Wednesday, May 01, 2013

Mad Dog Mad

What passes for “Spring” here in South Florida would, any place else, be considered the depths of summer.   
Thus, with the furnace of Florida stoked and the “Dog Days” already here with a vengeance it is only to be expected that the over-heated nut jobs, the gibbering idiots, the machete maniacs, the foam-flecked road ragers, and the clinically mad mental cases are coming out in droves.  How mad are they?  Mad Dog Mad, that’s how mad.
Local loser and mental patient, Kevin Joesph Koscielniak (with a name like that, what else could he be?) broke into a garage recently where he formerly worked.  Other than killing a dog which lived inside, there seems no other motive.  Koscinelizcic took the dog from his cage, grabbed a tire iron, then beat the helpless animal’s brains out.  It was all caught on camera.  
Kocsieloviczh was nabbed a few days ago, mugged, jugged and charged with some minor crap.  No doubt Kocesspoolivizc is out today stalking streets, hearing voices, answering voices, eating peach preserves and sardine sandwiches, flapping about as free as a rabid fruit bat; and why not?  Judges turn loose rapists, child molesters and violent thugs with “twenty-strikes-and-still-not-out” so why not set free some poor screws-loose scrotum whose only crime was beating to death a mere dog? 
Call me a silly romantic, call me a hopeless dreamer, call me a sickeningly sadistic satanist, call me what you will, but personally I would be happy to hear that Kococrazysobzky had been taken out back and beaten to death with a tire iron, then that his carcass had been dumped into a canal where the gators could crap him out.  And yes, the murderer’s mug shot looks just as bat shit crazy as one might imagine.   
Heads, You Gonna Lose—Another local loony-toon, one Greg Cotton Boyd of Punta Gorda, had had it with the heat and stress and the Celtics losing in four during the NBA playoffs and . . . and local teens who supposedly tore up the street out front in their cars and called him names.
“I’ll blow off your mother fuckin’ heads!” yelled the temples-throbbing paranoiac as the kids supposedly sped by.
Finally, when the teens raced by again, Mad Dog Boyd reached for his sub machine gun.  Since he could not locate the gat, he grabbed a machete instead, then tracked down the kids at the local high school.
“I’ll cut off your mother fuckin’ heads!” the wild-eyed nut threatened the trembling, terrified, and by now totally traumatized teens. 
Blow off?  Cut off?  Hack off?  Burn off?  Dissolve off?  Pinch off?  Chew off?. . . Had this gone on much longer no telling how many more ways Greg was going to detach the teens’ mother fuckin’ heads from their mother fuckin’ bodies.  But alas, all good things must come to an end.   
After cops arrived at the school they conferred for some time among themselves before it was agreed that Boyd needed a few minutes of remedial tazing, just to settle him down a bit.  And, after that amusing electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg became much more compliant (which is to say, after that electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg became much more nearly dead). Boyd was thereupon escorted w/o further incident to an air conditioned 6 by 9 where his murderous mania might mellow out somewhat.
Up at Tampa last Sunday, a dude and his squeeze were out blazing through time and space on their crotch rocket.  Flashing across the Tampa Bay Causeway under the motto of “Speed Thrills,” the 41-year-old motorcyclist didn’t see the slow scooter up ahead until waaaay too late.  The scooter man died then and there, 54 forever.  The rocket man died pretty damn quick too.  It was his birthday.  The female passenger lives yet, but barely, and so, the child she and the rocket man made, three-year-old Dalton, may soon be an orphan.
Speed Thrills. . . .  Wonder how popular that cute slogan is among those who hosed the blood and guts from the road. 
Meanwhile, Back at Punta Gorda—Seems there is never nothing normal down here among the swamp savages.  Over at Punta, at the local nose-to-hole hump-and-grind outdoor theater aka the doggie bark park, 57-year-old Joe Johns got all bent out of shape one steamy eve because some chap in a wheel chair could not, or would not, control his pooch.  Seems the canine in question persisted in “jumping up” on JJ (that’s polite speak for “leg-fucking Joe’s leg”).  A normal person would have simply shook the dog loose and forgotten the incident in five minutes.  But hey, if Joe Johns was a normal, rational, mentally sound schmuck I wouldn’t be blogging about him, now would I?
And so, mentally disturbed Joe—burning with indignity--and burning from the tears of laughter pouring from those who were watching the dog grind on his leg--slipped from the dog's amorous embrace, walked over to the dog’s owner, then gave him a sound rap right on the beak.  Since that not only stopped the laughter but also felt pretty good too, Joe smote the man again.  And again.  By now, Joe was really warming to the idea of smiting someone who couldn’t smite back and so our boy then knocked the cripple from his wheel chair and really got down with the curb stomp.  Already helplessly confined to the chair, when the victim hit the turf he was as defenseless as an earth worm.  JJ continued to beat, kick and punch the leg-humping dog’s owner.  When the leg-humping dog’s owner’s girl friend’s mother stepped in, she too got a sound beating.
Meanwhile, the cops--on chariots pulled by only the swiftest of snails--eventually showed up.  Although JJ insisted that he was the victim, it was pretty hard to shake all that evidence—wheel chair turned over, cripple cringing on ground beaten black, blue and bloody and curled in fetal position, old woman knocked unconscious, cripple’s dog whimpering in sorrow and sadness for his smitten master while hungrily leg-humping cop’s leg—and so, in spite of his pleas of innocence, the bark park bully was cuffed and carted away.
No doubt Joe Johns is now out on bond, presumably looking for more paraplegics and old ladies to beat on.
Who could make this crap up?
Ironic Names Hall of Fame
Sandy Beach, Englewood, Florida (seaside seashell shop owner)