Has
anyone else out there—and I am speaking to men only—has anyone else out there put on a pair of freshly laundered pants or shorts and found . . .
that they fit so
perfectly that you either choose not to put on a belt or simply forget to? Then, half an hour later, when they finally
get stretched out, you find that nothing on earth short of a tightly cinched
belt can keep these pant/shorts from falling down over your bare butt? Well, such an event happened to me at Walmart
today. Yep, when I left home I thought,
“Ha, no need for a belt me . . . these shorts fit perfect.” Lo! As
soon as I exited the car in the parking lot—BOING--I knew. Instead of driving back six miles to get a
belt, I determined to suck it up. And
so, as I slipped around Walmart with one of those friggen defective shopping carts that
pulls hard left and makes a major malfunction noise like it has a flat tire, I tried holding my
shorts up w/o anyone noticing. Mostly, I was successful; the slow pace of
shopping for food allowed me to discretely keep a hand on a belt loop and still push the fuggin noisy cart.
It was the trudge back to the car, however, that was awful. In addition to fighting the stupid shopping cart full of food across what seemed like miles of blazing hot asphalt, the shorts acted as if they would fall down over my butt with every effing step. Whatever, I must have looked right at home among the geeks, freaks, sneaks, cheats, carnies, big screen TV boosters, and meth scab pickers at Wally World, for none noticed, thank god.
It was the trudge back to the car, however, that was awful. In addition to fighting the stupid shopping cart full of food across what seemed like miles of blazing hot asphalt, the shorts acted as if they would fall down over my butt with every effing step. Whatever, I must have looked right at home among the geeks, freaks, sneaks, cheats, carnies, big screen TV boosters, and meth scab pickers at Wally World, for none noticed, thank god.
Moral: If the aliens and sub-humans at Walmart start staring, you probably best just go home and gas yourself.
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Rant
Therapy
“It’s
time to speak out. We old folks from the
Depression and World War II generations are appalled. What used to be the sins in life are now considered
‘rights.’ The morals and viciousness in
today’s society are worsening at a rapid pace.
It’s time to speak out to our so-called leaders.” ----Lillian Murray, Rotonda West
Ha! Glad the old lady above got all that off her
chest. I’m sure this rant to the editor
from a flimsy Florida fish wrap in a small, backswamp community will speed all
the way up the chain of command to those in charge and that someone will get
right to the bottom of old Lillian’s concern.
And if that doesn’t work, then maybe if Lillian just keeps voting
Republican for another hundred years all these problems will just go—POOF!—and disappear. Fact is, while Lillian and her “Depression
and World War II generations” were fast asleep, the weasel got in the hen coop
and stole the eggs. Lillian and most
other Americans didn’t get it then--and I doubt if they even get it now--but this
ain’t their country no mo. While they
were snoring soundly, the First World that was once America was handed over with
a pretty blue bow to the Third World.
That’s the reality. What Lillian
and other slow-thinking snail groaners—young and old--see now is not a war
still being waged for the “morals” of the U.S. but an occupation being hammered
down and locked up by our worst enemies.
We lost. They won. That is it.
We may as well either get cozy with the new reality or hop the next train
out of town.
“It’s
time to speak out. . . .” That’s funny .
. . and sad. Sorry, Lillian, you are a
wee bit late on that one . . . a mere fifty years too late. Not sure what exactly it was that raised you
from your slumber but now that you gave us all a good jest, please just go back
to sleep and trouble the world no more with your “It’s time to speak out. . . .”
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Scales
of Justice--And then there is would-be fugitive, Bryan Zuniga (let’s call him
BZ, or maybe “Buzz,” for short). Seems
Buzz was just minding his beeswax the other day, driving without a license,
driving erratically down the street, driving like an idiot, driving on the left
side, driving on the right side, driving in the center side. This sort of “driving” is exactly the kind of
driving that draws the attention of blue lights. So. . . .
When
the cops pulled him over, Buzz panicked and made a break for it. Forget the car, forget the future, forget the
fact that he was looking at a mere ticket, at worst; nope, Buzz just had to do
the impulsive, erratic, rabbit-like thing and try to escape. Funny thing.
After bursting his way through one of those vinyl fences so common down
here, Buzz did escape. Had this been normal street cops chasing him,
Buzz would have been run down in seconds; but these particular law dogs this
day were gravitationally challenged lard
lads from the county doughnut department and these ample-bellied badge boys never, in all recorded history,
have ever yet won a foot pursuit with anything,
and so they didn’t even try to run down a slim twenty-year-old.
Well, turns
out that a few hours later these same sloth-footed cops, as was their wont,
checked the local hospital on a hunch.
Bingo. They found Buzz in bed
bandaged butt and banjo. Seems our fugitive,
in his panic to escape, tried hiding near a water treatment plant and before he
knew it he was “fighting for his life” with an eight foot alligator. From the sound of his injuries, Buzz is lucky
to still be alive. Bites all over his
bod, tip to toe. When he gets out of the
hospital Buzzaroo will have quite a tale to tell his cellmates at the county
hoosegow.
Moral:
Never run from Florida cops. If da man
don’t getcha, da nature will.
