Croc shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shoelaces McGee

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

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

I call it "Shoelaces McGee"...

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

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

Shamus Goldensteinbergbaum

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

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

Shitty pants

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

Pants shitting

I just shit my pants.

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

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

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







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









That's what I surmised.













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

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

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

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

Do it for the children...

Slot Machines Coming to Philly

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

Picture this:

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

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

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

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

Herpes-riddled derelict

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



Ask these guys! They've known my wrath!

Tyra Banks' Stylish Armpit Vag

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


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

Not So Filthy in Philthadelphia

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Who is Quint McGuinley?

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

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!

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

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!

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

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

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

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!