It's yet to happen to me, but I feel bad for those it has happened to.

i don't know how that situation would ever arise, but i really hope i never catch a street hobo's balls in my face.

i saw a hobo totally rocking out at fontana yesterday and his slimy balls flew out of his tattered sweat pants. hit me right in the eye and gave me a mean case of eye crabs. he tried to make it up to me by getting some pizza crust out of the dumpster for me to eat, but i promptly fought him as to not look like a pussy. after the fight, we made love at the beach, pushing in and out to the ebb and flow of the waves crashing along the shore. i wanted to write about it yesterday, but i had writer's block.

..........k

hahahaha thats great. Glad you faught him or you would have been a pussy for sure.

HEAF LEGEAR DAID

You, sir, are a gentlemen and a poet.

it comes in waves

just like the contents of the hobo's balls as his loins, burning like the red eye of cerebus (stolen from patton oswalt), came to fruition on the infinite grains of sand.

Yea, verily. Dost thou wishest to fulfillest thine vagabond's deepest carnal desires? I knowest wherest thouest mightest goest. Yonder dumpstereth containeth vast amounts of discard, thrown to the wind like so many grains of sand, lifted by the retreating waves and cast into perdition, for they be-eth sinners in the eyeseth of the Lord. Eth.

PS Hobos like to masturbate with garbage.

i happened upon the transient whilst he slumbered in yon refuse bin, sans garments. the mane on his mons pubis matched the scraggled thatch of whiskers found upon his countenance. i felt the pangs of epicurean lust from deep within my bowels and thusly began flagellating my member feverishly.

man, my advanced writing workshop professor would have loved you guys.

at umass? what was his name?

shit, man...
The bald dude with the moustache that wore an outback hat..
Lemme think for a second.

Dost thou former giver of knowledge harbor in his loins a desire to fellate yonder vagabonds? For if he dost, may he traverse the ever-changing landscape of his homeland, yearning for street urchins, onto which he might unburden himself via penile eruptions onto aforementioned vagabond facial constructions. And yea, let us join him, for he being thine bestower of knowledge, he must surely know alternate routes around the construction zones.

was it bobrick? i don't think he had a mussy when i had him for poetry class, but i think he later grew one. i used to talk with him about warren zevon after class all the time.

nope.. not bobrick..

BLITEFIELD
that's his name. just remembered.

I was going to say the same thing, but without the pompous overtones.

HI, I'M GEORGE ZIMMER, FOUNDER AND CEO OF MEN'S WEARHOUSE. ON A RECENT BUSINESS TRIP TO TOKYO, I FOUND MYSELF IN A VIDEO ARCADE, WHERE ONE OF THE LOCAL TEENAGE BOYS WAS ATTEMPTING TO MAKE UP FOR HIS UNFATHOMABLY TINY TWAT TACKLE BY PLAYING "DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION" IN FRONT OF A GROUP OF JIGGLY-CHESTED JAPANESE JAILBAIT. SCOFFING AT HIS SCANDALOUSLY SIMPLISTIC SKILLS, I PROCEDED TO LIBERATE MY TWITCHING TESTICULAR TRUNCHEON AND SWING ITS PRECIPITOUS POUNDAGE INTO THE YOUTH'S FACE, CRUSHING HIS SKULL AND FREEING THE MACHINE. I THEN ACHIEVED A RATING OF "AAA" ON THE SONG "MAX 300" USING ONLY THE RAPID RIPPLING OF MY RAUCOUSLY RIGID RAMROD. NEEDLESS TO SAY, THE WET-PANTIED WOMANLY WATCHERS WERE ALREADY IN THE THROES OF PASSION FROM THE OVERPOWERING SCENT OF MY TORPID TESTOSTERONE TUBE, SO I LET THEM GATHER 'ROUND FOR A GROUP HUG OF THE GARGANTUAN GIRTH OF MY GORGEOUS GUY-GIRDER BEFORE CONQUERING EACH OF THEIR QUIXOTICALLY QUIVERING QUIMS WITH A FURIOUS FOUNTAIN OF FROTHING FUCK-FOAM. MY HIGH SCORE HAS NEVER BEEN BEATEN. I GUARANTEE IT.

DEM HOBOS IS EVERYWHERE