Noon-thirty. Just back now on this fair Wednesday after my daily dose of death-defying bike therapy. No near—or “far,” for that matter--mishaps with geezers, no arguments with crazy seniles, no pit bull attacks—no nuttin.’ Now for a nice, quiet, longish blog. . . .
First, a thought while biking. . . .
“Coupla Beers”? I’ve lost track how many times I’ve seen on “Cops,” or some such similar program, some drunk being asked after being pulled over, “Have you had anything to drink this evening, sir?”
Invariably, the response is. . . .
“Ummmm . . . I don’t know,” the drunk sputters with a straight face and a red nose. “Maybe I had a coupla beers, that’s all,”
“Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?” asks another bluelight of another wobbling sot, barely able to stand.
“Yes, sir, a coupla beers. I mean (hiccup), I mean I ain’t a gonna lie.”
“Sir, how much have you had to drink this evening?” asks a cop of another blotto bozo trying to light the filter of his cigarette after he has rear-ended another cop car which had stopped another drunk who had a “coupla beers.”
“Have I had anyshing to drink? (thinks for a moment) No shure, I ain’t had no . . . no . . . ain’t had noshing to drink this evening.”
“Are you sure about that, sir? I mean, here you are with your pants on backwards, you have a cowboy boot on one foot and a flip-flop on the other, and when I asked you to recite the alphabet you couldn’t even tell me what comes after the letter ‘A.’ Are you sure you haven’t had anything to drink tonight?”
“(stops trying to light wrong end of cigarette for a moment; stares at officer incredulously; is trying to think) Oh, well maybe I had a coupla beers tonight but that’s all. . . . (laughs, wobbles). Maybe one or two beers (goes back to trying to light the filter).”
“Jus a coupla beers, occifcer,” says a 67-year-old Harley rider pulled over when spotted popping wheelies while trying to stand on his head in the seat.
“And have you . . . Hey! Yes, YOU, you idiot. Yes, I’m talking to you, sir! What are you doing down there on the ground naked and crawling on all fours here at midnight in this park? Have you . . . HEY! WAKE UP! I’m talking to you, sir. Have you had anything to drink tonight?”
“Maybe coupla, occifer. That’s all, I swear. Jus a coupla beers.”
I think some brewer is missing a market here. Some enterprising someone should get right to work and brew a new brand of beer. Just call it “Coupla Beers.” Even if the beer is just so-so, so what? Every night the brew will get all the free advertising it can handle in each episode of “Cops.”
“I’ll have a six-pack of Coupla Beers!”
“Make mine a case of Coupla Beers!”
The “Venice Flasher”. . . Serial Pervert Finally Caught!—Last weekend, one William Waldman, 50, was finally brought to bay. Two outraged restaurant employees up at nearby Venice Beach saw this human hairball exposing himself to kids. The men ran Waldman down and cornered him like a roach until the Lust Cops arrived. Over the past weeks, this steaming dog pile was in the habit of showing off his bald-headed clown to little girls in the parking lots and on the beaches of the Gulf. Waldman always seemed to know when to hold and when to fold, however, and always made his escape before Sex Control could reel him in. Not so this past weekend. For some reason, this unsavory degenerate, perhaps more aroused than usual, pressed his luck and lingered longer and later than normal. A real pity that an outraged father or two didn’t get to him before authorities did.
Truly, this is one of those times when I dearly wish we would reinstate the old public humiliation stocks in the square. It might put a brake on cretins such as Bill if they knew that angry citizens could pelt them with rotten vegetables, mud and much nastier filth than that five or ten times a day for two weeks or more. In any event, one more pedo pervert is taken off our streets for an hour or so--only three million more to go. Sigh.
Where Else But India? No accident can happen in India, it seems, without enormous loss of life. A dump truck loaded with boulders rolls over and a hundred Hindus manage to get crushed. A balcony collapses at a wedding and a thousand guests are smashed to death. A mudslide that anywhere else MIGHT kill one unlucky squirrel will in India wipe out a dozen “villages” burying a hundred thousand. Famine? Flood? Typhoon? Forget it! Millions of Indians perish in such things every month, it seems.
So, it should come as no surprise, I suppose, that just the other day in some miserable little whistle stop in vastly overcrowded India, a crowd crossing a railroad track were hit by a speeding train. A mere twenty-eight people are already dead but the toll may go as high as fifty since many are in critically condition. Where else? Perhaps fifty people hit and killed by a single train while crossing a track!
Note--Survivors and relatives on the scene were so outraged by the wholesale slaughter that they vented their anger by setting fire to two innocent trains sitting nearby, as well as the hapless station. No word yet on the fate of the guilty train. “Doesn’t make sense,” you say? Of course it doesn’t but neither either does ten million billion godzillion humans jam crammed onto a spit of earth the size of Rhode Island.
Great Gun Control—Up near Tampa this past weekend, some mental meatball kicked in the door to his ex’s apartment, dragged her outside, then proceeded to beat the living excrement out of her. In the next apartment, a lady listened to the shouts and screams for a moment, then grabbed her pistol and boldly ran to investigate. What the neighbor finally found when she arrived was a man clubbing a helpless female with a metal object as she lay on the ground.
When the would-be rescuer screamed for the maniac to stop, he quickly charged and smashed her face in. Fortunately, the brave lady maintained control of the weapon and let this big, bad, douche-bag have it. The woman fired only once, but once was enough; her aim was true. And, on behalf of we in the civilized half of Florida, this blogger thanks her.
Will this heroic act make national news? Will breathless reporters from the MSM trek to Tampa and tell the world how two lives were saved that night by one pistol, one bullet and one woman? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
Moral: Gun Control . . . It ain’t about guns, stupid, it’s about control.