Today Cory and I were pulling out of Jim Frederick’s Kenpo into traffic, discussing a gladiatorial Christmas theme ride that would have him sitting in the economy car that he outweighs, with a trunk full of dollar store goodies for the hood-rat yutes, cracking the whip on me as I towed the thing in a yoke under an antler-crested helmet…when something even more absurd stepped into view.

Right in front of the now closed diner made famous by filmmaker Barry Levinson, a hundred yards down the street from the more fit panhandlers that have squeezed out the pawn shop sign spinners, was a pregnant waif, walking the dotted line with a cardboard sign, raking in the dough from the guilt ridden suburbanites even as they fled the onslaught of food stamp week in the cars they shall never own.

This unsavory babe was literally stopping traffic with her half-covered incubator. Before the big man muscled his ailing vehicle into traffic ‘Mom’ was walking down the sidewalk counting and sorting her bills into denominations with her cardboard sign under her arm.

Every week for the past two months a shop in this suburban strip closed. Since March across Northeast and East Baltimore fulltime white trash panhandlers—the grungy Ted Nugent-on-crack looking ones that push old school black wino bums and insane fat bag-women onto the bus stops—have been proliferating. The normal count of one panhandler on the Kane Street Ramp has increased to three, working in shifts and handing off signs, for a total of six to nine guilt vectors. All across town, as our Master’s Macroeconomist Puppets announce our improving employment rates on Sunday Morning Corporate TV, the once blonde-haired e-coli of our postindustrial bowels are overflowing the ghetto toilet bowel to expand their groveling stain—and that reproducing skank on Joppa Road, two miles from the Baltimore County Seat and a horse farm, was using tight jeans and a mid-drift shirt in an attempt to make it sexy!

Why not, it’s a growth industry. Next to corrections officers I think panhandlers are the fastest growing segment of our service economy. Please, can we resurrect Roger Gorman and have him institute the Death Race? Would that require a constitutional amendment? Jason Statham can still drive the coolest car…

Perhaps some enterprising brats might hire these bums to dress up in North Korean uniforms and release them on a paintball course with helmet cams?

Couldn’t some of you rich golf-playing twerps hire these people to dress up as giant gofers and carry your clubs for that snotty kid that tells you how to hit the ball and with what club?

Please, expiring minds want to know what your solution to this two-legged hood-rat plague could be, and how it could enrich some interestingly flawed creep, who we might then elect in place of our current flock of drool political drones.

Eureka, that’s it, she had the answer all along: pregnant white trash stripers with dirty feet!

Harm City is safe for yet another day.

6/8/13