Reports are rolling in from all our local beaches indicating that pedos,
pervos, whackos, floggos, and lustos of all descriptions are out in force.
Now that the Dog Days of August have arrived
the acme of outdoor carnal activity is truly upon us. Local Lust Control units
are working around the clock to curb the outbreak but they are undermanned and
overwhelmed. My sources also tell me
that some of these anti-lust units have actually crossed over and joined the
ranks of the lusters. There seems to be a coordinated attempt among the lewd
and the lascivious to perv the public with such a tidal wave of aberrant,
abnormal, disgusting, and degenerate activity that “normal” blue-nosed prudes
like myself, as well as other fussy featherless bipeds, will just throw up our wings and say, “What the hey? . . . The steamers have won. We can’t stop them. There’s too many of
‘em. They win. We quit.”
In addition to the hundreds of monkey-spankers seen spanking their
monkeys on the beaches, there are the usual list of couples coupling in public—male
and female, male and male, female and female, its and its (those large tattooed
amorphous things whose gender is not readily apparent)--who can’t resist and
who must have a quick “dip” for all the beach to see.
Ha. A more modest couple, a
homeless pair as it turns out, were caught by the Lust Patrol doing each other
in the privacy of a gazebo, rather in privacy under a gazebo. While those
who reported them admitted that they were not able to actually see the two
whacking, when they got real, real close they could hear them whacking. Well gosh . . . golly . . . gee whiz . . . go
figger! Those with homes must do it
outside, it seems, while those without homes must do it inside, or rather, under
the inside. I guess just ‘cause they are
homeless don’t mean they can’t be modest.
Although forty-something Wayne Pizzolato and fifty-something Rita Brunsell were forced to forgo their amour they now
have a home for the time-being, courtesy of the county lust prison.
One gentleman, a hearing and vocally different individual (“deaf and
dumb,” we used to call him) was anything but visually challenged when he
spotted a hot tamale on the Venice boardwalk the other day. Aroused to the max, this chap eagerly--grunts,
groans, graphic gestures, everything in his arsenal--tried to lead the lady from
said boardwalk into the nearby sand dunes for a really quick “date” (rape, we
used to call it). Her virtue in tact, the
woman fled the boardwalk and reported the incident to the nearest Lust Patrol.
Nearby, another nature-loving gent sauntered into a community center
naked as the day he fell off that turnip truck. After a short stroll
around the premises with his one-eyed weasel a waggin' in the wind, he put his bare butt back on his bike and pedaled away.
I could go on and on and on but. . . . (sigh).
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This is It!--As the Batman movie was nearing its dramatic climax the
other night over in Miami, some drunken fool in the back of the theater
apparently couldn’t contain his enrapt anticipation and just had to yell
out, “THIS IS IT.” Well, to this idiot
“it” may have meant the grand finale of a great movie but, with the Aurora massacre
fresh on their minds, one might well guess what the folks in the dark theater thought
“it” was. The place was cleared in 1.5 seconds
and, judging by the number of shoes still spinning around, most folks jumped
right out of them.
As the “it” man found out pretty quick when three large hero
types put an angry chicken-lickin’ on him and tied him into a human double-knot until police
arrived, Freedom of Speech don’t mean the Freedom to Scare People Into Another Zip
Code. You might exercise your “right”
and yell on a jet, “THIS IS A HIJACK” or “I’M TAKING OVER THE PLANE,” and you
might exercise your Freedom of Speech by yelling “THIS IS IT” or “I’M GOING TO
KILL ALL OF YOU” in a movie theater but one must understand that everyone else that
you are yelling at also has the Right and Freedom to beat the living life right
out of your stupid body if you do.
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Geezers and Gators # 16—Up near Homosassa, 70-year-old George Hubbard was
snorkeling on the Chassahowitzka River (I am not making these Florida names
up!) Now, why anyone calling themselves sane
would swim, wade, dive, water ski, skinny dip, canoe, kayak, pole vault, or,
for God’s sake, snorkel in ANY body of Florida freshwater this time of year is
a riddle I am simply at a loss to answer.
But anyway . . . pretty damn quick a seven foot alligator had old George
in his periscope. Now, I assume a gator
is like any other scaly, cold-blooded, meat-eating, prehistoric creature, i.e.,
he would much prefer a nice tender ten-year-old to a stringy old bird like
George but hey, times are tuff even for prehistoric relics and food is
food. Before Hubbard realized what had
happened he found his coconut, snorkel and all, clamped inside the gator’s hungry
jaws.
Funny. Although George Hubbard is
three score and ten no way was he willing to go quietly, gator or no gator. Punching and jabbing the hungry beast in the
throat over and over, George’s head, minus the snorkel gear, finally popped
out. From fast food to Olympic free-style
swimmer, old Father Hubbard didn’t hang around trying to recover his dive stuff
but. . . . One may well imagine that George
set some kind of super senior speed record exiting the Choosachoochee . . . the
Chessticlewhouzitkia . . . the Chu . . . exiting the river.
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Dog Days of August
