Today I was standing at the Granville/Broadway intersection, awaiting a bus and minding my own blissful business entirely. Events of a traumatic nature tend to visit me completely unannounced, so perhaps I should have taken the lack of ominous foreshadowing as...well, foreshadowing of some sort. Alas, my guard was down. I was having a glorious day, there was clearly no reason to be on disaster watch.
Quite abruptly a homeless man materialized in front of me, his face mere inches from my own, spittle shooting from his bottom lip onto my chin as he sputtered something. I couldn’t hear him, being enslaved to my iPod and all. I normally take pride in reacting to such things in a calm, cool, and collected manner, but the seemingly instantaneous nature of his arrival, combined with 3 parts violent spittle, 2 parts crazy yellowed eyeballs, with a dash of every odour one could imagine from a street person, and I found myself rapidly stutter-stepping away from him in the most awkward fashion I could muster.
Due to an earlier incident involving plummeting lumber, I’m sadly afflicted with numerous cuts and gashes on my feet and during my escape from L’Hobo, I aggravated one of the more gruesome gashes on my left foot. When it seemed he’d lost interest in me, I resumed my careless music listening and kicked the sandal off my ailing foot, hoping to let it breathe and to not get gross gash juices (worst thing I’ve ever said; apologies to all) on the brand new sandals that I’d pilfered from Lauren.
Though it shouldn’t have been, it was quite the surprise when L’Hobo appeared in front of me once again. This time cradling what I thought to be a dead rat in his hand, his face still precariously close to my own, his eyes positively swimming with fury. I reached up to remove my headphones- cursing myself for my lack of audio awareness- and time seemed to slow as I came to several realizations. Firstly, that dead rat he was cradling near his belt was in fact none other than 100% Hobo Penis- a species of penis I wish I didn’t encounter nearly so frequently as I seem to. I could settle for zero more Hobo Penis sightings and I would be more than perfectly content with life. Oh and the second revelation? Someone was now urinating on my freely exposed foot.
I jumped back, shocked, horrified, contemplating ending it all, etc, etc. L’Hobo maintained emptying his bladder all over the sidewalk. I stood there, a river of urine separating me from Lauren’s sandal. Everyone pretended not to notice, pretended not to stare, pretended not to be thanking every deity imaginable that they were not me at that precise moment, that they weren`t in my singular sandal. A good samaritan next to me mumbled that he was going to head into Starbucks and fetch me some napkins. L’Hobo finished his task and quite expectantly got up in my face again.
“Change?” He growled.
“I-what-are-I...what the-” was my disbelieving reply.
“You fucking SHITHEAD!” He spat at me, before rapidly taking off down the street. My hero brought me napkins while I fetched Lauren’s thankfully untarnished sandal. I then spent a good 10 minutes washing my foot in the Starbucks’ rest room, using several palm-fulls of antibacterial soap. Then I went to Future Shop and bought a 4-pack of Pacino DVD’s because I DESERVE SOME HAPPINESS, OKAY?
I barely understand what happened. It. Was. Terrrible. I got pissed on. By a Hobo. IN AN OPEN WOUND. I feel like he's part of me now and I'm going to start transforming any horrifying second. Some may have seen fit to report such an occurrence, but I’m not a huge fan of filing official reports about vanishing Hobos pissing on me. Apparently proclaiming such a thing on Facebook is fine though? I don’t understand my own coping mechanisms. I wish I could say the whole debacle was the worst part of my day. But it wasn’t. Far from it, in fact. But we needn’t discuss that.
Oh my God. A Hobo peed on me? I hate. Hate.
Quite abruptly a homeless man materialized in front of me, his face mere inches from my own, spittle shooting from his bottom lip onto my chin as he sputtered something. I couldn’t hear him, being enslaved to my iPod and all. I normally take pride in reacting to such things in a calm, cool, and collected manner, but the seemingly instantaneous nature of his arrival, combined with 3 parts violent spittle, 2 parts crazy yellowed eyeballs, with a dash of every odour one could imagine from a street person, and I found myself rapidly stutter-stepping away from him in the most awkward fashion I could muster.
Due to an earlier incident involving plummeting lumber, I’m sadly afflicted with numerous cuts and gashes on my feet and during my escape from L’Hobo, I aggravated one of the more gruesome gashes on my left foot. When it seemed he’d lost interest in me, I resumed my careless music listening and kicked the sandal off my ailing foot, hoping to let it breathe and to not get gross gash juices (worst thing I’ve ever said; apologies to all) on the brand new sandals that I’d pilfered from Lauren.
Though it shouldn’t have been, it was quite the surprise when L’Hobo appeared in front of me once again. This time cradling what I thought to be a dead rat in his hand, his face still precariously close to my own, his eyes positively swimming with fury. I reached up to remove my headphones- cursing myself for my lack of audio awareness- and time seemed to slow as I came to several realizations. Firstly, that dead rat he was cradling near his belt was in fact none other than 100% Hobo Penis- a species of penis I wish I didn’t encounter nearly so frequently as I seem to. I could settle for zero more Hobo Penis sightings and I would be more than perfectly content with life. Oh and the second revelation? Someone was now urinating on my freely exposed foot.
I jumped back, shocked, horrified, contemplating ending it all, etc, etc. L’Hobo maintained emptying his bladder all over the sidewalk. I stood there, a river of urine separating me from Lauren’s sandal. Everyone pretended not to notice, pretended not to stare, pretended not to be thanking every deity imaginable that they were not me at that precise moment, that they weren`t in my singular sandal. A good samaritan next to me mumbled that he was going to head into Starbucks and fetch me some napkins. L’Hobo finished his task and quite expectantly got up in my face again.
“Change?” He growled.
“I-what-are-I...what the-” was my disbelieving reply.
“You fucking SHITHEAD!” He spat at me, before rapidly taking off down the street. My hero brought me napkins while I fetched Lauren’s thankfully untarnished sandal. I then spent a good 10 minutes washing my foot in the Starbucks’ rest room, using several palm-fulls of antibacterial soap. Then I went to Future Shop and bought a 4-pack of Pacino DVD’s because I DESERVE SOME HAPPINESS, OKAY?
I barely understand what happened. It. Was. Terrrible. I got pissed on. By a Hobo. IN AN OPEN WOUND. I feel like he's part of me now and I'm going to start transforming any horrifying second. Some may have seen fit to report such an occurrence, but I’m not a huge fan of filing official reports about vanishing Hobos pissing on me. Apparently proclaiming such a thing on Facebook is fine though? I don’t understand my own coping mechanisms. I wish I could say the whole debacle was the worst part of my day. But it wasn’t. Far from it, in fact. But we needn’t discuss that.
Oh my God. A Hobo peed on me? I hate. Hate.
