Lost In Translation

I'm going to continue my all encompassing morally led charge to enlighten the masses with another bit of brilliance that I've grown fond of calling Wayne's Wisdom. 

I'll start with how I personally acquired this particularly potent bit of insight. It starts with me taking out the trash for the local pizzeria that I work for. You see, after a long shift of being run through the sausage grinder that is a delivery driver's life, I would have to do mundane chores. It's truly appalling that they would torture us so. I mean, I've spent a long hard day sitting on my ass listening to book one through seven in the Harry Potter series and earning tips for it, and now they expect me to do dishes, sweep and mop? It's bullshit. Dumbledore just died and I only received a 7% gratuity on my last run and now they expect me to perform multiple menial services? What kind of cruel world is this? I need time to cope. Plus, the plaque in my heart doesn't take kindly to physical activity. Sitting for six hours a day in my air conditioned car has hurt my heart's ability to push the congealed grease that's masquerading as blood through my ticker's piping. I'm convinced that the more I strain myself the sooner I'll need an arterial roto-rooting. I'm pretty positive that lethargy is the only thing that keeps the biological Jenga blocks that are my inner workings from crumbling like my self-esteem after sex. 

I guess these days bosses actually expect you to earn your paycheck. Damn competitive job market and overachievers making me look lazy. Luckily for me, I just pounded a pint of Ultra Black Rehab flavored Monster (actually a flavor - sad, right?). It was making me a bit dizzy, but this energy drink equivalent of liquid courage that amounts to about a rail-and-a-half of uncut cocaine helped me push through the more challenging parts of backpacking out the trash to the dumpster that was situated an inhumane 18 steps from the store's front door.

When I was a step or two away from the dumpster I noticed a homeless man digging through the contents of the receptacle. I don't usually go around assuming people are hobos. I'm just saying that when you look like a member of ZZ Top that's spent a Summer rooting around in a Taco Bell grease trap and you smell like you routinely sleep with someone sitting on your face, then I think it's safe to say that you can assume that there's some homelessness in the equation. The giant bag full of recycling and rifling through an unsealed industrial dumpster is sort of a tell, too.

While I was walking the forty pounds of filth out I realized that I was going to be tossing a bag of barf worthy waste right in front of my filthy friend. People always talk about the dehumanization of the homeless, so I thought I'd listen to my idiotic idealistic friends and spark up a genial conversation. I approached the man that I'm sure had mange and unloaded a new trove of treasures into the dumpster for him to scour through. I then courteously said, "Hey, how's it going?" just to break the ice. The grungy old grandpa responded with a shake of his head and a gruff, "What do you think? Not too fucking good." I guess that one's on me. I could have just done what the rest of society does and simply ignored the street urchin. Sure, I could have probably taken a better approach or asked a more tactful question. I mean, I sort asked to be snapped at when I'm asking for a status update from a guy that's semi-naked and digging for nickels when the moon's at its apex. Still, it doesn't mean he couldn't have stopped talking to himself, quieted the seven voices rattling around is his skull and said, "Been better, but thanks for asking." I'm not asking for the homeless to don a top hat and break out in an improvisational version of "Dancing In The Rain." I was just hoping to avoid startling the man so I wouldn't inadvertently get shivved with the bone of a half-eaten pork chop. I was also trying to be a human being and have a shallow conversation with a man that society pressured me into talking to in the first place. The man probably should have been committed and yet according to the tree hugging hippies of the world it's our collectively unprofessional responsibility to interact and empathize with these potentially dangerous people. 

Okay, so I'll admit that this incident is definitely on me. That's the wisdom, though. Don't talk to transients. It'll never go the way you're anticipating. Plus, I'm pretty sure interacting with them will make your children autistic. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that I read that in last month's copy of Popular Science.

Simply put, don't ask stupid questions. I asked an atrociously awful question and I got the blunt answer I justly deserved.