Living on Skid Row can be fun!
You never thought the day would come. Well, you did, but you thought you’d be safely hidden away on a small personal island off the coast of Guyana by then, being fed grapes by a pubescent girl who was procured for you by your BFF, Hildegard (of no fixed address. It was always such a pain trying to mail her a letter).
Well, things didn’t turn out that way, now did they? Who was the whistle blower? Think, think, think. You bet it was that bitch in HR, whassername. Annette? Yeah, you bet it was Annette. That’s just what a whistle blower would be named, some throw-back, Golden Oldie, Mad Men name. Somebody named Ashley could never be a whistle blower.
Plus, Annette never took you up on your offer to give you a quick blowie in the janitor’s closet. Clearly she was a lesbian who was out to get you.
The Judge was actually pretty cool about the whole “corporate malfeasance” thing. He talked to you mano a mano, one rich guy to another. You could have gone to prison for something like… 50 years? Did your attorney really say 50 years? You’re not sure, it all got kind of blurry there when you realized that prison jumpsuits are essentially one size fits all. No tailoring whatsoever. Quelle horreur!
But the Judge didn’t sentence you to prison. He sentenced you to live on Skid Row. THE Skid Row. The real, raw, poop-on-the-sidewalks Skid Row where documentarians wrestle each other for a clear sight line.
Let’s begin your orientation, shall we?
First of all, never look Erma in the eye. She only has one, so that should be easy.
Darian over here has an MBA from Harvard, no kidding, for real. He is here on Skid Row due to unfortunate life choices involving cocaine and the porn industry. You’re going to want to argue with him about how he’s wasting his talent and intellect. How this doesn’t make sense. How his family has offered to take him in and support him while he gets his life back together.
Darian doesn’t want to be a burden. Also, he believes in trickle-down economics, so just keep moving.
This? Oh, this is your shopping cart. There are many like it, but this one is yours. Feel free to give it a name. Yes, the front wheel is wobbly and pulls to the right. Haha, happens every time, amirite?
FYI, the men’s shelter has a lot of rules, which is why so many of the homeless sleep on the street. Do these people look like they enjoy following rules? No. But then again, neither do you. So…
A lot of people are going to offer you things to eat and drink here. Don’t. Think of Skid Row as the parking lot at a Grateful Dead concert. The hippies seem friendly, and the… cookies? pie?… whatever it’s supposed to be looks edible, but trust me. It’s not. It was probably made by stirring a bunch of things together in a garbage can with the foreleg of a dead cat.
You’re being awfully quiet. That’s a first for you, or so I’ve heard. You liked to boss people around, make them feel small, tiny. Microscopic. You liked to ogle women and call them “honey” and “babe”.
You can do that here, too. You’ll get bludgeoned to death with a shovel while you sleep, but have at it.
Oh, and never sleep. You’re going to have to buddy up with someone so that you can each take turns staying awake to guard your stuff. You will be amazed at how much stuff you accumulate. You think you had problems when you bought the Porsche, but the fam already had the four-car garage full of their stupid Volvo’s and POS Audi’s?
Well, that was nothing. Everything that you need to survive now has to fit in, or immediately adjacent to, this shopping cart.
Okay, that’s about it. The soup kitchen opens at noon. Today’s special is soup.