Booze Bags Boozin’ By the Bay

So much for my boast in blogs past that our day time drunks over at Indian Mound Park in Englewood are somehow a more sedate and subdued crowd when compared to other such scrotum I have witnessed elsewhere.  So much too for my supposition that these feral party beasts must have worked out some sorta deal with the local constabulary, viz., “We will mind our drunken manners and not raise holy hell if you allow us to use the furthest-most picnic shelter to hold our daily boozathons.”

Yesterday, as I lay sweating on a bench at the half way stop of my bike ride, up walked this drunken clown and said something jocose to me.  Now, since the benches are on the shore line and removed from everything else in the park, one has to go out of one’s way to walk right by one who is resting one’s self after a 15-mile bike sprint.  Thus, I was in no mood to pass pleasantries with this grinning goof.  Didn’t matter.  Unbeknownst to me as I lay, over on the next bench, maybe twenty feet, a nice-looking fortyish female had quietly sat down and she, of course, was the true target of this booze bag.  

And so, our jolly good fellow plops down beside the woman and starts an inane conversation.  The lady obviously did not want to be rude and get right up and move and so she tried smiling and answering questions from the idiot, exchanging names, home towns, marital statuses, etc., and all within the first 30 seconds or less of “conversation.”  But even if it was not instantly evident to her, it was crystal clear to me what this fool’s intentions were.  His speedy approach lacked even a hint of subtlety and he might just as well have said:

“Hi, my name is Bob.

Your name is Mary?

I don’t have a driver’s license.

You do?  Great. Let’s fuck.”

During this exchange (or words to this effect), up walks some shirtless buffoon even more drunken and foolish than “Bob”, and this homeless-sapien with the raspy, gutter voice starts spoofing (as only a drunk can spoof) that Bob OWED HIM SOME MONEY, and owed it NOW, and OR ELSE, and other such stupidities that he thought was funny.  

Anyway, I had made up my mind that if the thing got out of hand I was going to play the Bald Ranger and step to the plate.  Fortunately, nothing happened and no hero was needed this day.  When I got up to leave after five minutes or so of this nonsense, the lady did the same.  And that was the end of it.

Anyway, as I learned from the incident, our resident shirtless, shoeless, soberless, and senseless drunks who spend their nights in the woods and their days loitering at the park are just about as low and ignorant as any of their ilk anywhere.

(For more on this Lemon Bay Brew Crew, check out a previous blog, “Home is Where the Beer Is,” 2.7.13)

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Hmmmmm--The editor of our local rag is euphoric today.  Florida now allows Canadian snow birds to drive here in the state without a special driver’s license, as per the past.  Okay.  Fine. Good. Great.  Spectacular.  I am for it.  Sounds super to me.  You got a problem with that?  We have a ton of good folks down here every year from north of the border living decently, quietly, honestly, legally, and lawfully. 

“The last thing we needed was to hassle them,” explains the editor, no doubt with all the millions in Canadian bacon these people drop in the bucket in mind.

Again, I agree.  Now, I do wonder if our editor would also like to grant these people the right to protect themselves here in darkest Florida?  I wonder if our editor would be willing to grant these people conceal/carry permits?  Disarmed Canadians make nifty targets in this crime-crazed state.  Two Canadians, an elderly couple, were recently robbed in their condo over on the wrong side of the state.  Before the thieves left, they raided the fridge—a bit of cheese, a little wine, maybe some ham--then smiled and coolly blew the couple's brains out all over the room.

How about it, Mr. Editor?  I know you’ve had a ton of anti-gun propaganda in your sniveling fishwrap lately.  But hey, you yourself have now gone on record as saying that we should not “hassle” our guests from Canada.  Okay.  Fine. Does your definition of not hassling Canadians also include not killing them?  How say ye, Mr. Editor?  Are you on the side of gun-control and death?  Or are you on the side of self-defense and life?  Simple question deserves simple answer.  Yea, or Nay?

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Hell Holes--After the sensational sinkhole nightmare up near Tampa a month ago in which a man sleeping in his bedroom was devoured by a hungry Mother Earth and seen no more, folks there are understandably nervous. Virtually any new hole—mole hole, gopher hole, rat hole, man hole—which appears with the dawn, will get the undivided of all humanoids within a ten mile scream and shout radius. 

Thus, when one family spotted a 7’ wide hole a few feet from the house yesterday morning, no grass grew under anyone’s feet as they made their dash from death.  As it turns out, the hole in question was created because a septic tank lid had been left uncapped.  Hmmm.  Seems in this case one would have smelled the hole long before they would have seen it.  Whatever, the message is clear: Up near Tampa, when in doubt, RUN LIKE HELL!

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Past Imperfect—Obviously, since there are so many of them, squirrels have become very good at survival.  But their skills are incomplete.  Clearly, they have a ways yet to go up the evolutionary ladder.  Watching one little gray rodent nervously chattering upside down on a palm tree in our yard this morning, it occurred to me: You little moron.  If you would just freeze and remain stock still, nothing on earth could detect your gray body on that gray surface.  But noooo, you must chatter and shake that bushy tail at me, or a feral cat, or whoever it is you are mocking.   

“Hey . . . Hey!  Here I am, predators!  See this big, twitching tail?  Hear my nervous chatter?  I’m here.  Come kill me.”

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Way Back, Now!—I see where DNA research is poised to clone and revive long extinct species.  Off the top, I am very excited at bringing back species long since extinct.  I am down for it.  Let’s bring back Carrier Pidgeons, Spanish Ibex, Dodo Birds, and Wooly Mammoths---but please, just let the saber-toothed tigers, the fifteen foot cave bears and the Giant Florida rattlesnakes rest in peace.  Selective Revival, that’s my motto.