Fantz
Fantz

Happy venereal disease, friends. Is that a crab crawling out of that unkempt rug, or are you just happy to see me? My column doesn't always fall on Valentine's Day, but when it does, I like to bitch-punch my dear readers.

Does the world have a case of the crabs or what?

Hey! Wait! I've got a new complaint.

Of course you do. That carrot marionette in the White House is bringing out the worst in us. But today only, fistfuls of the population can swap out the bludgeoning of differing political views for an old-fashioned tantrum about consumerism on this "Hallmark Holiday."

(Sing it, Cobain.) Hey! Wait! I've got a new complaint.

Of course you do. Like that pirate with a steering wheel stuck to his crotch, I say, "Argh, this divisive populism is driving me nuts."

(Cue Kurt.) Hey! Wait! I've got a new complaint.

Toss on Bob Ross' "Joy of Painting" and shut the gust up for one goddamn minute. It's a gale-force tempest of ire out there, and humanity needs to take a deep THC-laced breath.

This snowflake, cuck, masculinist and (insert latest alt-right racist, sexist superslurs) talk needs to be corked. Like a pants full of pinching crustaceans, the world wide social nets have become increasingly more vile to thumb through.

We could have to pick microscopic crabs out of our pubes with tweezers every night before we go to bed, but we were fortunate enough to have that shit lasered out. First-world problems.


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Let me introduce you to Mike. The resident alley transient has been shuffling my current pad's back door (perverts) since I've been there. Besides sleeping in overgrown weeds at the edge of our property unbeknownst to us, Mike, maybe in his 40s, keeps to himself. (We're not very HGTV in the landscape department. After the city fined us and we plowed down the weeds, the treasure of SPAM and Steel Reserve cans was impressive.)

He mans his corner by day and sleeps somewhere else overgrown by night.

Like the Three Wise(wo)men, I got to know him by gifting him with warm beer, smokes and myrrh. (Sandwiches, fools. What the hell is myrrh? Lube? You're sacrilegious.)

I learned about his life and his desire to survive. Whenever I see him, I give him sandwiches, smokes and a warm beer (enable this). After being sick the past few months, as I drove down the alley to go to work, he told me he got the pulp beat out of him in our alley last week. My heart broke for Mike. He had dried-up blood coming out of his ears, a swelling lump on his cheek, was covered in bruises. He had tears in his eyes when I gave him $2 and two smokes.

"You're so nice to me, Christy," he said, as his blood-and-mucus crusted hand reached out to shake mine.

As I sped to the nearest gas station to scrub my hands raw (not everybody can be Mother Fucking Theresa), I thought about how I'm not that special for befriending homeless folk. They're human beings who deserve fair treatment. If we can't try to take care of those who rarely cause harm, then our heart will look like the trash we perceive them as.

So happy Valentine's Day, dear crabs. Give a paper heart to a fellow human. Give a transient a smile. It'll cost you 30 seconds.

Hey! Wait! I've got a new complaint.

I need a drink. (Two for ending a sentence on a proposition up there.)

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