A Tale From A Heart That's Full Of Love

As most of you are aware by now, I tend to be a private person. Sure, these pages may give one the illusion that I am an open book, but it reality, what do you really know about me? That's right, you know virtually nothing.

I received an email the other day from a fellow Mitchievillian named *Todd*. Todd wanted to know if I have any hobbies, any interests, or if I volunteer my time with any groups. Well, generally when someone that I have never met or have any desire to ever meet asks me a question like that, I tend to tell that person to pound sand and fist themselves, but this isn't the time for anger, this is a time of sharing.

Let me share a secret with you.


To answer Todd's question as to whether I volunteer any of my free time to any organization, my answer is yes. Yes, Todd, I give freely of my time. On weekends, I travel to the downtown core of Toronto and help the homeless. I am neither paid or even thanked most times, but I do this out of the goodness of my heart.

Last week for instance I met Danny (in picture). Danny was out of his mind, possibly on some sort of mind-altering drugs. He kept telling me that he was a multi-millionaire and had a wife, two children and a cat. As he sipped his Starbuck's caramel latte, I came to the conclusion that Danny was a drug addict and a liar and only I could help him.

When Danny got up to go to the bathroom, I followed him into the washroom and used the old ether and a rag trick. I knocked Danny out and dragged his unconscious body out to the gutter. I wanted Danny to learn a hard lesson: Liars never prosper, and liars are in need of a *time-out*.

I went back into Starbucks and finished up my large Machioto Frappachino Abiviacchio Cappuccino and decided to wait a few hours for Danny to sober up and come back down to earth.

About six hours later I went to check on Danny and found him in a semi-conscious state, cuts and bruises, welts and blood adorned his liar face. He kept screaming that he was just beaten up and robbed of all his money. Danny just won't stop lying. "Back to the gutter for you, Mr. Liar Pants", I told Danny.


A few hours later Danny woke and asked me to take him to his home at 734 Rooterhiem Lane in Rosedale. I completely ignored his insane request and grabbed him by the arm and started to drag him off to St. Timothy's Men's Shelter. The more Danny screamed and kicked, the more I was determined to get this sorry case some help.

I grabbed some street meat from a vendor and forcibly shoved the sausage dog into Danny's mouth. Danny cried that he was a vegetarian, but Danny has done nothing but lie since we met, so I wasn't going to fall for his little trick. No Sir.

Before I pushed Danny through the doors of the men's shelter, I asked him to look to the north and take in the beauty of the northern lights and say a little prayer with me. Danny insisted that he was Jewish, but I knew better, he was probably a Catholic.

As I recited the Lords Prayer, a little tear trickle started to stream down Danny's dirty, scarred and mangled face. I knew at that point that I had gotten through to him. Maybe Danny's cycle of lies had finally ended.

To make sure Danny got a bed that night, I injected him with a rusty syringe filled with heroin. As Danny's eyes rolled back into his head, I let him fall into the waiting arms of one of Toronto's finest shelter workers.

"You take good care of Danny, I said, he's a special little guy."