Why did the armadillo cross the canal? Why? To show Florida geezers that it can be done, that's why.
Pretty nearly another victim claimed the other day
by one of our lurking serial canals. Although
it is extremely rare for senile seniors to survive a canal attack, and although the
circumstances in this case are rather unique, still, what in Chattanooga is this
strange attraction of fossils for canals?
Over in Port Charlotte on Wednesday, after
a minor car wreck between a really old woman and a really young one (surely the "perfect storm" scenario here), the elderly one thereupon became "confused," floored it, then rocketed straight into a
nearby canal. Had a former cop passing
by not spotted the sinking car, the canal would have certainly claimed its fortieth
or fiftieth victim this year, no doubt.
But he did spot it and so, off with the shoes, off with the socks, off with the wrist watch, out with the billfold, out with the cell phone, out with the car keys, out with the chewing gum, out with the breath mints, out with the Dunkin Doughtnuts receipt, a quick call to tell the wife he might be late for supper (rescuing old people is common down here), then finally in dives our hero and pretty soon the rescuer dragged dripping and disgusting from the mossy mess the rescuee.
Since there is no mention in the report where the lady was from it can be stated with absolute certainty that the addled old woman had no idea what planet she was on, much less what city she was from. Also, since the report did not mention her name, it is clear that she did not even know who she was.
Since there is no mention in the report where the lady was from it can be stated with absolute certainty that the addled old woman had no idea what planet she was on, much less what city she was from. Also, since the report did not mention her name, it is clear that she did not even know who she was.
Really now, who could make this crap
up? Just another day at Senile Central.
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Up Near Tampa #1--Last Saturday, up near Tampa, two skydivers fell to their deaths. Since none witnessed the incident—except, of course, the two most interested parties--there was a massive search for the bodies. Now, the questions.
One might have a chute malfunction, but two at the same time? Since the bodies were eventually found later that day fairly close to one another, a mid-air collision? Since one of the victims was himself an instructor, this too seems unlikely. A suicide pact? Since the men were from Iceland, that would be odd indeed, i.e., people coming all this way just to kill themselves. Murder? Since this place, “Sky Dive City,” is the same place where last year a female physician also died when her chute failed to open, is there some kind of sky-diving serial killer at work here?
Whatever, such stuff, such “sport,” like para sailing, hang-gliding, base and bunji jumping, is full of cheap thrills and serious risks and though most young people truly don’t believe it, death is always just a brain blip away.
“Last year across America,” brags the U.S. Parachute Association as it moves to damage control, “a mere 19 skydivers died, this out of 3.1 million jumps.”
Sorry, I have heard such stats slung around before
when used for flying, cliff-climbing, sky-diving, swimming with sharks, and other
risky activity. Like many other terrible
ways to go, it’s not the quantity of dying most of us fear, it’s the quality of
dying. Falling for several minutes, watching
death approach at 200 MPH while struggling madly to open a chute, knowing you
will splatter like a ripe tomato when you hit, or being eaten by a shark one
bite at a time . . . well, stats may say one thing but our active imaginations say
quite another. To some of us, we ARE
that one in a million.
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Up Near Tampa, #2—Sinkholes are back
in the news. After the horror of a month
ago in which a man asleep in his bedroom was swallowed by a sinkhole (he
still ain’t been found), another family three miles removed weren’t
taking no chances no way no how when their floor began to buckle and cracks appeared in the
walls. And who could blame them for being worried? And who could blame them when
they moved out Tuesday night? Like a
serial monster or serial murderer lurking in the woods, these serial sinkholes would be more
than enough to keep anyone--your serial blogger included--wide-eyed and bushy-tailed day, night,
morning, noon, dawn, dusk, afternoon, 24/7, year-round, life-long, forever!