Soup Kitchen Blues

     I was down on my luck; an empty fridge, empty wallet, and lost emotions. I smelled like a pile of steamy fresh dog shit. I decided to skip my non-interesting class again, and visit the soup kitchen my friend had told me about. A free hot meal sounded good to me. I broke open the butts of cigarettes and rolled a healthy nicotine fix.
     I thought about my broken shower, then I thought about asking my neighbor Bob if I could borrow his shower for a quick clean. Then I remembered last time I was at Bob's, his place had this certain stench, like a mixture of fresh barf, welfare, seedy dope, and the stale life of his two bratty kids he supported. I decided to stay smelly rather then trust his pubic haired wallpaper of hidden slime filled mouse dropping treasure chest bathroom.
     I scraped some resin out of my dope pipe, my fingers getting sticky with black gooey THC. I noticed metal shavings from the bowl twinkling and sparking as I smoked the crap, somewhat coughing, almost barfing. I'm the spitting image of health. After smoking the crud, I went into fantasy mode. I pictured myself in the dope smoking Olympics in the middle of some foreign land I had only seen in pictures. This guy who looked sort of like a strung out Chinese Johnny Cash meets the elephant man was handing me a golden trophy as he crowned my head with a bong shaped crown. The crowd of a million stoned green aliens clapped as my blue ribbons hung off my non-muscular looking out of shape chest. All these hot looking 18-year old girls in Girl Scout uniforms with antenna's coming out of their craniums were feeding me those expensive Girl Scout cookies that I think were laced with PCP. Their beautiful enormous porno-size breasts hanging out of their shirts; spitting images of sexy health meets decay.
     So anyway, I tried starting up my truck and it sputtered out odd sounds of death from the engine, refusing to start. My old friend saying "Dude, you gotta change your oil more then once every 3 years" flashed through my head, as I pictured this hot bowl of soup in front of my hungry mind. "Fuck buying American crappy Ford truck!" I yelled, punching the steering wheel, putting my left hand over my confused scratchy head of greasy long hair, staring at the shattered truck stereo for a minute or two, thinking of the past tunes.
     I found some change under the truck seats, to take the bus, after kicking my truck, adding to the dents of its unreliable structure. I walked down Detroit Street to Saginaw Road, perfect timing, the bus was pulling up, as I hustled to catch it. I took the bus to Pennsylvania Street, getting off, with sloppy stained instructions to the soup kitchen in my pocket, my tummy growling. I walked a few blocks in the below freezing weather and saw the church my friend had told me about. I walked around the building trying to gain access, but only got locked doors. I saw a little back door which had a tiny home made sign written on it in black lettering, "Soup Kitchen" it said. I felt like I had found the gates to heaven and this door was holding the key to all my problems. Damn, was I hungry!
     I opened the doors, seeing tons of different ethnic cultures chowing grub at cafeteria type tables. I got in line and noticed a table next to the soup line with loafs of out of date blue moldy bread and doughnuts spread around it with a sign that read "free" on the table.
     Some Mexican looking fella with a fishnet type dealy around his black hair slopped some food onto a plate for me, and handed my tray back.
     I looked around the place for a lonely table so I wouldn't have to sit next to anyone. Then I saw my friend Herbie, (the one who told me about the place) with his red hair; black garbage picked trench coat, unmistakeable aura, sitting at a table.
     He hadn't seen me yet, so I snuck up behind him, grabbed the back of his neck and said, "Don't fucking move vagrant!" Herbie whipped his head around, grabbing my arm and twisting me to the ground.
     "What the fuck!" I yelled.
     "You shouldn't sneak up on people, you smelly creep," he responded.
     I sat across from him, we chatted a bit and I looked down at my plate of food wondering what it was.
     "What is this shit? Where's the soup?" I asked Herbie.
     "Shut up and eat it", he responded.
     There was this enormous guy sitting next to me. He looked like one of those big time WWF wrestlers. He was starting to worry me, as he talked to himself out loud.
     "I'm a fucking Green Beret, dammit. Fuck Captain Kirk, slice that fucker up, damn Charlie. That's right! A green fucking beret, assholes and enterprises." he said.
     I kept thinking I would get a fork in the neck at any moment. I could see myself running around the tables with blood spurting out of my jugular, spraying all over everyone's mystery food.
     "So, what you been up to besides being an asshole?" I asked Herbie.
     "I been pretty busy trying to become a respectable politically correct citizen, who contributes greatly to this wonderful gourmet land of life."
     "Shutup. Hey, you wana go get drunk after this and play some guitars?"
     "With what money?"
     "Good point."
     I pulled a long black hair from the mystery food, which was sticking out of the mountain of slop.
     "Sick, look at this shit." I said, holding it up for Herbie to see.
     "What do you expect? It's free food." He responded.
     Herbie and me both farted around my place for the next couple days, moaning and barfing in pain. It was food poisoning. I concluded it was a government plot, to try and kill off the poor.

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