HELP BOULDER’S OWN HOMELESS PEOPLE, NOT TRANSIENTS!
By Max R. Weller
Yesterday morning, as I was waiting at the north door of Boulder Shelter for the Homeless before its 6AM opening to us hardy outdoor-types, a big raccoon came around the corner from the parking lot. He was interested in a cardboard container some disrespectful bum had tossed down in the grass; Br’er Raccoon looked me over, quickly decided I was harmless, then reached inside the box with great dexterity and removed a partially eaten hot dog. Carrying this meal in his mouth, he went on his way to find a private place to dine. Br’er Racoon was less than 10′ away from me at BSH — and I’ve also had mule deer approach that closely to my campsite as they graze overnight. Boulder’s squirrels, of course, are notorious for shamelessly begging for handouts in our city parks and other public venues; I’ve seen them take the granola bars I leave on the wall at my spot in the 4900 block of N. Broadway, given to me by passersby who don’t realize that I can’t chew them effectively due to bad molars.
The past few nights, the owls have treated me to their hooting, which I find to be restful. The whole outdoors experience I share with other living creatures as I sleep under the sky is a positive one, and serves to restore my good humor after the typical day’s battles with the worst-behaved bums.
Speaking of the barely human devils, consider what I encountered yesterday after returning to my neighborhood in the noon hour: I was sitting there in front of the Mexican restaurant eating my lunch, watching one of the white male pedophiles panhandling on the corner of U.S. 36, and I happened to look to the north along the sidewalk which leads towards the Dakota Ridge neighborhood. I was wondering how many of Donna’s Drunken Crew were camped out under the pine trees (on private property belonging to the HOA, where they routinely trespass); I saw an alcoholic homeless woman named Renee — her Real Name — squatting like a dog to take a piss right there on the sidewalk, in full view of any business owners, workers, customers, or nearby residents who might have glanced in her direction, as I did. Renee gave me the finger as she took a leak.
Right across the road, on the CDOT lot, is a port-a-potty that was offloaded on Sunday. It’s very conveniently located for the use of all the pickled idjits who want to hang out in this area, but Renee was too drunk and/or too lazy to cross the road and make use of it. She’s also too disrespectful of other people, as well as herself, and that’s what I told the silly [rhymes with “witch”]. I know many homeless women, and almost none of them would pee on a sidewalk in public as Renee did, then try to excuse her misbehavior by saying, “Men can whip it out anywhere when they need to pee — because I’m a woman you’re saying I can’t.” In fact, the homeless men are almost always very discreet, and have been using this port-a-potty the past couple of days.
Anyway, I left Renee and all of Donna’s Drunken Crew with the impression that I was going to call and report this incident of Urinating in Public to law enforcement. I don’t have a cell phone, nor do I want one, but they didn’t know that. As I went out to the corner to play the role of Sober and Humble Beggar, they all decided to make themselves scarce. They headed southbound, at the slow and unsteady rate of inebriates everywhere, probably to continue partying and passing out underneath the bridge over Four Mile Creek at N. Broadway & Rosewood.
Renee, this is where you go to pee.
I’m ashamed to admit making one statement to them as a group, even though they’re all drinking themselves to death and understand they’re going to die soon due to their chronic alcoholism. I said, “Hurry up and die!” I should never let their stupidity anger me to the point where I wish for such a thing.
On the other hand, if they get eaten by Bears or Mountain Lions, that’s just Nature’s way of culling the barely human herd . . .