Reply To a Post You've Never Seen

A half-moment of explanation: My good friend (i.e. he tolerates my existence) Scott S. over at "Virtual Comedy Club" (oh, look up the link yourself, I'm too tired for this shit, and no one is reading this anyway) sent several friends (oh, who the fuck am I kidding? If you're reading this, you're one of them!) a treatise he entitled "I Am A Writer". It's a very good piece. I wrote a rebuttal, as listed below. Now, it';s not within my rights to print the original, and Mr. S. saliently made the point that my version is even more puzzling listed by itself, so here ya go:

I AM A SCUMBAG
by Allan Morgan

I am a scumbag. Above and beyond everything else, that is what I am. Male, American, white, tall, big (in so many ways), greasy, shifty, owner of many unwashed trench coats; these things are all secondary in defining who, what, and where I am, and what I have in my pocket. Even if I never make one more cent in my lifetime from my scumbaggery, I am a scumbag. Even if I never exploit anyone else in my life but a few expendable homeless people, I am a scumbag.

Another morning breaks over the trailer park. I awake to the sound of my "wife" slowly deflating on the stained and soiled mattress next to me. I roll over and peer out the grime-encrusted industrial blinds that close off the one window in the rolling carnival of filth I call my home. Not seeing any law enforcement or lawyers waiting for me, I roll my corpulent and bloodshot frame off the shelf that is my bed and slowly begin the arduous process of bringing up the half-digested remnants of last night's bender from my clogged and mucousy esophagus. Stepping into the shower/urinal, I notice that the drain is once again clogged with hair (some of it my own) and beer. Snorting derisively, I decide to ignore the niceties of hygene and instead pull of a mismatched set of jogging clothes with which to greet the day.

Throwing open the screen door (still off it's hinges, dammit!) and stepping out into the mid-day Barstow sun, I am buffetted by the dry, hot desert winds that greet my every move in this Godforsaken hole. There are no dogs to kick or children to hit on at this hour, so I decide to wander down to the local diner for a bite to eat. That, however, would mean spending money, the last of which was spent last night on booze and cockfighting. Therefore, I decide that someone else will have to pony up.

Emily Sue's trailer is three down from mine. I know where she hides her spare key, as I often watch her with my binoculars hoping to catch a glimpse of "the promised land" when she bends over to retrieve it. Looking to make sure the coast is clear, I grunt and huff as I lean down on one knee and start feeling her underside (a fantasy I've had many times in another context) for the key. It slips through my stained and greasy fingers several times before I triumphantly extract it and haul myself to my feet. The promise of easy cash stuffed away in one of Emily Sue's hidey-holes, or at least the chance to fondle some soiled lingerie, makes my mouth water.

It is then that I feel a sharp blow to the back of my head. I yelp and spin around to see Emily Sue glowering at me, a small sack of laundry quarters still twirling menacingly in her hand. I stammer briefly, trying to think of an appropriate lie that will cover up my indiscretion. Not able to come up with anything, I take a swing at her. The feeble blow luckily connects and sends her sprawling to the gravel beneath us. I turn and start to run (as best I can), taking advantage of this diversion. As I wheezingly trot away, I wonder how exactly I got to this place....