Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Dark Day on Chocolate Bay

Up the bay at Port Charlotte, the same place where that drunken loon, Bob, tried to take his cat into that boob bar the other night, bad karma seems everywhere. . . .

Happy Pappy’s Day--Cops found the bodies of a father (54) and son (31) shot to death in their Port Charlotte home a few days back.  The two had lived together, shared a motorcycle together and , when sober, the two had an uneasy truce together.  That’s in the best of times.  In the worst of times, when drunk--which was almost always--the two fought constantly.  Even without the booze the dad could hardly walk because of a Harley accident, and thus junior was more than a match in the knock-down-drag-outs the two habitually got into.  Whatever—maybe the heat, maybe too much lead in the liquor—the two finally settled accounts with one another forever.  Senior gave life to Junior and Junior gave death to Senior.  Senior was blown right through a sliding glass door. JR apparently expired from the injuries which SR had inflicted. 

“I worry when people are getting killed in the neighborhood,” a lady four doors down fretted to a reporter.  Hmmmm?  Worried?  Really now?  Well fancy that.  Guess she would be “deeply troubled” if there was a murder a mere two doors down and imagine that she would be “seriously concerned” if it happened right next door

Also, a 79-year-old Port Charlotte man, James Boyer, was tooling along on the interstate at that time of day when all seniors seem to be tooling along—the crack of dawn.  Well anyway, one moment Jim was alive and reminiscing about Teddy Roosevelt and the charge up San Juan Hill; next moment Jim was dead as a mackerel in the moonlight.  Just keeled over—heart. 

Now, horseless carriages today are equipped with many modern marvels—power this and power that, cruise control, GPS, nagging robots—but auto-pilots are not yet a part of the package.   And so. . . .with the one and only captain of the helm now out of commission there was nothing to guide the two-ton missile.  Boyer’s car promptly flew off the road, crossed the shoulder, then slammed into a concrete barrier.  His passengers, Dick Dalpian 75, and his 98-year-old mother, Maria, were injured and taken to a nearby ER In various degrees of death.

“Alcohol was not a factor in the crash,” concludes the simple-minded reporter, wasting words, ink and our patience by stating the obvious.  Since there is no sniffing about Jim and his seat belt, I’m assuming he was safely buckled up like a good little motorist when he died.  No mention of “confusion” with the brake or gas pedals either so it would seem Jim had his faculties to the end.  RIP.

Over at Fort Lauderdale last Friday cops picked up Robert Malone as he was shuffling along a noisy highway.  In the past I have written about “bad ways to go, worse ways to live.”  Certainly Bob Malone is locked somewhere in the latter world.  For the past fifteen years Malone had been on the run from New Jersey for warrants on sex crimes.  Of course, first thing Bob does when he lams is head to Florida as do all molesters, rapists and kiddie fiddlers because it’s warm, there are plenty of kids here to fiddle and sex criminals, like all other birds of a feather, enjoy flocking together.  That’s the bad news.  The good news is that Bob Malone is 69 and when next he gets out of a Jersey jail it will be in a state-issued wooden box.  Six feet of Garden State sod should cure Bob of his perversion, I think.

Although news is slow on the geezer and pit bull fronts, seems there is always a surfeit of sex news.  Up by Tampa, another sweep by internet cops brought in a rich haul of steaming fiends trying to have sex with kids.  This type of “news” is getting stale.  Maybe I should start reporting when there is NO large-scale arrests of these miscreants.  Now THAT would be news.

The Miami face-eating cannibal, 31-year-old Rudy Eugene, drew a whopping 150 mourners for his last rites.  Guess if he had dined on the faces of two or three more victims he would have drawn a thousand mourners.  The program handed out at the funeral described the deceased as “a boy who aspired to the best, a man who was focused on enjoying his piece of the American dream (after tearing the victim’s face to pieces, “piece” might be a bad choice of words, I conjure).” 

Sorry.  No tears from this quarter for the world's great “loss” of poor Rudy.  Anyone who attacks another and chews his head down to the skull will get neither pity or understanding from me.  Like any other pit bull, animal or human, poor misunderstood Rudy deserved precisely what he got—one ounce of hot lead administered to the brain.  Nice shootin’, O’Toole!

If Rudy was smoked on drugs—as he almost certainly was—so what?  Whose fault is that?  No one forced this whacked-out head-hunter to fry his brain and go bonkers.  Like something right out of National Inquirer, I give you the following from a wire service:

Speaking publicly for the first time, the MacArthur attacker’s girlfriend told reporters Wednesday there were no warning signs to her boyfriend’s cannibalistic attack on a homeless man.
     In a prepared statement, 27-year-old Yovonka Bryant, who claims she was dating Rudy Eugene, the man shot dead after he chewed out most of a homeless man’s face, said she wanted to describe the Eugene she knew, not justify his actions.
     “I love Rudy Eugene,” Bryant said. “I felt safe with Rudy.” She described Eugene, 31, as a family man and a religious person. Bryant said they never discussed voodoo or cannibalism and that her boyfriend was likely drugged without his knowledge.
     “The time Rudy and I spent together, we took my kids out to the park, we dined in restaurants, we had family game and movie night at one of my relatives’ house, we often engaged in debates over what God really meant to people, and who was the biggest Miami Heat fan,” Bryant said.
     High-profile attorney Gloria Allred, who is representing Bryant, said she was hired in order expose the truth about who Rudy Eugene was.
     “This is a high-profile case, she wanted to have the truth come out about her relationship with Rudy Eugene, and to have people understand who he was from her point of view, from her knowledge, from her experience. And that is why I’m here, to help her to have a voice and to help her tell what her relationship was and was not since Rudy Eugene can’t speak for himself,” Allred said at a news conference.

Hmmmmm . . . “can’t speak for himself?”  Okay.  Let’s just suspend animation for a moment and imagine that dear Rudy could come back and “speak for himself.”  Pray tell, what in hell is he going to say?  

I didn’t do it!  I don’t even like human head steaks.  Even though a cop shot me dead while I was covered in blood with man meat in my chops, I didn’t do it.  And even if I did do it, it wasn’t my fault; it was stress and or/drugs and/or white racism that made me do it.  

I guess that is pretty much what Rudy would say if he could come back and defend himself.  I wonder how many dozen illegits this cannibal spawned and I also wonder if kids with that kind of DNA will, like seventeen-year locusts, just spring forth some night during a full moon and suppa’ down on their victim’s heads, like their ghoulish sire.

Walmart monkey spankers . . . Hobo head-choppers . . . Voodoo face-eaters . . . Florida!  Who could make this crap up?  It’s like National Perspirer newspaper is paying the savages down here to “act up.”

Homeless Sapiens in the News--Up in Gainesville on Monday, jungle resident, Jim Wimmer was just 'joyin' a "poor man's swimming pool" the other day, which is to say, Wimmer was a swimmer in the nearby creek (sorry, had to do it).  Now, messing around in ANY fresh water in the State of Florida is risky business; but anyone who swims in a creek in a town whose university mascot is called the "Gators" may be a bit of a risk-taker if you ask me.  Yep, poor Jim soon found himself in a life and death tussle with a rather small--by Florida standards--9-foot alligator.  Even tho the gator had only three legs, that was still more than enough limbs for Senor Snapper to handle any situation he encountered, including Jimbo.

When the armored eating machine had pretty much finished Jim's shoulder as an appetizer, it moved on to a main course, namely Jim's back and chest.  Fortunate for Jim, a resident of the homeless camp heard the ruckus and raced to help.  Grabbing a concrete block, the rescuer broke it over the gator's iron head, which forced the hungry beast to retreat.

Damn!  Bad enough to be homeless, live in a friggen jungle, share sleeping arrangements with meth addicts, sex deviates, the criminally insane and the non-criminal but mentally different; but to have to fight for your life just to stay clean?  BTW--Prior to last Monday, Jim was formerly known as James Winner.

"My ancestors might of been Winners," said the down-on-his-luck man matter-of-factly from his hospital bed, "but all that bull shit has damn sure ended with me.  From now on I am just plain Jim Wimmer . . . two MMs, no NNs." 


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