At one time I loved to fish, lived to fish;
could not imagine a life without fish.
Now? Boom. Nothing.
Nada. Zada. Zilch.
Zarcon. Why? Two reasons.
1) I am a vegetarian.
Even if one does not eat fish, fish have a nasty way of dying if they are
hooked deep, if they swallow a hook or if they are injured in the struggle or handled
roughly.
2) No challenge. Man v.
fish? Come on now, really. Last time I looked I had a healthy IQ. Last time I looked even the smartest fish was
a few points lower than mine. That,
pilgrim, just like America attacking one stone age country after another, is a
mighty unfair contest where I come from and it did dawn on me one day as
my arm got tired from reeling in one trout after another that a fish was not
wily or elusive or strategic or playing any games or locked into some sort of
war of wits with me as I tried to catch him; no, the fish, with a brain the
size of a atom, was just trying to put food on the table. That took the starch out of me and I never fished again.
And so, every time I think I might go get a line, then go get a pole, then go down to the crawdad hole, I give it a few seconds of reflection and think not. I must admit, however, that before I had such a cerebral epiphany about fair contests and such, fishin’ was sure a passel of phun.
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Image—Everyone is into the image makeover shtick. I won’t
go into the obvious , i.e., women and face lifts, nose jobs, botox, breast
enhancement, etc. No, I’m talking
makeovers by drug dealers who throw on “Just Say NO To Drugs” t-shirts and burglars who
plaster on a truck bumper a yellow ribbon and an American flag and who wear
baseball caps reading “Neighborhood Crime
Watch” (yes, they are “watching" alright—watching the crime being committed). Motorcycle gangs long ago got into the annual “toys
for tots” ride. Good for business. Change the negative (but accurate) public image of them as doped up, bar fighting, gang-raping, pathetic
losers.
Recently, locally, curiously, there was a “Pub crawl” by
local louts to support a local food bank to conquer local child hunger. That takes some brass, I think. What next?
A march by drug dealers to spread awareness of breast cancer? Registered sex offenders in a benefit walk
for child cancer victims? In this dog-eat-dog
world everyone is rooting and grubbing at the image trough, looking for any
edge, working every angle to get a leg
up on the next dog. I’m sure the biker bozos
above have created a lot of good will with the community and cops and bet me
many of them have slid right on through when bagged in a random highway check for
drunk drivers. Pub crawl? That is the lamest excuse to get tanked I
have ever heard of but should a hi-po pull one of these tiki bar sots over you
just gotta know that the five-times-over-the-legal-limit-drunk will beg out
with a “But occifer, I wuz jus at a (hic) good cause. We wuz helping little kids do something or
rather. Give me a break, occifer, give me
a break for them (hic) for them little kids that has cancer or whatever.” Not a Clancey, O’Malley or Muldoon could
resist that pitch.
Closer to home, I know a certain ex-law enforcement agent
(above) who sports a certain bumper sticker that proclaims her great love for a certain
law enforcement agency but which is really just a gambit to simply save some shekels
should she be stopped for speeding, which has worked in the past and will, no
doubt, work in the future.
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Merry Christmas—Two kids were walking through a mine field
the other day at Christmas—say what?—Christmas, as in the town where it’s
Christmas every friggen day of the year, Christmas, Florida. Actually, it was not literally a mine field
per se et tu brute, but close. Kids
found some old hand grenades laying around in a field and what would any normal
kid do in a nation that lives, breathes and sleeps war, War, WAR?—why, they
would play “war,” natch. Fortunately for
these two potential cannon fodder candidates in some future American attack on
yet another stone age country that can’t defend itself, the grenades did not go
off and it looks like the kids might grow up with all their arms, hands and trigger
fingers in tact.
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The Next Sound You Hear--Ever been sauntering down the
street on a nice QUIET day without a care in the world when one of those ghetto blasting stereos go
by and the vibration and noise nearly knock your noodle out of its brain box? And after experiencing such a blast, ever had
the urge to just pick up an RPG or bazooka that happens to just be laying around and transform that
lo-rider vibrating car and its so-called human occupants inside into nothing more than
a smoking hole in the ground? Well, one
chap here in Florida, 45-year-old Mike Dunn, was nearly blown into another zip
code when he walked from a Jacksonville Quick Trip and was greeted by the ugly sound (his comb-over was actually blasted over to the other side by the boom). The vibration from
such crap actually rattles windows and doors, even one’s dentures, and it truly interferes
with our ability to think clearly.
Perhaps that was why Mike became pretty darned enraged; perhaps that’s why Mike
told the idiot sitting inside the car to turn it down a might; perhaps that’s
why Mike pulled out a thug duster when said idiot inside said car gave him the bird
and called him a “mf’ing white cracka ass;” perhaps that’s why, with the sound
throbbing and blasting and rattling Mike’s brain, perhaps that’s why Mike
squeezed off some rounds and did some ghetto blasting of his own. And, of course, that is why Mike is now in jail on a murder rap. I feel like chunking into a bucket the
first $100 for the Free Michael Dunn NOW Committee.
As for the “victim,” sorry . . . Maybe if I knew him it would be different but I don't know him, so. . . . I’ll save my tears for eaten animals and abused kids, not for useless garbage like the deceased who probably never once
thought of anybody or anything but himself. This
gang-banger's days of car bumpin’ and
“beatin’ up the block” with rap sonic boom is dun over. Good riddance.
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Caricature of the Day
