Monday, August 05, 2013

Rant Therapy

Up near Ocala, an 86-year-old lady with the mind of a one-celled organism is sitting close by her phone today . . .

. . . just as she did yesterday and the day before yesterday and the day before that and just as she has done every day for this, the past year, and just as she will probably do day upon day until she finally drops dead from her seat, dead in fact, not merely dead in brain.  Since receiving word back in 2012 from some terribly nice young man in Nigeria that she had won two million dollars in a lottery, the lady wants to be as close by the phone as she possibly can when he calls back telling her when the check will be sent. 

Of course, this addled old loon has done everything she was told to do, like 1) send  $100,000 to grease the wheels a little, like 2) start keeping a bucket list of all the things she will buy with the loot, like 3) not tell anybody else about this great good luck because there are bad people out there that might try to take the money.  “Let’s just keep this our little secret,” said the nice man with the charming accent. 

Well, anyone who can conjure $100K in “taxes” to spring two mill is already sitting pretty high by my low standards; in these tough times of uncertainly, however, I guess a thrifty gal just can’t save up too much money for that proverbial rainy day.  Ha! 

Jeez, are there no relatives, friends, acquaintances, or simple zoo keepers of these of these greedy geez?  If so, please, PLEASE just rip out the telephones and replace them with plastic bananas.  The crazy old fools will never know the difference and it might put these Nigerian tele-thieves out of biz.

Better Never Than Late—A day after my observation last week about seldom do twenty-four hours pass unless one or more meth-smoking Mensa members try to walk out of a Walmart with one or more big screen TVs . .  . well, just after posting that, the following day two local idiots were spotted . . . yep, sauntering out of a Wamart with two huge screens.  When confronted in the parking lot, the thieves ditched plan A and reverted to plan B, which in plain lingo meant that the two “dropped the items and ran like hell.”  See? 

Next time you are in a Walmart, if you want some free amusement, just stand in the well-named “home entertainment” section.  Go where the high end stuff is located.  Then, while you are waiting for furtive-looking, zit-faced candidates to show up, look around some corners real quick and see if you can spot the security lurking nearby.  Generally, these are lean, clean lads who look totally out of place in a store of hairy butt-cracks, nose studs, wall-to-wall tats, and meth scabs.  When you see two or more pill-poppers slowly wheeling out big screen TVs, two or more poppers who look like they might have a hard time rubbing two quarters together to buy a stick of beef jerky, much less enough dough for a $500 big screen, get that camera ready.

Over the past few years I have reported oft on those seniles who should not be driving plastic push scooters in their garage, much let two tons of steel on the streets.  Why?  Well, anyone who reads this scintillating blog knows the answer to that but, for you losers who never read this blog. . . . It’s because they lack virtually every element it takes to be safe drivers—eye-sight, ear-hearing, muscle-reflexing, and, most important, brain-thinking. 

I have also made mention on this trenchant blog of those stalwart heroes—aka “well-meaning fools”—who rescue these fossils after they have become utterly “confused” for the second or third time that day and proceed to rocket off bridges, piers or creek banks and become so paralyzed that they will not even make the simplest attempt to escape their car seats as they sit at the bottom of a canal, harbor or creek.  Only when one or more firemen or volunteer do-gooders arrive—alas, there never seems to be a shortage of these—only when they arrive and risk their own bacon are the senile seniors saved.  Well, like everyone else, I have wondered what happens to these old people when they return north.  Is it just Florida that confuses them?  Is it just something in the Florida air or water that befuddles these people and paralyzes them on Florida streets, roads, post office parking lots, and eight-lane interstates?  Now I know.

Up at Ames, Iowa, the other day, 38-year-old Chris Ihle was doing whatever it was he was doing when he noticed a big car sitting right in the middle of the railroad tracks--“frozen” was the term—and not just any railroad tracks these, but railroad tracks occupied by a big bad mountain of momentum that was barreling down the line that very instant.  Spotting figures in the car, Chris raced over, screaming for those inside to get out.  Trying desperately to open the door---struggling with the door handle, looking at the swift-approaching train, to the door handle, to the train--Chris begged those inside to help him.  Of course, inside the car sat 84-year-old Marion Papich and his 78-year-old wife, confused, staring in amazement at Chris and wondering why he was trying to hijack their car.  The couple was absolutely oblivious to the fact that they were sitting on a railroad track with a fast train bearing down.

“They just sat there and the train was coming,” explained the terrified rescuer and father of three.

With the occupants sitting and staring like fossilized stone, Chris tried pushing the car off the tracks, but nothing.  As the train’s horn began blasting and the brakes started screeching, the frantic hero then dashed to the front of the car.  Fortunately, the addled driver had left the car in neutral and Chris managed by mere inches to push the car from the track just—AND I MEAN JUST--as ton upon ton of iron and steel thundered by.

Of course, Chris Ihle is a hero and will be presented with some sort of award or trophy by appreciative townsfolk.  And of course, those who were saved by the hero’s actions are still totally confused and still have no clue what happened. 

“Train?  Railroad tracks?  What are you talking about?  You must be crazy.  We were at the drive-thru window at Walgreens waiting for prescriptions.”

Wow.  This aging of America thing is going to get a lot of good, young people killed unless all states start snatching driver’s licenses from the confused and addled among us, and quick. 

Thirty years ago—repeat, THIRTY YEARS AGO--John Ferguson killed ten, fifteen or maybe twenty people—whose counting?—execution style, not just in cold blood, but in sub-zero blood.  Seems back then, back when he was a strapping young murderer, Ferguson would dress up like a cop, fireman, utility worker, or a Nigerian phone scammer —whatever outfit that would allow him egress past a person’s door—then he would rob the place and kill all witnesses.   Well, it would seem that somewhere in the last 30 years---repeat, last 30 YEARS--while this poor boy has been eating and sleeping on Florida’s Life Row, seems he has gone totally insane, or at least that’s according to his attorneys.  Seems now he thinks he is the “Prince of God,” the “victim of a communist plot”, the Wizard of Oz, and oh, hell, who cares what he thinks?  Seems the cause of his insanity, according to his shyster lawyers, is any number of things, including an unhappy childhood, police brutality, white racism, and what-not, poor boy.

The State of Florida, cruel, bureaucratic and faceless as it is, wants to put this worthwhile and valuable citizen down today, but . . . since Ferguson is black, there is that race card to consider.  State sure don’t want to murder an innocent man, especially an innocent black man, god forbid.  Maybe thirty years ain’t enough.  Maybe another decade or two on Life Row and maybe the truth will set him free.  Maybe all those eyewitnesses to the murders back then THIRTY YEARS AGO, the ones still alive after THREE DECADES, that is, were wrong and fingered yet another innocent black man.

Whatever, me, myself and I could care less if John is the most crazy person in the state; me, myself and I also do not really care what made him the most crazy person in the state.  Excuses for bad behavior are like posterior orifices . . . everyone has one.  So what?  All the more reason to be done with this crazy waste of space, this raving lunatic oxygen thief, this bat shit crazy consumer of valuable natural resources, this mad murdering SOS who thought no more about icing folks than other people think about eating popcorn. . . .  And while the state is at it, they might just as well grab some extra gurneys and strap down Ferguson’s pettifogging, thimble-rigging attorneys too.  The world would be better off without all of ‘em.