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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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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