Thursday, November 17, 2011

Life is Just a Bowl of Pit Bulls


It’s a slow week in Florida for geezers and gas guzzlers. Pit bulls, however, are never in short supply.

Over at Boca Raton last week, a mother was outside her home enjoying a sunny Sunday with her tiny flock. When the startled lady looked over and spotted a neighbor’s pit bull—which had once again escaped from the fenced-in back yard--she raced to get her children inside the house. After a frantic few seconds, all were safely inside . . . except the mother. Before the woman could close the door the animal grabbed her leg and clamped down hard. Fortunately, the first cop on the scene, after “repeatedly” being charged by the dog, ended the incident with a terminal slug of lead.

No comment was forth coming from the distraught owner, poor boy. Almost certainly though, this worthy, like all the rest of the pit bull-owning crowd, was “confused” and searching for answers. Like other owners of these four-legged meat-grinders, this guy was no doubt trying to comprehend how such a “sweet-natured” teddy-bear could just up and attack someone so viciously.

No further word on whether surgeons were able to save the mother’s leg or not.


Bad JuJu, B’wana--Some really freaky Steven King type karma is occurring between me and the north drawbridge on this island. Two days in a row now that otherwise beautiful bridge has almost caused my soul to depart its mortal vessel and be sent winging toward either heaven or hell. For two days running now, just as I was to cross over at mid-point of said drawbridge, the bell begins ringing loudly on the crossing gates signifying that a boat is coming and that the bridge is about to open. Thus far, there has been no boat in sight. 

Now, me pedaling furiously out there as the bell clangs and the bridge opens is about as close to a nightmare as I can conjure at this moment. It’s like I’m in some sort of horror movie in which the bridge senses my coming and plots my demise . . . hmmmm. Now that I type this out, I think to myself: Perhaps the young bridge-keeper in his little office? Maybe he’s out to get me? Maybe this is how he gets his kicks?

As the old saying rolls: Just because I’m paranoid does not mean someone isn’t following me.


Ophid Hell--It now seems sorta semi-official: The Burmese Pythons have arrived. Michelle was talking with a friend and fellow horse-person the other day, a man who gets around plenty into the outback as well as the inback. Alas, this fellow is certain beyond a reasonable doubt that the giant, man- and woman-swallowing nightmares are not only up here in Charlotte County, but IN ENGLEWOOD!  Lovely. Just lovely.  And so, since it would not take the Michael Phelps of Burmese Pythons to swim the mere mile or so across Lemon Bay and set up shop on this island, it’s not hyperbole when I say that, as much as Michelle and I enjoy Florida, we will be moving to Europe as soon as we SEE with our own eyes our first monster reptile. Then, as they say, we are sooooo outta here!


Dr. Who?--A while back, 73-year-old Fred Gronkowski was having memory problems and sought treatment at a local clinic. Fred mentioned to a friend the other day that the treatment seemed to be working well but when the man asked what the name of the clinic was, Gronkowski drew a blank. Fred thought and thought, then finally a smile broke across his face.

"What do you call that red flower with the long stem and thorns?" asked Gronkowski.

"You mean a rose?"

"Yes, that's it!"

Fred yelled into the kitchen to his wife.

"Rose, what was the name of that clinic?"


Pistol of the Day