American Idolatry

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buttcheeks

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Croc shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shoelaces McGee

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

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

I call it "Shoelaces McGee"...

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

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

Shamus Goldensteinbergbaum

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

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

Shitty pants

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

Pants shitting

I just shit my pants.

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

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

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







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









That's what I surmised.













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

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

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

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

Do it for the children...

Slot Machines Coming to Philly

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

Picture this:

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

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

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

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