This Is Jeopardy!

375 FUCKING HITS IN ONE DAY??

144 NEW VISITORS VISITING MY SITE FOR THE FIRST TIME??? In one day? What the Hell? I thought everyone left me for dead. You know, Hobobob is dead, long live Hobobob shit. I know that I really sucked in 2010 with my posting. I don't know why I posted so little. I just didn't have the feel for writing any longer. I think the Hobo in me was getting tired of cranking and bitching and moaning. I know I would get tired of that shit. In fact I am. That's why I crack my door open in the afternoons, when the crows are walking and talking in the hallway and stick my little peter out like a sideways periscope, jiggling it around and squeaking: "Look! It's a one-eyed mouse!"

You know that I get food stamps right? Yeah, I am officially on the State of New York Starvation Diet. Hey, I'm not bitching about free food, it's just that it doesn't last. That's funny because I really don't eat that much, and frankly, my cupboards should be filled most of the time...but no. I empty out the cupboards and the refrigerator so completely that I lick the insides of them when there is nothing left to eat. This week though, I went on the offensive. I went to some of the food pantries in the area. Yeah. Believe it or not, but organizations do give out dry goods to hungry New Yorkers...if you have the right paperwork.

You know, referrals from shelters or SRO's, referrals from social workers, State Benefit card, ratty and torn clothes. Shit like that. Firstly, on Monday, I went to one two blocks down and around the corner from me. A hop, skip, and a jump. It was raining, and as usual I walked out without my TFP (That Fucking Poncho). Yeah, I forgot it, but I walked on anyway. In the rain, which was a simple drizzle...at first. I got to the church around the corner and there was a long line of people waiting. I joined the line. It was then that the sky opened up and began raining with a sheer joy upon noticing that I had no protection.

I got soaked while I waited. Presently the line began to move. Slowly at first, then at a regular pace until I reached a flight of stairs against the side of the building that descended to the basement below. I approached a desk at the door with two slapped asses waiting for me. One in a chair, the other coming from a room with a large brown grocery bag filled with items. He rested the bag on the table and looked at me, not releasing the bag. I reach for it, but the seated ass addressed me firmly: "What is your name?"

Hobobob, I turn to him. You don't know me? I'm famous. I was on the radio. No, I didn't say that. He probably would have laughed his shitter off. Before him was a sheet of paper with column upon column of names. Using his finger he went down the several pages of the list. "I don't find your name here." What is that? I ask. "It's the list of people who are to pick up food today." Oh really, how do you get on that list? "Your shelter has to fax your name in to us." I stand stupid. Can I just show you my Benefit ID and get a bag? "No," he says flatly. "What you can do is get to the back of the line, and if any bags are left after everyone is gone, I'll give you one."

I nodded and went home with nothing to eat. That was great. Not only did I get wet, but I came home empty handed. I made 'Wish'-sandwiches that night. You know, two pieces of bread, and you WISH you had something to go in between them. That and water. What the fuck was this? Prison? I slept firmly, but my stomach growled all night. Hell, it even forced me to the toilet to take a dump several times. Let me tell you, starvation has nothing to do with NOT eating. You can not eat, that isn't the problem. Starvation is a sure laxative if I ever saw one. You'll shit your insides out. That makes you hungry, because you are really empty then. You don't even have shit in you to feed off of.

The next day I went twelve blocks downtown to the Coalition Against Hunger, in another church. It was raining today too, and as usual, I left without my TFP. I got to the church and descended another flight of stairs against the side of the building and into the basement. Inside was a large room with a crowd of skeksies milling about. Oh, I've forgotten just how much I love standing in room with these brain dead machinations of human beings. What is even worse are the people always in charge of them. They are just a burp higher in intelligence than the Skeks are. There is this hyper-guy moving about, waving his hands at the crowd of Skeks. "You have to make one line," he pleads. The skeks wobble like Weebles on their feet, but they don't form shit.

Another aide, this one a short woman, shouts out. Unfor- tunately, her volume control is turned down low. Her voice is too weak to hear her even if the fucking room was empty. But there she is, shouting, and all you can register is her lips moving over the din of the talking Skeks. I take off, heading for what looked to me to be a kitchen. Before it was a long table with tiny Styrofoam bowls with food in them. I stop over the table. A woman comes from the kitchen and smiles, "Can I help you?" Can I have some of this? I point down to the food with my hobo finger. She nods, "Go on ahead. Just sign the list there." I pick up a clipboard, took the pen dangling from the chain glued to it and wrote: HOBOBOB ATE HERE.

I took a tiny bowl and she gave me a piece of bread and a plastic fork. I thanked her, and took the meal to a table and sat down. I bit into the bread. It was like taking a bite out of burnt concrete. That went into the trash. I stabbed the food, macaroni and chopped lettuce, with some kind of salad dressing, and stuck it in my mouth. All I could taste was salad dressing. It was like I was drinking it straight from the bottle. But look, I was hungry, alright? I packed my face with the tasteless meal, happy that there was so little of it, and then stood, with bowl and fork in hand, and went back to the crowd of Skeks who, amazingly, had formed a single line.

I was stupefied. I got on the back of the line and waited as other people entered into the church and extended the line behind me. The short woman returns again, cups a hand against the side of her mouth, inhales deeply and her lips move. That's all. No sound to speak of. The sad thing is that the Skeks aren't really making noise now, just normal conversation. This short bitch has no voice. There is a tap on my shoulder. I nearly piss myself. My heart jumps into my mouth and my head swoons. I turn around slowly, fully expecting to see a rotting corpse standing behind me with a toothy grin. Instead, it's a little old lady. I sigh with relief, thinking...shit lady, I lost five fucking years behind that shit!

"Excuse me," she says daintily. "What did she say?" I look down at her mournfully. She said she has no voice, I reply. No, actually I really did say that to her. This is the second time she went through the motions of making an announcement and nothing comes out of her mouth, I continued. The old woman smiles at me, "Really?" I nod. I bet if we were in front of the line, just a foot from her, we still wouldn't be able to hear her. The old woman chuckled. I thought about that. She would be up shit's creek if her rape scream was anything like that.

The line moves and I am the next to enter into an office ahead. The hyper-guy is standing at its threshold, his hand out to me, telling me to stop. I nod and look around, finding a trash can just two paces away from me. I walk over to it, toss in the bowl and plastic fork and turn around to see the old lady step up into my spot. I blink. I only took TWO STEPS away to toss out trash! I walk back and she looks up at me, totally surprised that I returned. "Oh," she giggles. "I'm just anxious." You'll be unconscious if you keep that shit up, I think as I step in front of her. Hyper-guy waves me in, and I stop in front of a desk in the office.

A tired woman looks up at me, "Is this your first time?" I nod. She hands me up a clipboard, pen and a yellow plastic card with the number 28 on it. "Take a seat outside, fill out the form and wait until your number is called." I comply. I work on the form, answering the silly questions. Question six: How long is your penis? Question ten: When was the last time you had sex with the opposite sex? With the same sex? Question eleven: Who was the first president to walk on the moon? That was easy, Bush.

A woman emerges from another office and calls out something in Spanish. I return to my questions. Question fifteen: What is the sex of the President currently in office? Does the President currently in office have sex? Are you pregnant? Another woman comes from the office and shouts something in Spanish. A woman stands up from the chairs in the room and crosses over to her. I return to the questions. Question twenty: How long is an average avenue in the city? If you were being chased by cops, how far do you think you'd get? Have you ever been chased by cops? Are you Illegal?

Another woman comes from the office and shouts out in Spanish. It was then that I realized something. I'm no foreign language translator, and I can usually tell if someone is cursing at me in another language, but this bitch is calling out numbers! I sit up. Say that in English, PLEASE! I shout back. She looks around and says: "Twenty three." No one steps up. "Twenty four." Some one approaches. Oh, I get it now. If you speak English here you are shit out of luck, huh? Now, instead of trying to translate, I count the women as they come out of the office, calling numbers in Spanish. When I got to what I thought was twenty eight I asked her to translate it. I was right. I stood and entered the office with her, found her desk, and took a seat in a chair next to it. She sat down and began typing my information into a computer.

It didn't take long. She took my Yellow Card and gave me a Purple card. "You can go to the pantry now," she said. "You have only a certain amount of points for each item on the purple card." I look at the card. It has food lists in general. Meat, beans, starches, vegetables, fruits, so on and so forth. "Each item has a number of points next to it," the woman pointed out. "Each point is a THING, you know?" She looks at me. I shake my head. "See," she continues patiently. "Where it says Fruits it has Three Points. That means you can get Three apples, or two apples and an orange. Understand?" Yeah, I nod, I get it.

I head into the pantry, and it was a grocery store. Amazingly so, with metal push carts and shelves of food. An old lady approached me and asked if I needed help. Hell's yeah, I tell her. She escorts me through the aisles, pointing to this can of food, and this bag of rice and beans. I collect everything that I could according to the purple card and when done I went to the 'Check out counter'. A woman sorts my groceries, grouping them into their respective points, double checking my math, and then nods. "You're good." I had brought plastic bags with me. Lucky me, because I would have to carry all of this shit in my arms and mouth if I didn't. I packed my bags and headed home.

I ate dinner that night. Yeah, I cooked and sat back, rubbing my belly. I tried to watch television on Hulu, but my computer kept crashing. So I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. Heh, heh...I thought. I lied on Question Six. I said my penis was five inches long. I'm not worried. How would they ever find out that I added two inches?

Hobobob