The Holidays Are Upon Us Once Again!!!

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)

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

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

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!

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!

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

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

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?