Coming to
an eBook reader near you, the above. A little autobiographico, a little
satirico, a little comico, a little retardo . . . and all for only three US
Dollaros.
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Low-tech
radar (mirror) . . . Check.
Anti-radiation
thermal screen (bandanna) . . . Check.
Wind
resistant optical protectors (sun glasses) . . . Check.
Personal,
self-propelled suicidal torture device (bike) . . . Check.
Lift
off on another day’s trudge up and down the skinniest, sandiest island in
Florida
.
. . and while I pedal along, sweat popping from my dome like salt bullets, some
thoughts.
Losing Your
Noodle—Two friends,
one a cop, another a fireman, are off this week down in either Key West or Key
East—I forget which—“noodling” for Cuban lobsters. According to them,
this is great sport, nothing like it, and the cuisine, of course, is
sublime. But . . . one might think that a fireman and a cop would have
enough peril in their lives w/o looking for it on their time off. You’ve
all heard about the noodlers who go hand-fishing in rivers and creeks, sticking
their mitts into underwater holes, hoping to come away with a major fish of
some sort. Well, as hairy-scary as that seems to this blogger, noodling
in salt water seems even more outrageous dangerous. For every one thing that
can bite, snap, chomp, and detach your paw from the rest of you in fresh water there are ten items
that can do the same in salt. Moray eels, sharks, barracudas,
poison-pointed lion fish, anemones, venomous sea snakes, octopi . . . those
would have to be the best tasting lobsters on earth to lure me into such a
“sport.”
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Help Me,
Honda!—I never hated
Harley Davidson motorcycles until I moved to Manasota Key. I never
realized how infernal loud these things were until I began riding this
beach road everyday. And I never realized just how many Harleys there
are. Seems every other vehicle is a noisy hog. Also, seems every
one riding a Harley down here IS a hog--an old, fat, gray-bearded greasy
grosser wearing a red bandanna and blue jeans and trying very unsuccessfully to
project an "outlaw" image. I have nothing against motorcycles,
per se, in fact, the big, quiet Honda Goldwing is just jim-dandy with
me. But the Harley owner seems to be a grown child looking for attention,
a grown child yelling at the top of his lungs, "Hey! Hey! Look
at me! Look at Me! I am important! I am a rebel. I am
macho! I am so bad! So are my two pit bulls at home, Bonnie &
Clyde! I count! I'm important! Look at Me! LOOK AT ME!” The sound blast from these
big bikes just plays hell with the birds and wildlife and tranquility along the way.
As I pedal along, beneath the
canopy of Spanish Moss, Mangroves, Cypress, and Bougainvilleas, and as the 15th
Harley in one mile roars by, I repeat three times slowly . . . “Imagine a
motorcycle-free Manasota Key . . . Imagine a motorcycle-free Manasota Key
. . . Imagine a motor . . .” or, I hum a couple of bars of that old Beach Boy’s
groove, “Help Me Honda, Help Me Get Harley Out of My Life.”
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Happy's
Hamburgers--One of
the more interesting facets of post-sanity America is just when one thinks
things can get no more macabre, horrific or ghoulish, they do. Cops
arrested an individual up at St. Pete a few days back, one Ronald Brown.
Apparently Ron was drooling out loud to a like-minded friend online about how
nice it would be to rape, kill and cook a child for supper. Brown, 57, is
known in the Tampa Bay area for the grandfatherly puppet shows he stages that
have entertained children for years with tales from the Bible. This
rather harmless-looking gentleman often drove kiddies to church and treated
them to pizza on the ride home. When cops arrested him, Brown was licking
his chops for one little child in particular and his mouth actually
"watered" at the thought of raping and eating her. He was
hungriest for, and hankered hardest for, female toddlers it seems. Ron admitted
that summer was his favorite season since the littlest and juiciest children
all run around "almost naked" and it was easier for him to envision
such tempting taste treats packed between sesame seed hamburger buns.
Somehow even John Wayne Gacy
and his clown suit seems like a kinder, gentler throw-back to a better time;
somehow even the gay-eating cannibal, Jeffrey Dahmler, seems almost pure as the
driven snow compared to this gentleman puppeteer, this Ron Brown chap.
Would he have followed through with his gastronomic day dreams? Would he
have actually chowed down on children as he said? Who cares. Any one that
twisted and demonic should be dragged from the jail by his heals and burned at
the stake just as quickly as Pay-Per-View can set up the cameras.
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On a lighter note--After the
pit bull attack at the vet's up in Panama City I reported on in the last blog,
43-year-old Laura Miller is now learning how to drive a car and dress herself
with one arm. What little there was left of Ms. Miller's arm had to be
amputated at the shoulder. Unlike gators, who snap off and gulp down
human limbs whole, it would have done no good to gut the bull in search of the
arm since it would have been in a dozen pieces. Though I am certain he is
"confused" by the attack--provided he is coherent and sober enough to
be confused about anything--zero comments from the poor distraught pooch's
owner. The lady who runs the animal "hospital," on the other
hand, told authorities that the dog had been boarding at the kennel for almost
two weeks now and was “never aggressive." Hmmmmm . . . sounds a bit
like the loony-toon out in Colorado who was “never aggressive" a day in
his life either, never aggressive a day in his life, that is, until the day he
killed a dozen folks.
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