Crazy with an F

I got into an argument with a property-hindered gentleman this afternoon. I told him that tying your shoe laces is for conformist racists who secretly desire to be bathed in skippy peanut butter. He agreed with me until the peanut butter part. He told me Peter Pan was the best to bathe in. I slapped him. Skippy, Peter Pan? Seriously, everyone knows the only way to bathe is with JIF, crunchy specifically. He pulled out a pen he'd filed down and lit on fire to burn to a point and poked at my direction. He told me his name was John Roberts. I slapped him again. The homemade pointer fell to the ground and rolled in s shapes down the slight incline connecting cement and asphalt. As he reached down to grab for it, I kicked him in the chode. He focused more on laughter over balance and slammed his head into the door of a parked car. The door reflected the man's grin, dirt and all. He grabbed his pointer and rose to his feet, putting his pointer back in the pocket protector holding other homeless-made items: a syringe, a Barbie doll made of Play-Doh (though this Barbie was anatomically correct), eye glasses made of paper clips, and swim goggles, stitched together from used condoms. You know, the usual. He told me that dogs usually whore themselves out after 9 p.m. but like to come home and help cook dinner for orphaned children. He brushed his shoulders off, put his eye glasses on, and turned around and walked away. I asked where he was going, and he told me he had to give a speech on impotence and necrophilia. I turned to walk the other way for a few steps before being hit in the back by a bruised, partly eaten D battery. I turned back 180 degrees and the man was gone, though I could hear his cackle for a moment.