Fiery and incomprehensible sermons*

It's probably the case that I am not "replete with honor," whatever I intended that to mean. I mean, come on, how can one be stuffed full with honor? It's not like we're Turkeys. Anyway, I am further convinced that a person would be in error should they imagine that I was overflowing with honor for the following reason: I bought a homeless man a beer. Now before you get upset, dear reader, and rush to remark on the foolhardiness of my action, first hear my tale of how it was that I gladly brought an ice cold beer to this solitary man, this reluctant Tom Sawyer. My principle reason was this: He wasn't my mortal enemy.

So I was walking down the street - literally down it and not up it (there are only the two options strictly speaking) when I realized I would likely find him up ahead. By "him" I mean my mortal enemy. I knew to expect him because whenever I run into him it's almost always outside my local beer store. That's where he tries to part from me my heaps of cash. I've learned to anticipate him whatever direction I'm walking in. Even across the street (at a MacDonald's, another of his favorite places) I can easily spot him, his posture is always the same: Widely spread legs undergird a proud gut that overhangs his pants as a bluff does the sea. The confident orb of his blessed gut chimes in time to the music of the heavens, extending in flawless convexity to where his neck should be. There we are surprised to find not his neck but a noble chin, which begins cutting a miniature version of the same shape upwards to the top of his forehead. He looks like a grapefruit on top of a pumpkin, both of which are miraculously balanced upon the apex of his two perfectly straight, spreadeagled and sweat-panted legs. His arms hang at his side, his shoulders he holds back as though to showoff imaginary medals on his grimey and tattered uniform. I dare not quote from his encyclopedic face, except to mention that most of it's covered in a mat of stubble.

I can't imagine the complete variety of adventures this demon finds himself in but from what I've seen it's all about conflict for most of the day. He seems to approach everything with fearlessness and curiosity, he leaves no stone unturned and few passersby unharassed. He makes no bones about his intention to part us from our heaps of cash. He begs for and demands money using a range of techniques, but even at his most passive he exudes bravado and playfulness. I get the sense that most of us are indistinguishable to him as drops of rain. He is a cat that has died many times and is not afraid of doing it again. I've seen him do battle with fellow street folk, and though he rapidly seeks shelter from another's blows, he somehow manages to stand his ground and usually regains position after his temporary combatant has slowly drifted away. At times in a whispered mumble, at others like an opera singer, he chatters away at everyone and everything in sight, rarely without a cigarette, which he easily keeps teetering on his lower lip.

Most recently he's been plying his trade in a leg brace. Somehow he still manages his trademarked posture only with the added flair of crutches. He might have a neck brace as well but if he does it's kept hidden beneath the juncture at which the two orbs of his head and torso collide. While it is easy to appreciate his singularity and admire his unique way of living, one fateful evening I ran under his rails and he ran me over. From then on I do not hide my expansive dislike and avoidance of him. As far as I am concerned he deserves nothing less than my best flying elbow, my elbow is aimed at his temple. The universe has no time or place for such depraved selfishness, such unrelenting abuse and repulsiveness. Fortunately on this day, the one described several inches above, when I had foolishly stumbled into what was usually his territory he was no where to be seen. Like a stupid baby vulture I committed a mistake. I bite at noses and and get trapped in traps!

Well, no matter, it didn't matter, there is almost no empathy at all in the world for the struggles of baby vultures. Their vulnerability does not affect the profound morality of mankind, our development is too vast and penetrating to consider such natural quibbles. So it turned out that the idiot who pretended that they should speak about things they had no thought about was me. And I spoke anyway: "My nemesis, my hated adversary is no where to be seen. I won't hesitate in providing his replacement with the coldest, cheapest beer." And so I did. When I saw with my own eyes that my despised enemy was not present, I rushed into the beer store and greedily grasped for the cheapest beer available; only the most barely acceptable for my random beggar. And I ran in, and clasped the cheapest tall can of beer I could find. I paid for it, I thrust with a passionate eagerness my 2 dollar coin (Canadians are totally genius, we like deplore carbon footprints) into the cashier's palm. I exited the place where the government taxes vice, and strode up to this new homeless man with confidence and good will. "Would you like a beer?" I asked, and he answered: "Yes! Respect!" Respect indeed my dear troubled friend, respect indeed. Like a baby's first steps, the divine truths of human behavior reveal themselves.

*post title thieved from Mario Vargas Llosa