Saturday, July 27, 2013

Keep On Keepin’ On

Michelle and I took the drive yesterday over to Darkest Florida.  Here in the seldom-seen center of the Sunshine State near Lake Okeechobee, French Red is having a new mare, “Jerri,” trained by a professional horseman.   
Pretty quick, pretty much, pretty ugly, once we left the Gulf the trip looked like a mosey somewhere down South of the Border way since, judging by the number of Mexicans loafing in small, shabby towns and the number of store fronts in Spanish, it would seem as if the beaner “reconquista” is complete here in the Florida interior.  Actually, much of inland Florida looks like much of the San Joaquin Valley of Northern Mexico, formerly known as California.  They say that there are around 33 million illegal criminals running loose here in these United States of Mexico (the criminals known in some Marxist circles as “differently legal Americans”) but I think the true number must be double that figure.

What Goes Up--North of Tampa, up at Weeki Wachee (not makin’ that up), along the not-so-scenic Mud River (not making that up, either), old Jean Blair’s hub was handy to have around; ancient though the gentleman was, he was a full-time fixer and a part-time inventor.  Well, one of old Blair’s brain storms was a home-made elevator concocted from a fork-lift that was capable of hoisting his 81-year-old handicapped wife and her heavy hov-around up and down from the ground level to their third floor living room.  Old and obese visitors could also use the contraption.  So. . . . (by now I wager you have already figured out that this ain’t gonna have a pretty ending, yes?)  So. . . .
When sixty-six-year-old Marge Harrison came over for a visit early this past week, Jean sent the elevator down.  The minutes went by.  Nothing.  An hour.  Nothing.  Another hour.  Another nothing (obviously, Jean is slow in more than just foot speed).  Finally, it occurred to the lady that she might call Marge’s squeeze box and see what the holdup was.   
"I thought, ‘Oh, good, she made it’," Frank Jorr, 64, mused as he pulled into the Blair drive and saw Marge’s car.  Well, not so good.
Yep, there was Marge’s car alright but not far away, beneath the fork lift, flatted like a squirrel--albeit, a large, slow squirrel—there was Marge’s body.
Of course, Frank was pretty shook up but it seems that Jean’s Dr. Gizmo husband was more worried about his reputation as a handyman than the deceased.
“The lift was solidly built,” insisted the husband to a reporter over and over.  “But don't get me wrong.  Obviously, I've got to do something to make it more foolproof."
Now, that quote must certainly be judged the winning entry in the “Weeki Wachee Understatement of the Week” contest.
Whatever, cops weren’t buying the husband’s waffle iron and since he didn’t have a license for the contraption, they shut the ride down.  No further mention of Jean; no mention on how she now negotiates the three-story home and the spiral staircase in a wheelchair.

What Kids?—Most white couples screw around and screw around and party pretty much all of their adult lives away and then one bright morning in their mid-thirties they wake up with brainer hangovers, and a cold shudder comes over them.
“Like, Wow!  Is this all there is?” they think to themselves after this, the 7,000th drunk of their drinking career.  “What are we gonna do when we are, like, you know, like when we are all old and wrinkly and stuff, you know, like when we are 50 or so?  Who’re we gonna have who, like, you know, like who will take care of us and stuff when we really get old and crappy and can’t move, or whatever?”
So, that day and that night the startled couple gets right down with their baby-making mission, determined to have ten or more in a year or less.  But surprise . . . that wild jailbreak of spermatozoa that were once so hard-charging and feared for their un-erring marksmanship back in the teens and twenties now can’t even find the target egg, much less hit it; indeed, that female bull’s eye, once as big as a harvest moon, has now shrunk to a mere mote of molecular minisculity.  And so, now exhausted from all sex and no rabbits, the white couple eagerly seeks to adopt a white baby; when that wait of weeks turns into years the desperate couple even tries to buy a Russian baby for a bazillion rubles.  But no, the Ruskies are themselves too busy imbibing vast quantities of Wodka to actually think about babushkas and kids. 
Meanwhile, the blacks and tans of these United States of Surveillance cannot even give their hordes of kids away.  As minority moms seemingly squeeze out kids like white moms squeeze out cookie dough, seemingly four or five chillun per pop, the few that do get adopted are but a trickle compared to the demographic tsunami roaring down right behind.  For these kids, these kids whose mothers barely know their names, they either grow up quickly and become a scourge to society, or they don’t grow up at all.
Down at Miami the other night, cops answered a call at a seedy apartment in a crappy complex and yep, there they found a three-year-old child just wandering the building, no visible means of support.  When they did finally find the unit responsible for her well-being, the place was void of human life forms.  Other than a mess and an arsenal of guns, no “parents” on the premises, and no parents as of this typing.
Not to be outdone, up at rival Tampa, a 22-year-old latina went out one night this week for a much-needed break from her grueling profession of being a prolific baby-maker, drug addict and party animal.   She figured that her four kids—8, 6, 4, and 2—could shift for themselves for a few.  A “few” in this case were days and cops were waiting when this loving “mother” returned, no doubt with another muffin in the oven.
Is it any wonder that there seems to be a surplus of tiny tots starring on kiddie porn vids with grown men?  All degenerates need do, it seems, is cruise the streets and parking lots and they can net all the kids they want.  No problem.  No damn wonder then that the incidence of pedophilia seems to not just be growing, but exploding.
Sterilization?  The possibilities are endless. . . .

Keepin’ Trim . . . Stayin’ in Shape