“I am so damn glad to be out of that Chinese fruit farm and away from that Dr. Wacko”, Dick Fitswell said to himself as his plane arrived at the San Francisco airport. I am back in the U.S. just in time to celebrate Christmas. “Fuck Christmas. If it wasn’t for my Dick Fitswell Fund to help the homeless I’d just sit this sorry ass excuse for a holiday out.” Dick Fitswell pondered the real meaning of Christmas for a moment as he lusted after his blonde stewardess’s shapely ass. “There are more suicides on Christmas than in any day of the year,” he remembered from reading an article in “Time Magazine” several years ago. Think of all the families barely making it being railroaded by beady eyed merchants into buying all those presents they couldn’t afford. Of mothers and Fathers dreading each new Christmas knowing all too well they would be put months behind in paying the bills all because of those rotten Christmas carols being played on the radio, those Christmas lighted displays in all the stores and people going around ringing Christmas bells all crying out in unison: “Give, Give, give to the kiddies or be a smuck”. And look at all the depressed people out there because they never got married, don’t have a steady boyfriend or girlfriend, or because they got divorced and no longer have custody of the children as they remember Christmases past when the whole family could get together. “I’m sure glad I am doing something about it,” Dick Fitswell thought smugly.

The sidewalks of San Francisco were filled with the homeless. Here it never got below 55 degrees---

---to be continued in the book which you can buy in paperback or for your Kindle or Smart Phonefrom Amazon.