Homeless People Bum me out...

Try as I may to be the better person and feel otherwise, I cannot shake my disdain for homeless people. Okay, cue the cacophony of boos and hisses, label me a bad guy, and bemoan my incredible lack of compassion, but in my experience, very few of these people deserve my sympathy.
See, I’ve had some pretty infuriating run-ins with homeless people. Like the time I walked past a homeless guy who held a sign that read, “Even a smile will help.” After passing by and offering my smile, I learned the hard way that his sign should have read, “If you just smile, I’ll throw a jar of urine at you.”

Or the time I gave a homeless guy “the last fifty bucks he needed to buy a bus ticket to San Francisco to be with his family at Christmas.” Thirty minutes later, I walked by the same guy on the other side of the street. He was well into a brand new case of beer and asked me to help him with “the last fifty bucks so he could buy a bus ticket to San Francisco to be with his family at Christmas.” I told him that I just gave him fifty bucks. Then he started screaming that I ‘stop kicking him.’ So, it’s true, one rotten homeless guy can ruin the whole batch.

And just today, my wife and I took our daughter to see Santa Claus. As our little girl was sitting on Santa’s lap listing all of the things she expects to see on Christmas morning, a disheveled and drunk (are there any other kind?) homeless woman ambles up beside Santa and blurts out, “Are you gonna give me a home for Christmas, fat man?” Well, thank you, drunken street bitch for ruining my daughter’s magical holiday experience. On the way home, my daughter asked, “Why did that smelly lady want a home for Christmas?” My wife shot me a ‘careful-on-this’ look but I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Because she spends too much money on gutter wine and not enough on things like soap and buildings over her head.” Not my best work, I agree, but give me a break, I was pissed and put on the spot. Besides, it was fun watching my wife explain what gutter wine is.

The bottom line is that I think most homeless people are in the situation they’re in because they’re lazy. And I have no sympathy for lazy people. Sometimes they carry signs that say, “Will work for food.” That’s a lie. I dare you to hand them a job application. Sometimes they carry signs that say, “Vietnam vet. Please help.” That’s sad if it’s true, but in order to be a Vietnam vet, you need to be older than twenty-five. And rocking an iPod doesn’t necessarily scream poverty either. And the most consistent and manipulative message on homeless peoples’ signs reads: “God Bless.” I only smile when I see this and take solace in the fact that it’s less of a sign begging for money and more of a first-class ticket to hell.

So, as a rule, I do not give money to homeless people. I believe that giving them money only fosters more apathy on their part. I believe withholding a monetary reward for doing nothing will help them see what I see… that, despite their current situation, they have marketable skills that they're actively ignoring. Think about it. If you’re homeless and you’re out on a street corner every day begging for money; that shows dedication. And even though you’re not making a lot of money, you stick with it. And that shows persistence. Lastly, you have a dog that you support on virtually no income. And that shows responsibility. Dedicated, persistent, responsible? Call me crazy, but I can think of a few McDonalds managers would recognize those attributes and say, “You're hired!”

Not that I’d want your dirty hands making my burger, but with the money I’ve saved by withholding money from you and your homeless counterparts, I can enjoy a more upscale dining experience. Bon appétit.

Viva Viagra!

One of my few pleasures in life is watching football games on Sundays. I can pour myself a cup of coffee, unfurl the newspaper and settle in for a few hours of relaxation and enjoyment. Even our little girl understands that daddy ‘needs to get his football on’ and, on her best days, she’ll even settle in beside me and try to understand why daddy can get so excited or upset over something that happens on TV. Daddy reads the paper. Daughter doodles in her coloring book. Men beat each other’s heads in on TV. All is right with the world. At least it was until yesterday.

During a commercial break, a familiar tune on a TV commercial caught my attention. The ad featured a group of middle-aged men, sitting in a room, playing an acoustic version of Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas.” Only it wasn’t “Viva Las Vegas.” No, the otherwise innocent lyrics had been bastardized to pawn an erectile dysfunction drug. Awesome.

Now, having a child, I’ve developed a skill for changing the channel on a moment’s notice, if the programming seems like it could scare her or otherwise evoke questions that can wait, oh, ten years, before I need to answer. But this commercial completely ambushed me. I like Elvis. I like the song “Viva Las Vegas.” No need to change the channel for that. Stupid me. As the song hits the chorus, the group of men in the commercial sing, “Viva Viagra, viva Viagra. Viva, viva Viagra!” (At this point, you have to suspend disbelief that a group of men would ever get together, break out their favorite musical instrument and sing about an erection pill. Maybe I’m alone, but I have never, ever, ever done that.)

I held my breath. Maybe my fears of an awkward encounter would prove to be unfounded. Then I heard the announcer list a string of disclaimers, “Men experiencing an erection lasting longer than four hours should see a doctor,” and “Ask your doctor if your heart is safe for sex.”

My daughter looked up from her coloring book and watched the commercial with greater interest. I, in turn, watched her with greater interest. The commercial ended, my little girl continued looking at the TV for a second, and then went obliviously back to her Hello Kitty coloring book. I exhaled audibly. The football game started again and I went back to my coffee and Sports section.

Two minutes later, I hear my sweet little girl’s perfect pitch voice singing: “Viva Viagra. Viva Viagra…” After initial horror, I chose again to ignore it. Ignore it and it goes away, right? Wrong. Apparently, catchy limp-dick jingles stick to toddler’s brains. When she was still singing the damn song a half an hour later, I decided that corrective action needed to be taken.

I took a minute to carefully plot my course. After all, it’s not like your parents, friends, or any child-rearing book prepares you for this situation. I launch into my solution. “You know, sweetheart, that song you’re singing is actually a pretend song that those men made up. They changed the words to one of daddy’s favorite songs. The real words are: (singing) “Viva Las Vegas…” Now, I’m no singer and for good reason. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. So singing my ‘favorite’ version of this song certainly wasn’t making my case any stronger. And I couldn’t compete with the guys in the commercial. I mean, my buddies weren’t beside me harmonizing as we gleefully extolled the happy benefits of a rigid hard-on.

My daughter tolerated my painful rendition for a moment, and then hit me back with a shrug and: “I like “Viva Viagra” better." I knew that that was my one and only shot. Any more harping on my part and you can bet she’d be singing about Viagra to her kindergarten teachers and classmates in the morning. Besides, I should have really considered myself lucky. My daughter didn’t ask, “Daddy what’s an erection?” OR: “Daddy, what’s sex?” OR: “Daddy, why could that pill lead to problems with your vision or give you a four-hour rock hard woody?” Okay, I’m getting carried away, but you see my point!

As a society, are we really okay with allowing pharmaceutical companies to market directly to us? These commercials presume that there is no one better qualified to diagnose our body’s inadequacies than ourselves. And that’s simply not true. Because we as humans are idiots. Because very few have a medical degree. Because there are way too many of us who will pop a pill before we’ll ever look into a mirror and admit that a change in diet or lifestyle might do more good than any pill ever could.

No, some things need to be controlled by people other than ourselves. Those people are called doctors. Let’s allow them to do their jobs. In the mean time, I’m going to write my senators and representatives and have them introduce legislation to eliminate pharmaceutical ads from TV.

I know it’ll never happen. I just can’t help but shudder at the image of my little girl doodling in her coloring book, singing: “Viva Viagra.” My wife argues that our daughter is oblivious to what she’s singing and that it’s harmless. I disagree. It adds to my parental anxiety, which raises my blood pressure, which strains my heart, which may eventually lead to my premature death. You got a pill for that, Pfizer?