Wednesday, December 3, 2008

I have a homeless friend, do you?


I am just today recovering from this weekend's festivities. See when the DR staff, a rapper, and perhaps our two most loyal readers get-together, we do it up big. Big Jern Big. Not even the California billionaires could usher us out of the Gianni Room before we were drunk, stuffed, and collectively celebrated. Sure our outfits secured some funny looks as we strolled out of our private room. I mean, who can blame the fine patrons at Ristorante Pesto - we were wearing African garb, tuxes, fedoras and the hottest Obama gear Chelten Ave has to offer. But no one - NO ONE - does it like the DR.

I have spent the last few days reflecting on the glory of baked cheese, the many talents of the anal princess, and the genius behind a BYO nudie bar, but really, I have been scouring these cold and frigid streets for inspiration. Something... anything to write on, to get the new year of Dalembert off on the right foot. Yet I have found very little. When your daily routine takes you out of your apartment in Boystown and directly to the bankruptcy court, there simply isn't that much jumping out at you. Shit, even my gym is bankrupt. The talk of the town revolves around 15 degree temperatures, Derrick Rose, and Obama. But none of that interests me, at least not at the present moment. And then, just earlier this evening, inspiration materialized in the form of my main man Ray.


Let me explain. I often say I don't have any friends in Chicago. I may look like Balki, but I most certainly don't have a Cousin Larry. But that statement is shortsighted, because I have Ray. I met Ray three months ago when I was carrying a large grip of Mexican food down Jackson Street after work one day. Just as I was about to board the bus, a large, bearded black man hollered "yo big man, you gonna eat that?". I raised my eyebrows, lifted my plastic platter, and shrugged "it's all yours, brother." I gave him burritos, and in turn, he gave me good karma. Since then, the Phillies won the world series, I passed the bar, and Plaxico Burress shot himself in the leg. The connection seems evident. So, I've ventured underneath the Wabash/Adams El maybe 8-10 times since, carrying any leftovers that materialize from the various office parties we in the Fed building take part in. And everytime, there's Ray, smoking a cigarette, pumping Curtis Mayfield out of his boom box, and taking inventory of his overstuffed shopping cart. When I roll up around the corner, without fail I get a hearty "DREW! My man!". I learned his name one night after he requested mine and since then, Ray and the Firm, all day ay'day.


Well tonight I spotted Ray, but not in his normal spot. I wasn't even looking for him, as a matter of fact. I hopped on the subway home and there was Ray, heading north...on a date. No bull shit. My favorite gold-hearted homeless friend, arm in arm with his lady-friend, has a more vibrant love life than the Firm, himself. How do I know it was a date? Because he yelled across the train "I'm on a date!" And with a chuckle and a shaken head, I pumped my fist in support. I found inspiration, in the most surprising of places, and I think I learned a valuable lesson. When it's cold as a witches nipple, and you have no food, teeth or shelter, you get back to the basics: vagina. It all makes perfect sense.

For those of you who don't spend 4 hours in front of the TV every night after work, A) you are missing out and B) I urge you to check out the latest and greatest show Fox has concocted. Even better than the littlest groom, "Secret Millionaire" takes young rich people, surrounds them with unsuspecting poor people who think the rich people are poor, and waits for the hilarity to ensue. It's supposed to generally be heartwarming, where the poor people are so welcoming of the rich people and ultimately the rich people write a big fatty check to the poor people and get the fuck out of dodge. Here's hoping there is an episode that takes place in Philly. Imagine these fellows rubbin shoulders with these fine young men. Ah, one can dream.

DR FOR LIFE!

16 comments:

  1. Incredible. Maybe Ray will get you a date in the windy titty.

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  2. All the way Ray...gettin some action. I also came upon a homeless couple recently, and was so happy for them. Being homeless by yourself sucks.

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  3. This is sort of sad, but the DR helps to keep me going; puts a smile on my face when I don't feel like smiling. That could be worth more than a bobblehead spray-painted gold...Maybe.

    Congrats on all the good work, gentlekings. Keep it coming.

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  4. nothing is worth more than a bobblehead spray painted gold. Especially when that gold chips off, then it becomes a novelty. This year will deliver, DVW, we will keep you going. When you guys come out to visit, perhaps we can get Ray to tell us cleat tackle dawg stories.

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  5. i hope ray is taking your leftovers, selling them to other homeless folk, and using the profits to purchase large gold medallions like the ones he is sporting in that picture.

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  6. My spray-painted gold wrench is turning black for some odd reason.

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  7. And that picture makes it official. Jonah turned Joe full-gay.

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  8. All of your prizes are fading..I see foreshadowing..

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  9. "Joe, I'm just checking to make sure your ass still looks good....I luh John Gruden...Boh-hom line."

    Stop hating, Naztradamus.

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  10. Ray has unusual, effective methods:

    http://i37.tinypic.com/whxpg3.jpg

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  11. I love the Ray that you posted Flintskins.

    The birds won, and at the same time, the Giants lost. Awes, fal-kings.

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  12. My checking of this blog hath ceased, cuz while this is funny, it ain't relevant, thus I shall cease visitations and focus on the current rather than wish best for prehistoric times folks. Torontosaka shall south korea and wish merriness! Look both ways before you cross the street, do not get married for visas should relationships be fucked up in other locations, don't be surprised when google revives dead memories of folks when all you were lookin' for was a plumbers email.. That email shall be written plumbzilla although you ain't called cripples back tsk tsk, as far as others, much luck.. Lance Amsterdam is a bitch boss, and sadly is annoyed I am using his moniker, and don't forget people from Tonga.. Adios.... M. Sanchez

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  13. ^ It's pretty much exactly what I was going to write.

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  14. "They're taking all of our good names... Like Lance and Bruce and Julian."

    -Homer

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  15. Dalembert Dammit! Write something, deadbeats (I aim this at those who still have an awards party hangover).

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