Nothing subtle about Colleen Reph, nope. When the Sarasota woman wants sex, she wants sex, and when she wants sex she will kill any man what don’t give it to her.
All drunk and stupid late last week, 50-year-old Colleen called an ex-squeeze and asked for a lift. When the poor slob said “okay” and foolishly brought Colleen back to crash on his couch, the gal suddenly got all hinky and such and bluntly suggested that they should plug in their basement plumbing units, plug in RIGHT NOW! Taken aback, the 54-year-old ex-beau was not interested in the least to have Colleen slobbering all over him, loud, ignorant, drunk, and repulsive. But the more the dumb dude delayed and dallied, the more aroused and erotic Colleen became.
Finally, outraged that such a sexy, sultry, sleazy, slutty fox such as herself was being spurned by such a stupid damned wretch, Reph began punching, kicking and scratching the startled man like the over-sexed wildcat on steroids that she was. At some point in her coy foreplay, the furious woman decided to enhance her feminine charm a bit by breaking a heavy lamp over the ex’s head. Ha! Somewhere in this crazy riot Colleen forgot not only what she was doing, but why she was doing it . . . and promptly passed out.
Not long after, however, our fair lady awoke and, like sleeping beauty of yore, once more commenced hammering on her host to give her that for which she had thus far been denied.
At length, by-now-crazed and utterly exhausted, the victim called Lust Control. Soon, a Lust Unit, with red lights flashing and siren screaming, was on the scene and took the Lust Criminal away. Although Reph insisted that her ex was lying through his teeth, all them bumps, bruises, scratches, and all that blood on his head clearly suggested that the victim was telling the truth.
Not sure what the Lust Judge charged Colleen with-- Aggravated ignorance? Failure to register an off-the-chart sex drive?—but I’m bettin’ she was hittin’ on his honor for a backroom consultation seconds after being brought to the bar?
Bad Timing—An angry husband up near Tampa picked a poor time to pull a “domestic” this weekend. With the Sun Coast mourning the loss of a cop killed last week while answering a similar call here in Charlotte County, other police on the Gulf are understandably edgy. Thus, when the blue lights in New Port Ritchey responded to a domestic dispute Friday night and the mental meatball came out waving a weapon, no one was in any mood to risk their bacon and enter into lengthy “negotiations” in an attempt to try and save this “valuable” human being from himself. He is now an angry mental meatball, forever.
Speaking of valuable human beings: Yes, the grief-stricken, heart-broken and utterly debilitated and distraught relatives of the graffiti artist, “Reefa,” are still “looking for answers.” And yes, the City of Miami and the State of Florida are still doing double-back flips and triple-gainers trying to provide those answers and explain why this sweet, lovable gang-banger—ala Trayvon--should leave us so early in this life after he died while being tazed when he was caught vandalizing property, when he failed to stop running as ordered, when he refused to stop fighting as ordered. And so on. Poor boy. My bet is that Reefa’s family will stop looking for answers the very moment someone cuts an out-of-court settlement extortion check.
Speaking of Tray: Over at Daytona, a local beach cop said on Facebook that poor little Trayvon Martin, now dead forever, was nothing but a “punk gangster, a low-life, a drain on society, and, oh, BTW: Good Riddance.” Never mind that this is exactly what most law-abiding Floridians think; this was a thought crime, pure and simple, and in this multi-racial, multi-cultural, multi-mental zoo called Amerika, it was more than enough to get this big-mouth fool fired and perhaps soon kilt.
I’m sure many folks remember the image. It is the moment 11-year-old Carlie Brucia was abducted from the rear of a Sarasota (FL) car wash back in February, 2004 (above). The child was later found nearby, raped, mangled, strangled, dead.
Perhaps some even remember Carlie’s mother, Susan Schorpen. At the time of her daughter’s death, Susan was working on her resume as a drug addict, thief and prostitute. Susan managed to miss the first week of the trial and during the sentencing of the murderer, again the mother was not in the courtroom . . . she was in jail. The sad fact is . . . no, while the brutal death of her child did not trigger the mother’s plunge, it is also safe to say that it did not help her any either.
Like millions more, this poor woman--frail, weak-willed, caught in a tar pit of drug addiction--has been criticized mercilessly, and perhaps rightly so. Many, then and now, accuse her of contributing to her daughter’s death.
Susan sleeps in the woods and “works” just a few miles north of this island at nearby Nokomis. I mention Susan because I see that she was arrested again recently after offering to perform oral sex on an undercover officer.
I think Susan is a case study; she is proof positive that there really is no such thing as a “war on drugs.” Who would dispute that drugs are more plentiful with each passing year? There are more drugs, not less, on our streets, and down here in darkest Florida that is an easy statement to make. Sometimes when I bike through Englewood or shop at Walmart, it seem as if every other person I encounter between the ages of 14 and 40 is on something. How do I know? Because I know, that’s how! Drugs are way more available now than they were last year and drugs were way more available last year than the year before that.
If this country, which likes to loudly proclaim that it is waging war on this thing or that thing, be it “terror” or drugs or cancer or obesity or tobacco, if it was really, truly, actually, one hundred percently dedicated to taking a bite out of this insidious scourge called drug addiction, then it would really put some teeth in the laws. By “teeth,” I mean the death penalty for drug suppliers and drug pushers. Teeth as in mandatory tax-payer funded drug rehab as part of the penalty of using narcotics. By drugs, I don’t mean grass; I mean meth, cocaine, crack, heroin, and any other vile narcotic that kill the victim as surely as a bullet but as slowly as cancer.
Susan Schorpen, Then (2004) . . . . . . and Now (2013)