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Midget and Stickman

Woke up too late for a shower, and I needed one. The accepted standard is once daily, but I usually shower twice weekly. It was time, though, but there was no time, so instead I stripped and stood at the sink, lathered and rinsed my smelly and itchy genitals and arm pits, washed my face in the leftover suds, and now I'm daisy fresh.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

From my perspective, the fight started when Midget the vendor appeared at the corner, yelling at a hairbob man, "You hit her! You hit her!"

Midget is about six-foot-six, very muscled and wild-eyed, while the man he was screaming at stands maybe five-foot-eight, skinny as a stick-man. This is a mismatch that wouldn't have been sanctioned by the World Wrestling Federation, but if Stickman hit a woman it's OK with me if someone dismantles him.

"But I didn't hit her," Stickman yelled. "She took my acid while I was homeless, and I took it back, but that's all I did! I never hit her!" So the defendant pled not guilty, but the Court of Telegraph Avenue moves swiftly. Midget kept coming at Stickman, so Stickman started running, but he didn't get far. 

Midget swung three times, and after that a dozen other vendors encircled them trying to pull Midget off and dang it, blocking my view, so I can't give you a blow-by-blow account.

The action was over after half a minute, but the two men, big and little, could still be heard yelling at each other. From the yelling, I've ascertained that the woman Stickman allegedly struck is Midget's "ex-old lady."

Nobody but Stickman and Midget's ex can say what actually happened, but from my seat on the jury, I believe some justice was delivered on the Ave.

Maybe that's better than involving the police and what's laughably called the justice system. Since the original dispute involved drugs, and the guy I've called Stickman is what some call an "illegal alien," of course cops and courts aren't even an option.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

There was also a mild incident at the marijuana information booth. The man who runs that table — I know his name, but I've forgotten it — brought his dog today, and when he wasn't looking the dog ate a brownie, maybe two.

The animal must've been confused, maybe frightened? The whole afternoon, the man kept the dog in his lap, petting it, saying soothing words.

From Pathetic Life #20
Saturday, January 13, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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