Sister Betty and Crazy Helga

Sister Betty lives across the street in Portland from a woman she's dubbed "Crazy Helga." Betty even has a camera set up to deliver live streaming video of Helga's "little green shanty."

That she walks to church every morning cradling a plastic baby in her arms is no proof of mental defect. That she stands in downpours wearing stiletto heels, a thin skirt and sweater, wiping the water from her face in flailing, angry motions, is also insufficient proof. And perhaps, one might even disregard that she has, against her will, spent time in mental health facilities.

I call her Crazy Helga.

Crazy Helga's husband, Nearly Dead Olaf, spent his days sitting in a nonfunctioning Volkswagen, drinking beer and reading bad romance novels. Someone took the Volkswagen away, so now he just sits in a plastic chair and mutters at Helga. Nearly Dead Olaf is constructed entirely from small twigs and worn leather. He is a walking corpse.

Crazy Helga knocks on my door and announces: "I do not like gay people in my neighborhood!"

I retort: "I'm not so fond of crazy people in my neighborhood. Can I bring you a casserole?" [Link]