Capital Metro Chronicles

“You know what's sad? The homeless steal from the homeless. That's… There's no brotherhood man. They just there (he points to passed out man on bus) zonked out on it and they (other people affected by poverty) will come right there and snatch it right from them. And, they have nothing. Penniless. Meth: man, it's fucking with my community.”

I saw a man who carried nothing other than a large sippy cup filled with light-brown liquid. And at the end of his other marked arm, a handful of interwoven keys that looked like bronze and silver waterfalls in the gleaming east sunbeam. He was clearly homeless or temporarily lost; I assume what he was holding was more like a work of art, or the keys to unattainable dreams.

"I don't know man, I just like to know my leader can survive a fist fight. A TRUE fist fight.

Obama: had lanky arms and looked like he stayed in shape. Putin: looks like he could rip a man’s head clean off Hillary: Clinton? at least you know she could take a knuckle-sandwich or two—shit.

Then he said: You know what I think, I think they should just put that bastard and King Jum ill* in a ring. Betcha’ it will be a bunch of slappin’, hair-pulling and heavy breathing.

“Ok, here’s what I don’t understand: If we could give Jesus Christ any superpowers, why wouldn’t it be the ability to change races or ethnicity at will? He should be a chameleon for humanity— that should be his “thing”. Do you know how many arguments that would end? Don’t you think that would more unifying than the walking on water myth — or the water into wine one? The problem is we make shit up and don’t think it through … and then we act like we can’t change the story because why: programmed”