Sharing a drunk cigarette with your friends is a bonding experience. It’s a time to relax for a few short, sweet minutes and savor the cancerous pleasures of life. But have you ever shared a Marlboro Red 100 with a homeless guy? Well, let me tell you a fuckin’ story.
Once upon a time I was sipping a few Bud Heavies with the boys, and before we called it a night, our buzzed hive minds collectively decided that it was time for a little dessert in the form of tobacco. After losing a coin toss (rigged), I was tasked with retrieving these banana splits. So I walk my ass to ExonnMobil (AKA the Disney World of Swishers and Colt 45s alike) to purchase some cowboy killers. I go in and make the buttery smooth transaction, complete with one of those dinky, clear plastic, piss boy lighters. As I’m leaving, I see a silhouette appear. Is it Jesus? Is it Batman? No, it was Mike the homeless guy. I think that Homeless Mike may have been a fighter pilot in the past, because those bloodshot eyes missile locked onto my tangy red chevrons. Like the relentless bastard he was, homeless Mike wanted in on the honey pot that was my cancer sticks. So I gave these darts a filthy, dirty, spanking, and whipped off that golden string of plastic to be greeted by the sensual smell of refreshing tobacky. I retrieved and administered one of these lung muzzleloaders to homeless Mike like he was having an allergic reaction and needed an EpiPen.
Now, Mike was actually a pretty cool dude. I sat there and ripped a butt with him, and he had some neat stories. My personal favorite was when he “used to throw firecrackers into ant colonies and watch them go straight to hell.” Fuck yeah, Mike! Fuck those ants! Mike also wore an oversized blazer like they did in the 2003 NBA draft class.
Will I ever cross paths with Mike again? Who knows. Will I ever bond with a homeless guy over a cigarette again? God, I sure hope so.
