Going to the bumwash, yeah

You've had it happen to you a couple of times: a down on his luck stranger just comes up to your car and begins "cleaning" it (in the same way asteroids "redecorate" planets) completely out of the kindness of his heart. After he's done with his stellar polishing job which would put the smarmiest of British butlers to shame, you're free to go on your merry way.

I don't know about you, but I practically have to chase those pesky hobos away with a stick. A very nice stick, too.

 

But that's totally wrong, isn't it? The truth is, after the man has finished wiping your car with what one can imagine passes for his pillow, daily napkin and beloved pet (they don't call them bums for nothing), he's holding out for a little something in return for his work. He's like the world's most delusional bellhop. You are now at his mercy - the faint specs of mercy that can be mustered up by a man who wears his own bathroom.

How do you handle this? It's this delicate yet whirlwind dance between two complete strangers, each pirouetting around awkwardness like middle schoolers trying to mask their first junior prom boner. You want to tell him to take a hike, but If you're any semblance of a good person (which I expect all my blog readers to be, damn your hides), you'd rather find a nice way of telling him no thanks, you don't think a feces festoon is in vogue this season. Yet even after he's "done" (the way a fratboy is "done"), you feel you owe him something. Is it out of pure pity? Kindness? An aw-shucks reaction, thinking "Well, he did his best, poor little feller. Might as well flip him a nickel so he can take in a matinee, a peep show, a box of wine and a nice streetwalker named Sandy"?

I'll tell you something. The reason any of you ever fork out cash is to get rid of the bum as fast as possible. Why? For fear of the possibility of HOBO RAGE.

I'm fairly sure that there have been little, if any, documented cases of hobo rage, at least not enough to warrant nationwide mania, but I am sure the fear exists that all the humiliation and rage of being a bum daily has the effect of welling up into a font of superhuman strength, to be unleashed upon reaching a preset threshold of having coffee thrown on oneself from offramps, or being shortchanged for spreading a little fairy (feces) dust on your windshield, thus rendering its transparency completely useless. We actually believe that if we don't throw the guy something, he is going to go monkeyshit on us and break us in half, and use one half as his makeshift shelter for the night.

I broke my fingers washing your dirty ass car. These are the only two that work.

 

Here's something to consider - underneath that hardened, caked layer of rapidly disintegrating clothes, lies the mind of a true master of the art of what I call the guerilla work blackmail. This guy can hand-grenade you with a quick wipe of your hood with his filthy cloth so that he can then stare at you with his cold, dead pool-ball eyes as if to say "Well, college boy? I didn't beg. I earned my dollar today. Now if you could be so kind as to make my hard earned keep in small bills, since your kind is so quick to advise me to get a job…" You get the drill. He's found the loophole and making it work. That's capitalism, baby.

I wish guerilla work blackmail could work in normal workplaces, for the rest of us. Despite our best efforts, sometimes we're on par with the local hobo in the likelihood that we'll ever land a nice, cushy job in a nice cushy office, complete with hot "career ladies" with nice, cushy bodies. So what's to prevent us from simply walking into an office, and just commencing random spots of work, whether anyone asked us to or not? Just stroll in, wearing bermuda shorts, a Wayne's World hat with the wig half on, and a tie (to show we care), and just start typing up random Excel sheets and filing reports that no one ever needed? It doesn't matter what kind of workplace it is, if it's a house of business, you'll be sure as shit that there are spreadsheets somewhere that need to be made.

After a half day of drunkenly putting semi-lewd memos into peoples' inboxes, drinking four jugs worth of coffee (hot water and beans separate) and sexually harassing most of the typing pool (hey, if they're still using typewriters in this day and age, they're asking for it. Either that, or you decided to take out a Chinese sweatshop that types the blurbs on the back of pirated DVDs), you march into the boss' office, demanding a raise. You're not even going to entertain the thought of taking an initial job offer, a preliminary interview, or not pissing in his potted plants. My time is precious, kimosabe! I didn't just bust my fine ass out there to give you a semi in your khakis as you watched from your blinds! That's right, I know! I DIED IN A WAR SO YOU COULD HAVE THE FREEDOM TO WEAR THAT RIDICULOUS NECKTIE! Have the check on my desk tonight, I'm taking a long weekend. I'll see you on Friday!

Then you can spit on his shoes, walk out, knee the office "funny guy" in the junk, and move on. He will be hard-pressed not to pay you something to at least make sure you never come by again. Don't worry about the cops - when's the last time you responded to a bum wiping your car by calling 911? The fear of a hobo Hulking out and skullfucking your wife is enough to make you just give them a pittance, since that's all they want anyway. Demand high, accept low. Same in this situation. Don't be afraid to go a little nuts - be creative in your guerilla blackmailing. After all, once you're done with one unlucky workplace, it's time to put on your sunglasses, wink at whatever camera hobos are constantly aware are watching their every move, and head over to the next city. You'll be in rocket cars in no time.