Fun With Stupid

Just back after three days and two nights on a strange group of Voodoo Islands known as Turks & Caicos.  Water bluest, wind warmest, sun happiest, melons sweetest, beer vilest on earth.   I will post some photos over on face book but first. . . .

Some hapless, hopeless, homeless-sapien over in Miami, 49-year-old Richard Brandenburg, decided he would play gallant hero the other night and fetch some fair maiden’s lost car keys from a flooded down town storm drain.  But forsooth, sayeth Sir Richard, “I must first this half pint of rum guzzle down lest my right strong arms become bone-chilled in yon swirling flood below.”  And what’s more, continueth Sir Dick, “A cigarette I first must smoke lest my nerves become unsteady for the heroic feat I am about to perform.”

With that, our brave white knight, tattooed and drunk, dutifully dove down into the murky muck below fishing for his fair lady's lost keys. 

After a few minutes of groping in the mess, up popped our Sir Dick, sans the keys.  Never fear.  Another smoke, announced he, would stand his nerves in good stead, and perhaps another stout swig of fiery rum would stay the chill in his limbs, if some kind soul nearby would but offer him some.  They did.  Although our shirtless knight clad only in tattooed armor claimed to have prior “experience in sewers,” this chivalric affair, this quest for the Holy Car Keys, was proving a tuff nut to crack. 

At length, our cavalier screwed his courage up yet again and once more, into the foul, fetid froth did he yet again go.  After a minute or so, however, once more Sir Dick’s head popped up for yet another rum and smoke break.

At last, with the tears and entreaties from the lovely maiden urging him onward, our knight now determined to do or die, and thereupon pitched he back in again. This time, however, as the minutes ticked by, no Sir Richard, no Sir Dick’s head, no sir, no nothing.  Minutes passed.  Nothing.  More minutes passed.  More no nothing

When Fire and EMT appeared on the scene they quickly followed the sewer to the first manhole cover down the street.  There, they flipped the lid, and zounds! there was Dick, more dead than alive.  And so, while our boozed up hero never did recover the car keys, he himself was recovered by his rescuers and is now recovering in a local hospital.

Swamp savage, dumpster-diver, stump-grubber, rum-chugger, cig-sucker . . . add sewer-skimmer to Sir Richard’s credits of questionable talents.

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Motherz in the Newz

A Port Charlotte mother decided to make a day of it when she invited her teen daughter and friends along while she burglarized a home.  Seems the owner of the place had recently kicked the bucket and the mom reasoned that if she didn’t break in and steal everything, someone else would.  Adding some family quality time to the business operation was just icing on the cake because, after all, love and sharing are what mom’s are for, right?  

Well dang it, after nosey neighbors spotted this hard working crew loading the loot into the back of a truck, sure enough cops showed up and rained on this fun-filled family parade. Turns out that this delectable damsel, this mom--as short and squat as she is sneaky and stupid--has a rap sheet as long as she is wide.  Certainly one of the most mis-named drug-addicted thieves anywhere, Enchantra Love Meade is anything but enchanting, loving or sexy.

Up at the "Railroad Death and Dismemberment Capital of Florida," Lakeland, nothing new to report from the homeless-headless hobo world but little Chauntasia Gardiner up there is now five months old forever.  No, the child did not die on train tracks as virtually everyone else up there seems to do.  Nope.  Chauntasia’s ma, Tavishia, or Tamisheika, or Takashima, or whatever, just let her starve to death.  Lame excuses were proffered about confusion in mixing baby formula or reading food instructions or whatever alibis popped into an empty head, but the fact is that the baby weighed less when it died than it did when it was born.  Seems that the same vagina which squeezed out the child spent waaay more time trying to come up with a clever, original name for the baby than it did feeding it.  Pretty clear to this old city boy that the child is better off dead than being “raised” by something almost too ignorant to breathe much less make babies and keep them alive. 

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Kismet--Bob Bodenheimer was one of our lazy locals who wanted it both ways—when he went out on his bike to buy booze or smokes he wanted to reach his destination but he didn’t want to put out any effort to reach it.  Since a motorcycle would cost way more than Bob could afford, he put his mind to work.  Bingo!  Being something of a tinkerer, Bill found or stole himself a cheap little motor, attached it to the chain, and shezzam!  he had himself a motor bike. 

Problem.  Other than the stares and laughter of those on real motorcycles and those on real bikes, not to mention those in real cars and trucks, Bill’s biggest issue was that his silly contraption was too slow for the road and too fast for the sidewalk.  This posed a challenge.

Solution.  Enter one 74-year-old modern mature motorist and his 85-year-old geezer passenger.  Together, the combined age of these two was about the same number of years as it took for the Roman Empire to rise and fall, but the cumulative eyesight of these two fossils, as well as their cumulative earshot, was still not enough to see or hear Bill puttering along on his bike-a-cycle.  And so, Ebenezer and Methuselah simply ran over him. 

Conclusion.  Alas, neither geez was hurt in the least, naturally, unfortunately; no surprise here.  But poor Bill was pretty used up and just about mortally killed.  Since Bill cracked his coconut on the concrete in the mishap, and since there is no mention of a helmet in the report, that means Bill was clearly wearing one.  It also means that the helmet didn’t matter a dime.  Lord, I had hoped that all the geezers had either fled Florida by now to continue their reign of terror up north or that those remaining here had all walked into a canal by now, but nope.

Corrigendum.  I see that "Bob" above quickly morphed into "Bill."  Apology for my scrambled thought process today.  After drinking three or four hundred bottles of it last week, that's what I mean by the voodoo beer above being the "vilest."  The fact that I am too lazy today to change Bill back to Bob is also what I mean by the beer being the vilest.