Perpetual canopy of muddy filtered daylight. My tundra gypsy ancestors brewing extended frosty kettles of Winter. Denizens of the north, including myself, are ready to hold innocents hostage, demanding Spring bring it's bitch ass on. Cracking pedestrian's ice a herculean labor.

Regardless, the humans on the street have reached a comical level for me. Predictable caricatures of the persons they pretend to be.

Solely based on reactions to a smile, I can instantly determine whether or not someone should be immediately criticalled with a pipe job. Plenty of extraneous adults bandying about with their egregious resource usurping activities. Fleas need to be lanced.

I was warned this new career might damage my faith in humanity. I chuckled at that advice. My faith in humanity closed shop before I had short and curlies sprouting from my yambag. I've seen the expansion of viral sapien colonies, metastasising new border town tumors from the pulsing open city sores since childhood. Humans need their slow suicide. It's no coincidence tobacco and liquor industries thrive. Unfortunately, when these higher brained monkeys take that final nose dive, plenty of unsuspecting critters will be squished underneath.

Still, I figure with only one circus ticket per person issued, might as well not add to the bile pile. I earnestly pound the bricks, raise my Viking shield, and search the marching faces for kind souls. If I can convince this overprivileged society to shed a few bucks to remove kids from poverty, I will. I will be their warrior.

To support my claim that people are played out, I will list the tragically typical categories every single one of you mud apes fall into. Whatever cosmic accident caused my increased powers of perception will now unleash contemptuous rage.

Air clearing. I do stop teams of folks who have genuine financial difficulties. Also, plenty of people are sincerely polite about continuing on their way. It's chill. I honestly understand not being in a decent enough spot to carry on a conversation with a random stranger. There is empathy. So, a segment of the population, while still not signing up for the program, are not filed into my; "to be exterminated", brain banks.

The impassive undead. Collections of animated flesh that refuse to acknowledge unplanned stimulus. Majority of these zombies are white prunes draped in dead mammals or skinny, butt clenched, antiseptic dainty fags who don't move their arms when they walk. Well, often some part of their anatomy, usually the chest, is necessary to be clutched tight with their fragile fingers keeping their hands from being mobile. The eyes never move from some far off destination. They travel on a path of misery, all others sequestered to a nonexistent plane. Obviously the dank pit is far too important to be interrupted by voices. I always tell these spectres that "I hope it gets better" as they sulk on by. They always wince just under the radar.

Gutter punks. Dried semen spiking your hair, charcoal dust caking your eyelids, extra holes in your head projecting a fake pain. My goodness, is that a subculture snarl? When you are done trying to piss off your middle class parents in Long Island, come see me and I'll help wipe off the green lipstick.

Bible slapped godtards. You should find yourself fortunate that I didn't pull your innards through your nostrils when you tell me "I leave it in god's hands, these children will have a place in heaven". Also, you can refrain from telling me that jesus will save me. I'm a little less interested with theorhetical afterlives, kinda trying to make a difference in the place that we all actually exist in. Your insides should be explored with mining equipment every time you refrain from saving a child's life but tell us that "I'll pray for them". I'm sure that wishing star will land in their villages spewing creamy cakes and bon bons.

"You people already tried to stop me!" Maybe you've watched too much Star Trek, but the planet earth has yet to encounter collective sentient intelligence. We are not an ant colony. Sorry the facial recognition software packages are malfunctioning. Wanna know a real super fantastic way of gaining a good experience with us on the street? Sign the fuck up.

The exacerbated. Great billowing huffs and puffs erupt from their lungs. The effrontery we take. Actually out on public property, asking people if they have a moment. And then! And then we are polite about it! Wishing people good days, and telling them to take care after they say no! Obviously we are the ones that should be filled to the nostrils with elephant manure and not you. Obviously we are assholes for trying to get starving kids some food. I feel so ashamed.

"The government should be taking care of this!" Same miserly swindlers who don't tip waiters to punish the management for not paying them well enough. Yeah sure, pass the buck. Wash your hands of it by blaming all global woes on the establishment. Children drinking out of sewer drains, dying from diarrhea, will take great comfort while dying, before their fifth birthday, knowing you took a stand against politicians.

Ugh, my tongue is starting to curl. Rehydrating knowledge of all these fucker's existences. If only Galactus would bestow upon me the power cosmic. Half of the "adults" that pass by me would discorporate into a fizzy mess. The spanky surfer strikes again.

On a lighter note, the bar Filthy McNasty's has become The Twelve Inch. This fills me with much joy.

Also, it's a crying shame we didn't have cryogenic sperm banks two thousand years ago. Could've milked jesus for pints of magical spunk. A whole living pantheon of demigods could have roamed the planet. Who'd need comic books? The christ spawn would have filled our skies with heros. Sigh, a crying shame indeed.