Up at Zephyr Hills, near Tampa, the winner of the
largest lottery haul ever finally surfaced.
After a month of wonderment as to who here in Florida won it, we finally
have a winner.
No surprise for Florida
that the winner is eighty-four-years-old.
Wow. Eighty-four! Looks like the dough arrives just in time to
give this lady a state funeral on a scale not seen since the days of the ancient Egypt. But hey . . .
hello? Fifty years too late! Back fifty, even forty, years ago this woman
might have shopped till she dropped, might have traveled, partied, raced
around in jet planes and sports cars, and screwed till her head fell off. But now?
Well, hell, I ‘spect she’s gonna get that hip replacement she always
talked about. Or, maybe she will update
her walker.
The lady is originally from way “down north” in Maine (I know from experience that this is up in the deep pine wilds where moose and bears easily outnumber humans and a beat-up double-wide is something most people there can only dream of). The article mentions that her friends and relatives up in Maine are “very excited for her.” Oh, and I just bet they are. And I just bet they are probably pretty giddy about latching onto some of that loot themselves.
Sigh. This
poor old woman. . . . As if old age and dying by degrees daily don’t already suck, now
she has to spend her last days dealing with every dirty pest, every scummy scam
man, every church chiseler, every “charity” cheat, and every long-lost-15th
cousin-by-marriage on the planet, not walking, but dashing, racing,
streaking at her with a crocodile tear on their cheek and a scaly paw outstretched.
Truly, fame and fortune doth demand its wage.
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Hangin' Loose Motha Goose--Another “mild” tropical storm hit us this week. Nothing to get worried about. Nonstop rain for forty-eight, 60 MPH winds,
hundred foot waves, palm fronds crashing down, a tornado ten miles north of us,
debris blowing across roads that look more like canals than roads . . . just normal
stuff. And oh yes, the first batch of
turtle eggs on this island—some three hundred nests—totally lost to the surge.
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Great Gun
Control--It’s a hard row to hoe, I know, but some bod’s gotta do it, ho, ho, ho. I mean those pre-dawn night stalkers who
actually get up before Mexican roosters to fold, wrap, then deliver these
pointless newspapers. True. Newspapers are relics. When the current geezer generation kicks
their collective bucket, newspapers will be things of the past. But for those poor suckers who dutifully deliver
these fish wraps, it beats living in the woods.
It’s a way to make an honest buck or two. It might pay a bit more than baggin’ grub at
the grocery. Anyway. . . .
Up near
Winter Haven the other day about ten hours before dawn, when some drunken nut sack
started shooting at Doug Romeo’s truck on its predawn paper run the other day,
then ran up to the window to shoot at Doug some more, Romeo whipped out his
cop-in-a-pocket and let the idiot have
it, right through the window. Three shots
loosed, three shots true. Although the
attacker survived—unfortunately--he did so just barely.
"With his conduct, it would have been very
appropriate if Mr. Romeo had shot him dead right there," said the no-nonsense
Winter Haven police chief with a note of barely concealed pique.
"I'd do it again if I had to," Romeo said.
"I'd do it again if I had to," Romeo said.
Folks in Florida are deadly serious about their
conceal/carry. As the locals say: “Don’t
Mess in Texas” and “Don’t Fuck With Florida!”
