Tuesday, November 24, 2009

missed connections

have you seen this blog, beautifully illustrated missed connections ads . . so cool, so i thought i would look on denver's missed connections and see. . . . this is the first one


You probably don't remember me, I was enjoying my lunch on the other side of the reflective glass at the Subway in Aurora enjoying my $5 foot-long tuna sandwich (on honey oat bread) quietly staring outside when we shared a moment together.

While thoroughly enjoying my tuna sandwich (hit or miss with Subway), I was a bit dismayed to note a heaping concrete trashcan just outside my window spilling its contents of ketchup covered fast food bags and what looked to be several well used diapers onto the sidewalk. A person with a weaker stomach may have found this off-putting, but it was lunchtime, and I was hungry.

Then you stumbled around the corner. And you looked hungry too. You were gaunt and wearing a dirty brown coat with holes in the elbows, and had not shaved for years, it seems. Your head was bald and spotted, and your beard was grizzled and white, with yellow and rust colored stains. You did not smile, but I suspect you were down a few teeth. You headed for the trashcan.

When you began to purposefully root through the trashcan on the other side of the glass inches from my table, I felt for you. Surely your hunger must be powerful. So hungry that not even the fetid stench of wrong diapers could dissuade you from rooting through this particular trashcan. You looked so determined in your digging I knew your hunger must possess you. How your stomach must burn, poor fellow. My thoughts were confirmed when you happily pulled a wet, stained Wendy's bag from the trash can and desperately opened it to inspect the contents. Food! Or so I thought.

As I pondered whether I should go outside and offer you the rest of my tuna sandwich, your motives suddenly became less clear. After satisfying yourself that this bag was "The One", you suddenly used your grease-caked free hand in one swift, practiced motion to unzip your trousers and pull out your floppy, purple cock. Neither one of us would be eating, it seemed.

After a nonchalant scan of the parking lot, perhaps to make sure you that no one was watching, you hobbled up to my window dick in hand (perhaps seeking cover), leaned back and started pissing in the bag, inches from my face. Perhaps you were not aware that despite your efforts to be discreet, those on the other side of tinted windows can still see out. Perhaps you were also not aware that despite your efforts to aim into your makeshift receptacle, half or more of your stream was spraying the outside of the bag, splashing onto the sidewalk, onto your pants, and of course my window.

I felt close to you in that moment, if only because your cock was a foot from my face. And it seemed I knew so much about you. As you yawned and scratched your ass, piss still spraying everywhere, I noted first that, though disfigured and discolored, your schlong was unfairly proportioned (as a homeless man, you could not possibly be putting that floppy purple monster to proper use). I also noted that due to the magnitude, force and duration of your blasting stream, thirst must not be among your problems. Though if I may be so bold, the dark yellow hue indicated your hydration could use some attention. Your grimy, dirt caked, festering hands were so close to your business end, I could not help but wonder how many bouts of cheesy drip-dick you have given yourself, by your own hand, and whether drip-dick was something you would even notice. Then, as quickly as the spray display started, it was over. The stream whittled to a drip and you turned to face the parking lot.

Though you did not see me, you clearly felt a shared moment had been had, as you lovingly placed your piss-filled Wendy's bag delicately on the ground next to you, (tipping it over and spilling what little contents had actually made it into the bag onto the sidewalk with the rest), pulled out a crumpled cigarette and had an obviously satisfying smoke of your entire cigarette standing in your own puddle of urine, dick still flopping about, in plain sight of me and anyone else who happened to be staring out the window.

Then, with a stretch and an ass scratch, you reluctantly wadded your purple cock back in your trousers and hobbled away, out of my life forever.

I am writing this because I want you to know, Creepy Homeless Guy, that I did not finish my tuna sandwich. In fact, on the way out I made sure to lovingly place the half eaten sandwich on top of the stack of dirty diapers just for you, should you decide to come back for something to eat.

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