the best way to keep the virus from ravaging your T-cells like Ted Bundy at a sorority house is to bathe in turpentine for 3 hours and make sure to scrub the cuts extra good!

I told you it wasn't complicated. And if you follow that with a long night of imbibement and hookers and you can be sure that 6 months from now you will be lesion free! Take my word for it. If ole Quint managed to avoid the AIDS this long, there's no way in hell you'll get it.

Home...and the AIDS

2005-04-06T09:09:00.000-04:00

Hello, my friends, enemies, and former/present lovers. I understand your surprise that ole Quint hath returned a living organism from his voyage to the Isle of Erin, but I assure you that my charter back to the states did not come without high cost.

When I began this online journal several months ago, I made a pact with myself to remain honest with my readers at all times, even if such honesty meant risking the loss of all respect I have accumulated thus far. Well, it is with great discomfort that I report to you that I may have acquired the AIDS whilst traveling abroad in Ireland.

Yes, it has been said. The AIDS. I can understand if you are disappointed in Ole Quint and I assure you that I will stop at nothing to gain back your trust. Believe me, I realize that you hold your friend Quint to a higher standard than most other human beings, and I strive to meet your expectations. But sometimes it's just so hard! After all, I am only one man!

But before you get all teary eyed and melancholy, allow me to assure you that the symptoms of AIDS are not quite as bad as I expected. Yes, I have been sneezing a lot and my urine smells like peanut brittle that has been left out in the woods long enough to welcome a mossy growth, and yes I threw up after a serious 2 day drinking binge for the first time in 30 years. But on the whole I am still the strong, energetic, barrel-chested sculpture of the gods that I have always been. And might I add that my sideburns still possess a brilliant youthful sheen that drives women completely out of their minds...and knickers! Hargh Hargh Hargh I'll never learn, eh?

Well, I have plenty of things to do today. I plan on doing 4,000 push-ups to spite my newly acquired virus. And then I have to bare-knuckle box Dingy Joe because he stole my favorite belt whilst I was abroad and I can think of no better way of exacting revenge than bleeding the AIDS all over him. A tad harsh perhaps, but I've always been an extremist.

To the Motherland...

2005-03-24T08:41:00.001-05:00

Yargh! Ole Quint shall be absent for an undisclosed amount of time as he returns to explore his roots on the Isle of Erin. Yes folks, for those of you who did not get the reference, I am travelling to Ireland, a land of romance and mystery, known for its magnificent landscapes and delightful spirits. The trip is scheduled for ten days, but any number of following factors could contribute to my inability to hold to that itinerary:

1) Guinness Brewery
2) Powers Irish Whiskey
3) Harp
4) Murphy's
5) Bushmill's
6) Irish lasses
7) Hard Cider
8) Leperchauns
9) Jameson Distillery
10) Cirrhosis of the liver

Now friends tell me that my quality of life suffers because I spend the majority of my days lounging/wandering around in an alcoholic haze. Well let me just say that ole Quint has the self esteem of a raging bull. That is to say that on most days I graze about calmly and am forced to eat grass for sustenance, but I perk up like a priest's libido during a confirmation ceremony when rednecks jab me in the testicles with hot pokers.

My point is that I am open to any criticism one might be bold enough to offer. It does not bother me that my friends do not appreciate waking up to find me comatose and naked on their kitchen floor. It does not bother me that they throw boiling pots of water at me to wake me up and scream for me to "Get out of my house you horrible man!"

My hide is thick. I can handle attacks on my person! But what really crawls around in my short hairs like a heaping platter of ravenous crotch lice is that these same people have the nerve to spend their weekends running around from winery to winery all because of that horrific movie "Sideways"! Well I am inspired by your silliness and I applaud your impudence, you dirty mother-loving whores!

Argh, now I'm worked up like a Japanese businessman during a karaoke competition. Curse the whole lot o' ya! I'm signing off to run down to the dock and check on the possibility of stowing away on an earlier ship. I assure you that you'll be hearing from me when I return.

2005-03-18T15:13:00.000-05:00

I just farted.

The Actual Birthday

2005-03-16T09:05:00.000-05:00

Well, well, well, I believe an apology is in order for my error in recognizing the date of my own birthday, but I think you'll agree with me in saying that I got the worse end of that deal. Either way, I did just celebrate my actual birthday, and these are the events that I can recall:

I woke up bright and early to the sound of knuckles rapping on the cold metal door of the abandoned railcar that has become a home to me. Never one who believed in the "early bird gets the worm" theory, I chucked an empty bottle of Night Train as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.

The projectile landed so forcefully that when the glass shattered, many of the shards flew back and landed in my hair. Sadly, I did not notice this until much later whilst I was receiving a scalp massage from a young Oriental woman I met during my weekly visit to the Salvation Army. The glass cut me up a bit, but it really did a number on the little Asian concubine's fingers. She actually had the nerve to ask me for permission to stop!

Ah well, where was I? After I made it clear that I was not interested in receiving visitors, I rolled back over on my makeshift bed of old gym mats, scratched my bare barrel of a chest, and attempted to seek refuge in my dreams once again. There were a few seconds of silence before the rapping began again.

My body went into overdrive and I was on my feet in the "Drunken Dog" fighting stance in a tenth of a second. "What do you want, ya brigand?!" I shrieked, running full steam ahead at the door. My hands gripped instinctively for the handle and hurled the heavy metal aside.

With murder in my bloodshot eyes and blood streaking down my forearms from the vicelike grip I had on the broken glass in my hand, I lunged outside and tackled my asailant! My eyes were blind with rage and the world outside my living quarters was bathed in a blood-red tint. As it turns out, it was not a usurper at my door at all. In fact, it was my good buddy, Dingy Joe.

If it were anybody else, they most likely would have shit themselves upon being tackled by a bloody beast of a man such as myself. But Dingy Joe is not your average human being, and as I'm sure you've guessed already, it takes an above-average person to hang with Ole Quint.

I helped Dingy off the ground and we exchanged a firm handshake. It made no nevermind to him that I used the blood-covered hand; to be completely honest, I don't think he even noticed. To my great delight, my friend pulled a flagon of bourbon from his trenchcoat and smiled.

He must have remembered my birthday, because normally Joe is the type of guy who would slit your throat if you so much as glanced at his liqour - not that I can say much in opposition to that. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to him; he did the same. This process repeated for several hours before we finished the bottle and decided to head downtown to prowl for skanky broads.

I think we were halfway down Delaware Avenue when the liqour overtook me and I jumped on top of a moving vehicle. The driver didn't seem to appreciate my tap dance routine on his Subaru, but who was he to challenge ole Quint? Certainly not a worthy opponent!

The antics grew worse and more frequent throughout the night before I ultimately lost consciousness in an alley behind a cheesesteak joint. I also pissed myself. That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit such things to you. You'll get nothing but honesty from ole Quint.

What, you may ask, did I learn from this experience? Well, I'll tell you. Birthdays, come and go, but friends and booze will be there forever.

Ole Quint's Birthday

2005-03-09T16:55:00.000-05:00

Yargh! Ahoy there, landlubbers. The fates have been kind to ole Quint yet again, and have seen fit to allow yours truly relatively safe passage to yet another birthday! I decided to celebrate the day by resting my weathered bones in a most accomodating hammock, reading comic books, and writing poetry about my love for the sea. Orange dust accumulated on my fingers with frequent plunges into the bag of cheese doodles at my side and my belly grew full and hot from the many swigs of Wild Turkey bourbon I had been enjoying since dawn.

It makes no nevermind that I was fastened to a billboard several stories above I-95 and the windchill stood at 14 degrees. Quint has survived fiercer weather, I assure you. But my attempts to convince the ever-increasing crowd below likewise proved to be in vain.

At first I mistook the gathering public for worried fans, and so I decided to allay their fears by allowing them a glimpse of one of the many whiskey bottles, or as I like to refer to them, space heaters, that I bundled into my backback before climbing the treacherous ladder. However, my hands were wet from an overeager guzzle, and the bottle slipped from my grasp, falling several hundred feet before crashing into the cold cement at the bottom of my perch. The crowd dodged the projectile and no one was badly hurt by the shrapnel, but even at my great distance I could recognize the all-too-familiar signs of a crowd thirsty for my blood.

One of the larger ants attempted to play the hero by scaling the metal rungs. He couldn't have been more than three quarters of the way up before his figure began shrinking and in a few minutes there were no longer any specks on the ladder. Pity. I could have used a drinking partner.

A few hours went by. Just when I started to notice signs of fatigue developing amidst their ranks, I accidentally lost my grip on a second bottle, only this time it was dark outside, and not a one of them noticed it coming. A loud shriek pierced the atmosphere like a dog's fangs biting my calf muscles in an attempt to drag me out of its master's house. I cringed.

If ole Quint were capable of fear, I might have panicked at that moment. As luck would have it, I am not. It wasn't long before the blue and red lights were flashing and a deep voice boomed inaudibly through a megaphone, most likely demanding my hasty descent. I decided that prison wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing; hell, I'd get a free place to stay and a couple good meals each day. But on the other hand, I like my options. Also, I don't think it needs mentioning that there's no such thing as a good hooker in jail, unless you're into weiners and that sort of thing, which I most certainly am NOT!

The police kept the mass of hatred at bay with yellow tape and shined a spotlight on me from below, but surprisingly enough there were no attempts to ascend the structure. I soon realized why. An hour after the first red and blue bulbs flashed with impatience and the sirens wailed incessantly, my ears detected a new sound - that of a police helicopter. The spotlights don't seem like a big deal when they're illuminating your figure as you run down back alleys, but it's a whole other story when they're thirty feet away!

My limbs flailed awkwardly as I made my way out of the hammock and gained my footing on the narrow metal ledge at the base of the billboard. Anger built up in my chest like acid reflux inside Ashlee Simpson's esophagus as I pumped my fist into the air in a sign of defiance for "the man". Fist pumping had a huge effect in the 1980s, as evidenced by Motley Crue concert footage; however, it did not seem to have the same effect on the police helicopter, for it showed no sign of retreating.

I threw what remained of my bag of cheese doodles at the propeller, but the powerful wind from the blades blew it right back in my face. Cheese dust particles flew in my eyes and I only aggravated the situation by attempting to rub them clear with my cheese-caked fingers. The pain was delicious! I cursed the world and swore to avenge my lost birthday.

As I cleared the dusty residue from my eyes with my hairy forearm, a sudden realization came to light. My birthday isn't until next week! I enjoyed a hearty laugh for being so dim and slapped my thighs. I could barely hear one of the officers in the helicopter as he shouted through a megaphone that "everything would be okay" and that "I have so much to live for".

The laughter had me shaking like an epileptic at a Japanese dance club. Amused by my own scatterbrained idiocy, I momentarily lost my footing. Time ceased to exist as I struggled to regain my balance. My chiseled arms swam through the air at my sides, frantically grasping for anything to hold onto as I toppled off of the ledge.

My mind reeled at the thought that this could finally be the end of a true legend such as myself, but to be honest, I felt more concern for my faithful readers rather than my own well-being. I would have shed a tear if I were physically capable of producing that much eye lubrication.

Now here comes the real kicker. Ole Quint's flesh vehicle did not collide with the cement. Rather than smack the ground harder than a pimp's hand exercising its authority on a whore's face, my body sunk with relative comfort into a giant inflatable device. There's is truly something to be said for the luck of the Irish!

Thankfully, the police were able to overlook my bottle-throwing antics. They actually thanked me for the great press they received for thwarting an attempted suicide! I decided that rather than argue, I would just roll with that story. To be honest, the idea of bare-knuckle boxing prison queens on my actual birthday didn't strike my fancy. What with all the drama from my faux birthday celebrations, I think I'll keep it low key this week. I'm thinkin' I'll just hang back at the ole abandoned boxcar, do some drugs, and throw rocks at hobos. Yeah, that sounds nice...

Post-holiday season summation - part 2

2005-02-07T17:41:00.000-05:00

And so it was that I showed up at the front door of me old mate's house with little more than me coat and a strong buzz, the exact origins of which I cannot be certain. Peter opened the door a crack and peered outside suspiciously as though he expected a band of hooligans to shanghai him at any second. He surveyed the scene, grew some hair on his wee bitty balls, and finally lifted the chain to let me inside.

I waved goodbye to Tess from the doorway to let him know that I would be okay and stepped inside the large hallway of Peter's magnificent living quarters.

"That's a lovely chandelier you have there, Peter!"

"Jesus, Quint, you smell like a distillery!" he said to me. His face scrunched up as though my scent offended his nostrils. "Where did you say you're coming from again?"

"Well I just finished an excellent meal of ham and hashbrowns at fine local establishment not too far from your humble abode."

"Well can you explain why it is that you reek of booze?"

"Sure I can. It's because I was drinking it!"

"At a local diner?" He scoffed. "You didn't tell anyone you were coming here, did you?"

"Why I most certainly did, my friend! I'm rather proud of our friendship and felt that the world would be better-suited to know of our complex relationship."

Despair made a bed of Peter's brow.

"Now don't worry, Peteyboy. Everything is going to be just fine!" I grabbed him by the shoulder, led him into his kitchen, and sat him down at the massive table. His little daughter poked her tiny head in through an adjacent doorway and giggled. A wave of horror drowned Peter's facial expressions and when he recognized that I was well aware of his obvious discomfort, he balled his hands into white-knuckled fists.

"Elizabeth, dear, please go to bed," he said half beggingly with a tremor in his voice.

I slapped me old thighs. "Argh, is that one o' the little ones? "Hello little one!"

"Daddy, who is that man?" she asked.

"That's just daddy's friend. Now please find your way to bed!" His tone was stern, but his daughter's curiousity was not so easily appeased.

"Why does he smell like pee, daddy?"

Peter rose from his seat and quickly covered the distance between him and his daughter. He softly pushed her into the next room by her shoulders. "You heard me, now let's go!"

"Aw, bless her heart. What a deary! Honey, that's whiskey you smell on ole Quint!" I yelled after her. Upon further inspection, I realized that her young nostrils were keener than me own, and her proclamation was accurate, however I did not feel that it would be in my best interests to admit responsibility for urinating in my own pantaloons.

I scanned the fridge for an alcoholic beverage, but Peter returned quickly and halted my endeavors. It was apparent that he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of leaving me unsupervised in his home. I didn't blame him.

"Quint, maybe this isn't such a good idea after all."

"Now what does that mean?"

"You know full well what I mean. We didn't leave off on the best of terms, now, did we?"

"Surely not, you shivved me!"

Peter's head flew about the room like a Siberian weathervane. His body movements were forever betraying him and they taught me much. For instance, I just learned that Peter's family was left in the dark as to the events of his past. "Will you keep that down?" he begged. "Perhaps you should go."

"Aw, but I just got here, mate! I'm in no hurry. Where's that wifey of yours? I'd sure like to meet her..."

"No!" Peter said with a raised voice. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "No Quint, she's up in bed. She has to get up very early tomorrow and the last thing she has time for is a meeting with a filthy beggar like yourself."

Up to that point I had been trying to remain civil, but Peter pushed just a little too hard that time. "Watch your tone, Peteyboy! Here I am for a reunion and you see fit to insult me!"

"What reunion? How come I didn't get the invite? Face it, Quint, the only reason you're here is because you're homeless and you try to mooch off of any old friend who will have you.

"Peter, I could be standing here for a number of reasons, the least of which would entail seeking backpayment for my allowing you to sheath your weapon inside my body so many years ago. However, I'm the forgiving type and as I found myself travelling through Buffalo, my first thought was not of revenge, but of good tidings and happy new years. I simply came here to say hello and spin tales of the glory days."

I could see that his hard exterior was crumbling. At that point, his wife came into the room and asked if there was a problem.

"Ah, there's the skank!" I said.

My exclamation caused her to backstep. "Excuse me?"

"How dare you!" Peter yelled. No one speaks that way to my wife! Get out!"

I cracked my knuckles and approached me old mate. His body had become weak and flabby after many years of neglect and I decided that it wouldn't be difficult to throttle him. "Fine, I'll leave. But I demand your finest bottle of rum for reparation of past wrongs you've done me."

"Suzie, call the police!"

"Argh, let's not do that, Suzie. I'll go."

Peter escorted me to the door. He fastened the chain lock to the big wooden door behind me. "Quint, don't ever come back here. You can be sure that I'm going to seek a restraining order against you."

"Now, that doesn't make a lot of sense. Aren't you the one who stabbed me, Peteyboy?"

"Quint, you were practically raping my mother!"

I was momentarily at a loss for words. "Mother? Bev was your mother?" This news came as a brilliant shock to me.

"Yes, Quint, but you were too drunk to even notice my pleading with you to stop. I stabbed you because you're a brute and physical violence was the only reason you listened to!"

"Correction...I WAS a brute."

"Like I said, don't come back!" And with that, ole Peter Rittenshire slammed the door on the most engaging chapter of his life...for the second time.

Pangs of loneliness and a severe case of worms cramped my stomach as I made the long walk back to the highway, but I took comfort in several of the many tiny bottles of liquor that I accosted from Peter's fridge whilst he admonished his daughter. I laughed to myself. "His mother?" I thought. "How in the hell...?"

Post-holiday season summation, part 1

2005-01-04T16:56:00.000-05:00

Well well well, my dear friends...and intrusive enemies...we meet again. Of course I use the term "meet" in an abstract sense in that you are reading my words and we are not actually engaging in interpersonal communication as I'm sure many of you would like. Sadly, Quint comes in high demand and cannot afford you that opportunity, but for now, take pleasure in the words that flow from 'neath his pen...er...fingertips as he gently tickles the keys of the free library's computer.

Now, finally, to the point of this update. The New Year has sprung upon us like a Vietcong Guerrilla in Da Nang, and the attack in my case was particularly fierce and unrelenting. I'll begin by telling you a little about my post-holiday season. As you already know, ole Quint lost his job playing Santa Claus at the local shopping mall due to drug use and soiling the costume on more than one occasion.

Sure, I may have bitched about the job a bit, but all in all, I'm glad to be rid of the little maggots and their skanky mothers. Well, maybe not the skanky mothers. I quite enjoyed losing myself in the heaving crests of their ample bosoms. Oh mother glory!

So after that I decided to take a little road trip to keep me mind off the New Year, lest I be depressed, and so I decided to head South. The first thing I learned is that hitchhiking is no longer the easygoing American pasttime it once was in the good ole US of A. It took me seven hours of standing in the rain before I acquired a ride from a burly truck driver named Tess, and it just so happened that he was going North.

As luck would have it, Tess stopped at a diner in Buffalo, NY called The Tea Cup, where he busied himself by engorging his fat, beared face with several plates of hot apple pie. My thoughts were on Buffalo. I could remember a time when I knew a man who happened to reside in Buffalo. He was never what I'd consider a great friend of mine; and I don't think I'd be so generous as refer to him a good friend, but I knew him and I'd let him buy me a drink anytime.

Anyway, that's how I ended up calling the number for information and acquiring the telephone digits for one Peter Rittenshire, a man who 10 years ago unsuccessfully attempted to shiv yours truly in his gullet whilst on a doomed fishing expedition off the coast of Newfoundland. Not long after a little argument over the rights to a certain young lass named Bev, Petey snuck, jabbed, and left me fer dead on the cold, wet planks of the dock with little more than a flask of whiskey and a marijuana cigarette. Neither of us got the girl, giving me good reason to believe that she was a lesbian.

It came as a big surprised to me that the miserable bastard hadn't relocated in all of the years since our falling out, but sure enough the operator was able to redirect me after a brief search in her computadora (that's spanish for computer)!

"'ello," he answered in a distinctive English voice.

"Hey fucker! How ya doin'?" ole Quint responded gleefully.

There was a moment of silence on the other end and for a minute I wondered if maybe that good fer nothin' operator disconnected me somehow. The bitch! I'd gouge her eyes if I ever saw her!

"Quint?"

"Ahoy there matey," I shouted into the speaking part of the phone. If my lips got any closer, passersby would have thought me obscene.

"Quint, why may I ask are you phoning my house?" He sounded a little nervous, and it confused me...after all, he was the one who shivved me!

"Listen Petey, ole Quint's in a bit of a holiday bind and wondering if you're willing to lend a hand."

"Quint, we have not even talked since..."

"See, here's the deal. My efforts to migrate south for the season proved to be in vain and somehow I'm sitting in a Buffalo diner with a truck driver named Tess. I have no place to go and I'm damn near out of the money I borrowed from the drug store register. Care to help an old sea dog in need, old friend?"

"Um..."

"Great! Now all I'll need is your address and I'll be arriving momentarily!" I grabbed the knife that I keep strapped to my calf beneath my trousers and pricked the tip of my middle finger, drawing enough blood to write the number on a used napkin that lie on the floor.

"Now hold on a minute, Quint," he said, sounding more than a little agitated. "I'm not particularly sure that this is such a good idea."

"Now what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Quint, you're catching me a little off guard here. How can you expect to call me up out of nowhere and expect to arrange a get together?"

Honestly, friends, his babble was beginning to frighten me. I was beginning to think that I'd have to find shelter underneath a bridge. It certainly wouldn't be the abandoned railway car that I have been calling home for the past 6 months, but I'd make do. "Right, is that too much to expect from an old comrade?" I asked.

"Well, a lot's changed since the old days, Quint. I'm married now..." He paused for a second as if he didn't have the courage to disclose any more information about his private life. "...and I have kids now."

"Yaaargh! Do ya now? I love kiddies! And kiddies love Quint. We'll get along famously I'm sure. Now about that address?"

There was a long pause on the other end, and just as I was about to curse that damned devil woman of an operator again, Peter spoke. "Fine Quint, you may stop by my house. We're the big white mansion on Cayuga Creek Rd where it intersects with William St. There are 3 cars in the driveway and two SUVs. You really can't miss it. But you'll have to be gone by ten. I have to wake up early for an important conference."

"Ah, Mr. Important! Well, no worries, I shant be a bother to ye and yers. I'll be gone by 10am!"

"Yes. Wait! No!" Peter had a bit of a coughing spell into his end of the telly. "I mean that you are to be out of the house by 10 o'clock tonight, Quint!"

I squinted at the diner's wall-clock through the large window and noticed that it was already 7pm. "Well then, ole Quint better be on his way then, eh? See ya soon, me lovely."

To be continued...

Quint's stint as Santa Claus

2004-12-27T16:44:00.000-05:00

Ole Quint enjoyed his Christmas very much. That's right, people. This season I decided to get in the holiday spirit, and figured it might be a good idea to lay off the particular brand of "spirits" that so often seem to land this wily seafarer in a hotbed of trouble. So, rather than hard boozin', I opted for a serious opium session instead. Lordy lord was that a bad idea, and now I'll tell you all the reasons why...

Me friend Legless Larry recently aided me in acquiring a job at the local shopping plaza. The booty would be 6 dollars an hour under the table to spend a few hours in the guise of Santa Claus himself, a job I all too hastily accepted. However, it just so happened that the opium session immediately preceeded the inaugural planting of my ass on the seat of all seats, and during my very first shift I learned much to my dismay that opiates are frowned upon by both supervisors and parents alike.

After falling asleep with a child in my lap and slumping to the floor soon after with a dark urine stain on the mall's scarlet Santa pants, my boss, a pretty man named Howard Dobbins, decided to intervene. Such was the end to the possibility of my advancing towards a lucrative and rewarding career as ole St. Nick. Ah well, I guess I have enough personalities already, me friends. Harharharharharharhar!!!

So I spent the rest of the holiday on a bender...then in jail...then on a bender again. Oh, and then I spent some time in the library, but I was simply using the historical reference section as a latrine because the Pizza Hut next door wouldn't permit me to make use of their facilities. So what if the dishwasher has a restraining order out on me! I happen to be a human being with a urinary tract infection, God damn it! It's not like I would have been capable of "stalking" or "harassing" or "aggravatingly assaulting" the guy, or whatever else it said on the papers...not when I had to pee that fuckin' bad!

Anyway, that whole deal led me back to jail, where I also happened to enjoy a bender, happily abusing the "tits" a fellow inmate provided me with as a kind gesture of welcoming a "first-time user". Typically, that's not a term one could apply to ole Quint, but in this case it did happen to be the first time I enjoyed rat poison, so I guess there's not much I can say in disagreement.

Election Day

2004-11-02T14:43:00.000-05:00

Well, ladies and gents, ole Quint has slacked off something awful these past couple of weeks, and he fears that it will cost him the presidential election. The fact that I spent more time imagining myself campaigning during my last acid trip than I actually did in reality, I'm going to venture a guess and say that I probably stand very little chance of winning.

So, what to do now? Perhaps sail the seven seas once more. Maybe start a rock and roll band and tour the world, no doubt spending an inordinate amount of time in Amsterdam guzzling absinthe and smoking reefer. Oh, and not to mention soliciting prostitutes in the red light district! I could even start my own outlaw motorcycle club and ride around clubbing pedestrians to within an inch of their lives...

Ahhh, all of these adventures sound lovely indeed, but they are merely a few choices in a nearly limitless sea of possibility. As for now, I'm preparing to head over to the local Taco Bell to rustle up some supper. You wouldn't believe how many chalupas they toss into that dumpster! A man could eat like a king forever. Wait a second, I probably shouldn't have told ye that. Stay away from me Taco Bell, ya brigands!

Rum, whiskey, and pot

2004-10-01T20:07:00.000-04:00

I woke up in an alley the very next morning with no recollection of the previous eve's activities. After a few hazy minutes of contemplation, I managed to remember that my first day of campaigning went very well, and so I decided to celebrate with a lil of the ole bubbly. Being that I was well on my way to blossoming into the distinguished gentleman that I was born to become, I decided not to settle for the usual bottle of Beefeater Gin that warms my gullet during cold winter slumbers.

Instead, I opted to purchase the most expensive bottle of rum that I could find...and then several bags of marijuana, which I assure you are for medicinal purposes only. Somehow this led to several verbal disputes with men who did not appreciate my newfound political genius, and soon after to multiple physical altercations in the back alley of an establishment named The Brass Barrel.

If my memory serves me correctly, I bested every last one of my challengers, though I must be honest, my memory rarely serves me correctly. More oft than naught, it downright lies to ole Quint. Fine, I'll admit it, I'm prone to delusions of grandeur and severe hallucinations! I lost the damned fights, ya bastards! What more do you want from me?

Anyway, somehow I managed to spend all of the money I collected that first day in the Bergin Bros. parking lot, which I'm not entirely displeased with myself for doing. After all, it will help boost the moral of the crew. And anything that does such a thing can't be all bad, now can it? I don't believe that it can!

But the bad thing is that I continued along that path for several days. And by days, I mean weeks. Damn it, I spent everything that I ever collected! Fear not though, my friends and comrades, because ole Quint has finally regained composure. I realized what needed to be done. I grasped the fact that I needed to campaign and collect donations, all the while eliminating the purchase of marijuana afterwards.

Obviously, the rum would have to remain acceptable to stave off the booze shakes, and surely a fifth of Jack Daniels would be nothing but an asset to my socialiable nature, but aside from that...no wait, maybe just an eighth of canabis to calm me nerves would suffice. Yes, why a mere eighth could do no harm could it? An eighth it is!

Rum, whiskey, and pot! Quint likes them a lot!

Beer and Toking on the Campaign Trail

2004-09-17T13:30:00.000-04:00

Considering the sun began to rise not more than an hour after my little run-in with the cardboard king and his home-deprived Lolita, there was still a great deal of work to be done. After retreating to my boxcar as if I were being chased by the conductor himself, I set about designing the most beautiful pamphlets a pre-school dropout could imagine with only a blue crayon and a mess of littered paper scraps at his disposal.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged victorious with nearly two-hundred pamphlets (scribbled writing on sugar packets and dirty napkins) bearing the slogan: "Quint McGuinley for President or he'll bash yer heads!" The scrapper began saying that perhaps I shouldn't be so aggressive at such an early stage, but I think he noticed my hand raise in the air as if to slap him again, and he immediately caught his tongue.

So, with no time to waste, I equipped the scrapper and his skank with several packets and sent them to the west side of the town, whilst I traveled east towards the coast. After a quick detour so that I could swing by the local "open 24-hours-a-day" porn shop and peruse the latest in quality entertainment, I headed directly for the first of many supermarkets that I would be visiting that day.

The first place was a fairly large establishment owned buy the Bergin Bros, or so the named suggested. There was an area directly to the left of the entrance where people would have to grab a shopping cart if they so desired, and I figured that would be as good a place as any to set up shop. I leaned against the wall in a welcoming manner, dug my hand into my jacket pocket and grabbed a pamphlet...err sugar packet if yer the picky type.

As I think back, it probably wasn't a good idea to show up at 7 in the morning. Not many people seemed willing to shop at a closed grocery store and I guess I can't blame them. Before long, though, my luck changed for the better, and a few employees showed up to open the store. I hid myself behind the shopping carts in case they would mistake me for a hobo and call the police - believe it or not, that happens a lot.

By the time everything was set up, the parking began to fill with automobiles of every sort. One of the first vehicles to park in front of Bergin Bros was a tan '87 Buick, which spewed forth a lanky old man and what I can only assume to have been his wife, for it was obvious that she was no less experience in aging than her husband. Normally, I might have advanced on her and tried to acquire myself accompaniment for that evening, but seeing as how I was there on professional business, I figured I would contain myself for the time being.

As the couple approached the carts, I rose from my hiding place and ejected my arm, practically tattooing the sugar packet of information into the old man's face. Startled, he jumped back and nearly sent his wife to the pavement, but her reflexes were apparently sharper than her wrinkled skin, for she latched onto his arm and shot me a look of both terror and what I can only assume to be longing for ole Quint.

Without even so much as a glance at the packet, the old man asked me, "What do you want? How much?" I began to think that maybe this campaign thing wouldn't be as difficult as I thought. "How much?" I asked. "Well, how much do you have?"

The old man grabbed his wife's purse and handed it over to me. I reached inside and found a petite sequined change purse that beheld a treasure of more than $200 American dollars. The way I figured it, if everyone else I talked to that day continued to donate even half that amount, I'd have a pretty substantial means for getting around the country in no time at all. I took the cash out of the purse and handed it back to the old man. "This should do nicely," I said. "You're doing your country a great service."

I did not find the look I received very obliging, but I shrugged it off thinking that perhaps I was reading into it too deeply. Either way, as the old man led his wife inside the store, I overheard him whisper something to her about "calling the cops", and whilst I saw no crimes being committed in the vicinity of Bergin Bros, I decided to depart for my next supermarket anyway. My previous run-ins with the law would fill a book, and if the cops couldn't locate any other suspects, they'd surely be willing to settle for ole Quint.

A Late Summer Night's Pipe Dream

2004-09-10T17:10:00.000-04:00

Yaargh, I realize it's been quite some time since me last post, and for that I offer my greatest and most heartfelt apologies. But as much as I would have liked to maintain a consistent dialogue with ye via the World Wide Web, ole Quint's immune system had other plans for him. In all actuality, it comes as no surprise that I was laid up for so long. The real surprise is that I bounced back so quickly!

Let me tell you, landlubbers, tetanus is a nasty son of a bitch! I'm sure that the constant barrage of booze and drugs that I have routinely introduced to my innards ever since the tender age of 6 hasn't contributed towards my well-being, either, but I'd rather have a short, mess of a life than a long, sober, bore of one. Ah well, but that's just me.

I last left ye with the promise that I'd be running for President of the good ole US of A. Well, fear not, gentle lads and lasses, for ole Quint has been making good on that promise, despite being hard pressed to survive his many ailments. Why, just this past week I recruited a few friendly neighbors of mine to help in the pamphlet distribution.

On a particularly rough night, when sleep eluded me for longer than I would have liked, I decided to have myself a stroll down the railroad tracks. Lo and behold, there was a rather large cardboard box erected about a hundred feet to the left of the boxcar that houses me. Sitting on the makeshift patio, warming their hands on the hot flames of an impressively constructed trashcan fire, was an old scrapper and his lovely asian mistress.

Forced to duck and shield my face from the onslaught of rocks that they felt the need to pummel me with for no particular reason, I charged them like a bull on hallucinagens at a Mao Tse-tung garage sale. After throttling them good and right for attacking me in the first place, I sat them down on a tree stump, wiped the specks of blood from their lips, and introduced myself as the next President of the United States. They were quite noticeably humbled.

After the initial shock and awe subsided and their faces adopted expressions of doubt, I decided that it would be wise of me to introduce to them the logistics of my plan for acquiring the master bedroom at the White House. As I had only set about scribbling my ideas onto paper the previous evening, immediately after polishing off a particularly ticklish bottle of Nightrain with a mute prostitute named Eggla, and considering that it had only taken me five minutes to arrange my thoughts via crayon onto an empty sugar packet, I was open to any suggestions my new friends might have.

First, I figured it would be best to get my name out there. Whoever heard of someone voting for a candidate they never heard of? Certainly not me! So, I figured the best way to do this would be a tour throughout every major suburb of the United States.

My new friend, the scrapper, asked me in a rather sarcastic tone how I planned on getting around the country, being that I owned no means of transporation. I promptly backslapped him across the cheek for being so bold, and then told him that my plan is to start locally, seek representation, and then branch out elsewhere...obviously! He apologized for his rude inquisition, and then, as reparation for his brashness, offered me the opportunity to bed his mistress, which I duly accepted.

After cementing a bond with the two of them - one of physical abuse with the scrapper, and another of sexual abuse with his mistress - I decided that I would begin my ascent towards the presidency the very next morning...

Yaaaarrghh Politics!

2004-08-20T11:42:00.000-04:00

The other day I was rummaging through the garbage of a particularly fine looking establishment, when all of a sudden I came across a newspaper article documenting the recent campaign for the Presidency of the United States of America. After wiping a particularly runny egg from the front page, and promptly licking it off my hand, I took notice of the contents and a chortle escaped from my lips (as did some runny egg). There on the front page, the current President, Georgie Porgie Bush, was plastered (referring to the image and not his blood/alcohol level for once) in black and white; wearing a smug expression on his mug as if to suggest that he could cure all ails with his beady eyes and signature condescending smirk. I personally don't buy it. In fact, he tried to help us once, and he fucked up good and right. It was and continues to be the mess known as Iraq.

My thoughts on Bush are that he is merely a pretty boy lacking one important quality required to be a pretty boy, and that, my friends, is the privilege of being pretty. Prettiness is a gift from the gods that I just so happened to receive upon conception, so I speak from experience. Yet, I must be honest - the blessing of eternal prettiness can occasionally turn around and bite the beholder in the balls. I once met a doctor in the Lesser Antilles who referred to this as gonorrhea, but I'll thank you very much not to ask why I was inquiring about it in the first place.

So, back to the matter at hand, let me pose to you a question. Without a pretty face to fall back on, what does that leave our President Bush with? Intelligence? Obviously not. Charisma? Hell no. I'll tell you what it leaves him with. Absolutely jack squat! So what good is a President who has zero skills and nothing but piss poor qualities? None whatsoever. He's gotta go!

Never an offender of the equal time rule, the newspaper made sure that directly next to Georgie's photo was a picture of the slightly more grotesque Senator John F. Kerry. Along my travels I have read many cleverly executed articles making light of Kerry's striking resemblance to the fictional Mary Shelley character, the Frankenstein monster. While I normally extract no pleasure from the mockery of another's appearance, I must admit that Kerry's picture chilled this weary ole seafarer to the very core, and I'd say that the only thing he's lacking are two well-placed bolts and platform shoes. I'm sure he could borrow the stammer from Bush.

But while Kerry is not a pretty man, he does possess certain qualities that I find admirable in a leader, even though he has yet to attain that title. The most important of these qualities is that he has taken a human life. Hell, I'm sure ole Johnny's robbed several Vietcong souls during his tours of Vietnam, and I'd wager my left eyeball that he's offed more than a few transients upon his return to the states. If you gave me a ten minute search of his house I'd present you with a necklace made of ears!

But before you denounce me as a heartless lunatic with no credibility to judge character, please allow me to explain why I find murder a good quality in a leader. For one, it shows that he is a man who takes initiative. Instead of sitting on his ass, listening to Jimi Hendrix, smoking reefer, and waiting to catch a bullet with his forehead - or getting his daddy to keep him safe for that matter - Kerry wandered the countryside adding notches to the butt of his gun like any proud American would. It proves that he can make decisions and stand by them. If that does not a leader make, then I shall fashion a shiv and jab myself in the gullet right this very second!

I cannot begin to elaborate on Kerry's other promising qualities, because personally I feel that his passion for slaughter is reason enough to appoint him as the head of our great country. Though, despite the fact that I have been applauding his achievements these past few paragraphs, I want to add that Kerry is simply the lesser of two evils. In a perfect world, neither of these two dolts would have been permitted to run for the presidency in the first place. However, being that this is not a perfect world, as evidenced by the fact that I was severely abused as a child and presently have no place to call home, I submit that Kerry would do less harm than Bush already has.

As I stood in front of the trash can daydreaming about the state of our country, a thought crept into my mind like a mouse looking for cheese in a bear trap. What we need is a president who will run this country the way it deserves to be run; not some cartoonish puppet! We need a man like Quint McGuinley! I've been a traveler most of my life. I can wander the countryside and campaign for the good of this greatest of islands! If I can impress upon a few people in each town the importance of writing my name on the ballot, and they can convince others to do the same, then all hope is not yet lost!

I clutched that newspaper to my chest and crumpled it in my hand so that what was left of the chicken embryo dripped down my forearm and stuck to my arm hair (promising a good nighttime snack). Then I looked to the heavens and thanked the gods for providing me with yet another glorious epiphany. I thought I heard a response, but soon realized it was merely a noise coming from behind the house. As I tilted my noggin for a better listen, it seemed as though the noise was getting louder. Wouldn't it figure that what I heard was the guttural howl of six Rottweilers who were not yet privy to the fact that I was going to be the next president of the United States? I made an attempt to run from the yard, but the unmerciful beasts were on me in seconds! I fought tooth and nail with the little scrappers, but as I had not yet consumed any Pabst Blue Ribbon that day, my legs were still a tad shaky. Sure enough, the buggers had me on the ground quicker than you could say "Antarctica" and it took all my might to keep them from tapping into my jugular like a bunch of fratboys on a keg of Keystone Light.

The wretched little bastards gnawed at my extremities for a good couple of hours until I finally managed to crawl outside the perimeter of the electric fence and their collars rendered them incapable of any further attacks on my person. Despite massive blood loss and severely tattered clothes that left nothing to the imagination, I believe I fought the good fight that day. And as I crawled back to the abandoned railway car that I had fashioned into a temporary home, I was filled with a new sense of purpose. A euphoria coursed through my veins that I had not felt in years, and while it could just as easily have been the onset of tetanus, I took it as a sign to begin planning my next move to become the next president of the United States of America...

Captain's Log: Nurse Sharks in the Atlantic

2004-08-09T22:03:00.000-04:00

A comrade of mine once equipped me with the knowledge that nurse sharks are apparently one of the most docile species of shark in the great blue sea. Well, the pure thought of an easygoing shark was absurd to me, and being a man of first hand facts, I made it a point to seek out said nurse shark and find out the truth for myself. So, I chartered a boat and set out on the waves of the seductive Atlantic to seek my answers, ultimately sailing for fourteen days before I finally found what I was looking for. Turns out I spent most of that time wandering the deck deeply entrenched in the chartreuse haze of an absinthe binge.

Well, upon regaining my faculties I noticed that my sandpaper-skinned treasure was hovering in wait directly below my ship, which I had only just realized bore the name “Sara’s Nipple” on the bow. What an odd name for a ship, I thought to myself, chuckling like Santa Claus. Only my belly was very much unlike a bowl of jelly. If I had to liken it to anything, I’d say it’s more like anything that holds various internal organs, some Jim Beam, and occasionally about a pint of lacquer thinner, and happens to be encased in multiple layers of fatty cells. But that’s beside the point.

So there they were. Swimming around like giant toothy worms were four deadeyes, as I like to refer to them, grinning up at me. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard one of them say, “Oh look, it’s Quint. Hi Quint, you sonuvabitch!” After wrestling me back, me mates tried to tell me that p’raps I was daydreaming again, or that maybe I had a bit too much sun, but I was under the impression that these damn fish were taunting me and I wouldn’t stand for it! So I donned my two-sizes too small (for intimidation purposes) wetsuit, fastened my goggles to my ocular cavities and steadied my mind to concentrate on the task ahead.

My first mate, Richard Dreyfuss, recommended that I also wear a scuba tank, but I promised him that it should take no longer than a single breath would allow for me to prove the superiority of man to these unwitting sharks. So, with nothing more than a flashy wetsuit, goggles, an erection, and not to mention my rapist intensity, I cannonballed into the chill waters of the mother Atlantic that day and cordially invited all three of the “easygoing” phallic symbols to engage in a bout of fisticuffs.

Being that they were slightly better swimmers than I, it took quite some time before I managed to close the gap between us, but once I did, let me assure you, there were no more thoughts of taunting ole Quint McGuinley running through their tiny little shark brains. I could read their minds via the vacant expressions on their streamlined little faces and I’ll tell you what they were thinking. All three of them were thinking: “Holy areolas, what the hell did we go and get ourselves into? This specimen before us is indeed superior in every possible way. At first it was difficult to detect the awesome mass of greatness that is this man, yet alas, here it is, for all to see.”

The oversized fish silently pleaded with me to take pity on them. Their beady shark eyes stared at me like black holes and I could almost swear on my seven dead wives’ graves that I saw a tear. But they refused to attack. They were smart, I’ll give them that; the stubborn bastards almost had me believing the hoopla about them being docile animals. But I was wise to their game. I knew that no sooner than my retreating foot would touch the wooden deck of “Sara’s Nipple” that those beasts would unleash their stifled chortles for all to be heard. “Quint McGuinley,” they’d say, “why if ole Quint McGuinley is as big a pussy on land as he is at sea, then we wouldn’t be surprised if he were runnin’ home to drink a bottle of vinegar and water to ‘freshen up’.”

So rather than face such horror, I remained exactly where I was, albeit not taking into account the sporadic bobbing up and down caused by waves. I stroked my beard for a second, smirked, cocked an eyebrow, eyeballed my cock, and eventually puffed out my glorious barrel of a chest and swam the butterfly stroke toward my adversaries. As it turns out, I was correct. The animals were vicious and unrelenting beasts. However, it did take some coaxing on my part, and by coaxing I mean that I had to grip the sharks by the gills and bludgeon them about the head and face area with my muscular forearm for several minutes before they finally retaliated. But ultimately I proved my point. And that's how, sans my left leg, I hopped back onto the boat that sunny day and smiled to Richard Dreyfuss.

"Peanut brittle ass," I said to him, "the transaction that has transpired today will forever change the course of world history. This fete will be lauded as the most invaluable of all human accomplishments and you can be certain that the good Lord is looking down upon me with disdain that could only be considered a thorn on the stem of jealousy." Apparently, I passed out shortly after making that proclamation though you wouldn't have known it by the fact that I continued to wear my trademark grin and my one-legged form remained standing upright on deck. Sure, I lost a leg that day. Some say I lost a little respect, too. But not a single second goes by where I think to myself, “If I could do all that over again, and skip out on the part where I jump into the ocean and pick a fight with three sharks to avoid future problems like phantom limb pain and massive diarrhea…would I? Would I indeed!” Not that I think about that kinda stuff, because I don’t! But if I did, my answer would be “NO, I wouldn’t skip out on that part!” Quint McGuinley is a man among men! It has oft been rumored that one time, on an expedition through the Rocky Mountains, he savagely beat a grizzly bear to death for sassing him about eating the entire food supply in one sitting. Some folk say that the rations consisted of a single can of beans, and still others like to pass word that it was six full-grown elephants that he consumed that day. Of course it is also rumored that I, Quint Quintly McGuinley, spun that little tale while engaging in a Moonshine chugging competition somewhere along the coast of the Amazon River.

Whichever it was, you can rest assured that ole Quint is as grizzled as they come and there’s no way in hell he’ll ever quit referring to himself in the third person, no matter how hackneyed it becomes. And another thing, when I commit myself to a cause, you can be damned sure that I won’t give up until the day that I am struck dead. In fact, you probably can’t even be certain then. The Lord knows I’ve pillaged entire villages during REM sleep, so why the hell should death halt my endeavors?

Well, lately I’ve been hearing tell of more peaceful (and I suspect Cannabis imbibing) sharks and I’m plum sick of it! They’re all vicious carnivores as far as I’m concerned and I’m fully committed to proving it. In fact, I'm planning a trip in a few months to the Pacific to display to the world that Whale Sharks aren't the pushovers that people say they are. I’m so convinced of their innate savageness that I’ll make the claim right now that I will sever my right leg with a toothpick if the Whale Sharks don’t do it themselves; I promise you that! Some people have said to me, “Quint, are you nuts? Making a claim like that just means you’re going to lose a leg either way. What do you stand do gain by such an idiotic stunt?” And I look them dead in the eye, wonder for a minute whether they are siding with the sharks, and then I stammer: “A leg is a paltry price to pay for an accurate catalog of the temperament of oceanic species.” At which point they’ll reply: “But Quint, wake up! You’re offering up a second leg! Two legs are surely way too much to lose for such an absurd experiment you drunken asshole!” To which I’ll retort: “What’s that, landlubber? Speak into me good ear!” And when they fall prey to my ruse and lean over to assist what is actually a perfectly healthy ear, I chomp off each of their own ears and spit them on the table. And then I lean over and say: “Now would you say those ears were worth your opinion, landlubber? "Hardeeharhar!" And thus concludes another entry in the journal of Quint Quintly McGuinley!

Captain's Log: Marooned

2004-08-09T21:41:00.000-04:00

This, my friends, be the first of many postings from an old man whose fingers have yet to succumb to the harrowing effects of age. Me old brain be in need of a nap, so if you'll excuse me for a quick second or two, I'll be momentarily suspending this conversation. But fear not, I shall return refreshed and prepared to deliver my thoughts to you on a silver platter.