I see you in front of the U-District Whole Foods, waving your "freak flag," shaking your flea-bitten Bozo-the-Clown hair, playing the same stupid songs. I actually like street music, even if it sucks. Your problem is your shtick of antagonizing and intimidating people. You love to follow people and sing little songs about how they're elitist assholes for shopping there. I saw when you screamed your pathetic faux-political lyric directly into an infant's face, causing the baby to cry. When the mother asked you to get away from her baby, you started singing a pert little song about rich white bitches and their offspring. Eventually, you decided to turn your attention to me. I loved your little ditty about what a white elitist asshole I am, as I was sweating in the sun and WORKING for a living. Well, congratulations asshole, you've finally fucked with the wrong person. I would love to shove your piece-of-shit guitar right up your ass and kick you in the stomach over and over until I can't hear the sound of wood splintering anymore, but I'm not like that. No, I'd rather pose a challenge to anyone out there who knows this asshole: When you see him with his guitar case open asking for change, remember that he deserves a deposit from your cat box. Let this fucker reap what he sows.