Problem. In the last several weeks I have noticed an
unusual—let’s say alarming--number of folks wearing a shirt very similar to
mine. Just yesterday, it seems, no one
was wearing this type of eye-popping color, now today, everyone is wearing it. This begs the question: If we all--all twenty
thousand of us here on Charlotte Harbor--wear florescent green when biking will
anyone see any of us? Will we become so
common that folks will look right over, past and through us as they do with the
tens of thousands of Harley riders in their standard uniforms of red bandannas, gray beards
and sleeveless denim?
Harley riders complain with every breathe that “no one sees us” and they remind everyone to “watch out for motorcycles” and yet they themselves are
guilty of using camouflage when they don their predictable gear.
To really be noticed when biking I
probably need an arresting, one-of-a-kind shirt--maybe one with a giant red swastika on front
and back, or maybe one with a life size photo of Bush on the front and Obama on the back, or perhaps an image of Osama bin Laden on front and back. Come to
think of it, my problem then might not be too few seeing me, but too
many seeing me . . . and trying to run me down and kill me
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Some 91-year-old duster was shopping at a local Walmart a month ago. Since the old chap didn’t even grab a shopping cart upon entering I suppose it’s a safe bet that he had forgotten not only what he was shopping for, but probably even forgot where he was shopping at. Any who, the befuddled old fellow did find a few things he probably had no use for and since the items were getting heavy he--as disgustingly old men are wont to do--sidled up to the first attractive woman he could find (or rather, he sidled up to what passes for an “attractive woman” at Wally World) and asked if he could share her cart.
Of course, ambling up to anyone in a store known around the globe for its seedy, sleazy clientele of
freaks, geeks, sneaks, cheats, and meth addicts is probably not a wise thing to
do. But, obviously, since this fool had not
learned anything in his first century on earth he probably was way beyond
learning anything in his next century.
Alright, let’s cut to the
chase. Long story short: “What person in their right mind meets a stranger at
Walmart, asks to share a shopping cart, gives that drug addict a lift home,
then eagerly offers to loan her his car any time this total stranger needs
it?" Clearly, no mind still swinging on
its hinges does. Clearly, to me at
least, this ancient cad was either clinically batz or hoping for something
more than a mere “thank you” from Ashley Mae Martinson.
Of course, Ash “borrowed” the car
the very next day; of course Ash “forgot” to bring it back either that night or even the first, second,
or third week; of course, it was only when Ash was arrested did she "remember" she
had borrowed the car; of course Ash is a typically drug-whacked Walmart
shopper with a list of crime credits longer than my arm.
If one is a scammer with zero morals, there could
be no better place in the world to operate than down here in Florida among the living
dead; especially so in the winter when the living dead flock to the Sunshine State under the
theory that it is better to have one foot in the grave and be warm than have one foot in the grave and be cold. When so many seem so
willing to be so thoroughly suckered, soaked and scammed, is it any wonder we
have so much crime in South Florida? Nope, no wonder at all.
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Un-Effing Believable. Here in the Sex Sting Capital of the state, of the nation, of the world, of the solar system, of the galaxy, of the universe, of all creation, one might imagine that the last thing in all infinity a SPODS (steaming pile of dog shit) would do is go online and set up a sex date with a child. After all the state and national publicity here on the Charlotte County line re kiddie porn and sex stings, after the almost automatic monthly haul of pedos caught in these nets, after the newspapers almost burst with accounts of such loathsome pervs nabbed on internet sex raps, one MIGHT think that these amorous gentlemen would, might, maybe, perhaps, possibly, just for the hell of it might set their sights on another area of the world where the odds of success are about a million times greater than here. But Noooooooooo!
What could 39-year-old career
criminal and kiddie fiddler, Thomas Hofmeister, have been thinking the other
day when he showed up for a rendezvous with a twelve-year-old? Had there been storm sirens wailing non-stop above and
red lights flashing on the house the obvious could have been no more . . . no
more . . . well, the obvious could have been no more obvious. And yet, obviously, Tom’s common sense was so
shorted out by his all-consuming lust that his libido could not help itself.
Whatever, in my Brave & Better
New World Hofmeister would find himself a candidate for either 1) a prefrontal
lobotomy [or the surgical removal of that area of the brain where ever sexual perversion
originates], 2) disarming Tom of his sexual assault weapon and its two ammo clips [castration],
or 3) a lengthy stay in that section of our local lockup reserved solely for
inmates who were victims of sexual abuse as children. Under my super scientific program, any one of the
three remedies above should guarantee an end to the problem, at least as far as Thomas
Hofmeister is concerned.
(This unusual fish jumped into our boat yesterday. Although I have seen a few in my life, Michelle had never before laid eyes on what some fishermen call a "Stalemate Shad" and others call the "Hypnosis Fish." We tossed him back in.)
