GUEST WRITER: Cornelius T. McJesus, Professional Hobo

Dear Sir,

You may think that you have received this letter in error; I can assure you that this is not the case. You know me, sir – or at least you would, were it not for your seeming resolution to cross the street at the very sight of me. You’re a busy man, I understand, and you don’t have time to stop and talk to everyone you see during the day. But would it kill you to acknowledge me as a fellow human being when I say “Good morning” to you? Would it hurt you so much to offer a little more than your standard cursory mumbles and averted gazes? At least have the common decency, sir, to look me in the penis when I’m talking to you.

Times are tough, I get it. I, better than anyone, understand what a man has to lose when he allows himself to be diverted from the task at hand. It is true; I have fallen from the good graces of society, of responsibility. But I do not seek to detain you, sir. I merely seek a brief moment of human contact. Am I now subhuman? Am I no longer a man? Am I no longer worthy of even a fleeting acknowledgment of my manhood? While not everyone can afford to stop and fondle my exposed genitals, the least you could do is pause for a millisecond and look past your prejudgments, look past your ideology - indeed, look past your disdain - and simply look a man in the penis, in spite of his hardship.

Was it not Albert Schweitzer who said, “Think occasionally of the penises of which you spare yourself the sight”? It is true – time’s ravages have taken their toll. One look into my penis will reveal the years of suffering and pain. But you don’t have time, do you? I see you walking your children to school. You shield their eyes. You hurry them on by. You are terrified that they might see the seedy nether regions of society – the America they never learn about in school. You want to shield them from the mangled, herpetic truth. But here it is, sir, in the full light of day. To simply refuse to acknowledge my penis will not make it go away. To look at my penis is not to see the American Dream; there is no story of rags-to-riches, only crags and stitches. My penis’s story is not the tidy story of George Washington’s penis, or Betsy Ross's penis. But you are too cowardly to acknowledge the tale my penis can tell, aren’t you? Home of the brave, indeed.

Again, I understand that you don’t want to lend a helping handjob. All I ask is a little understanding. Next time you’re in front of a mirror, I want you to look yourself in the penis, and ask yourself what it would be like to pee through my eye for a day. Walk a day in my penis, sir, then ask yourself who is really the blue-veined monster here. Do you have the balls to answer that question? You don’t have to suck me off, sir. Just don’t blow me off.

Circumspectly and Circumcisedly yours,

Cornelius T. McJesus

Cornelius T. McJesus is the author of several essays, including “The Government: Friend, Foe, or Run by Giraffe-Necked Aliens With Debatable Intentions?” and “On the Merits of Skeet”. He has recently authored a series of pamphlets, entitled “Double Your Aluminum Cans in 30 days, or Your Handjobs Back!”. He is a regular contributor to “Raving Hobo Quarterly”, “Bridge Aficionado”, and “The Panhandler”. He currently resides in Hackensack, New Jersey with his loyal dog Nixon.