Saturday, September 07, 2013

Healthy Ways of Dying

Here I sit, stiff and sore; covered with cuts and bruises, sprained wrist, maybe a couple of cracked ribs, the gamut.  

On my morning bike ride I was dropping off a book at the Englewood Library.  Ahead, I saw a strapping young bloke walking in the middle of the street, going my way.  As I passed, he turned to say “hi” and I turned his way to say same.  Good intention, bad result.  Altho I didn’t realize it at the time, I was speeding right through a stop sign and did not see the car speeding toward me on the left.  At the last split second I finally did glance the red car but when I hit the brakes I was tossed head over heels like I have seen rodeo riders pitched off bucking broncs.  In that split second between “Oh, my god, here I go!” and “OUCH, THIS REALLY HURTS!” I did worry that the car would finish me off.  But no, the lady saw me just in the nick to swerve. 

Like Wow!  I mean, like REALLY WOW!  This was my worst accident to date, by far. Normally when I crash I quickly pop up, more ashamed and embarrassed than hurt.  Not today.  This day, I knew I was injured.  I just lay there on the hot asphalt.  I was reaching for breath, but it wasn’t there; my ribs suddenly hurt like an MMA fighter had kicked me full boat; forget the other bloody stuff on my hands, legs, toes, and head; those trivial items could fend for themselves. 

The driver of the car, a young lady, stayed near until I had enough air in the lungs to manage, “Thank you. . . I’m okay . . . it was all my fault.”   But that good sweet kid, Mike Massy, that I had waved to, and which act had initiated my disaster, he stayed with me the entire time.  Then, I grabbed his strong hand and he finally helped me up.  It was Mike, staying there, allowing me to lay still for a minute or two, that allowed my shattered shock-system to regroup and which enabled me to actually walk away from it.  

Mike and I shook hands, I dropped off the borrowed book, and I continued off on my 14-mile bike ride (above).  

Now, as I sit here typing, I can hardly move anything.  Even my eyebrow got cut somehow.   Actually, as I think about it now and replay the tape, bad as the result was of hitting the brakes, had I not hit the brakes I very well  could have been killed. The lady (as Mike even said to me later) was going “very fast.”  Thank my mom and dad and the stars above for my still quick reflexes else Michelle Goodrich would be looking for a new squeeze and travel mate starting tomorrow, Monday at the latest.

Any way. . . .


Up the bay Port Charlotte way, Dave Beck was also out biking this morning . . .  at 1 AM.  One AM?  Yes, one AM!  Too late, the car coming up from behind swerved to miss Dave.  Beck was sent flying and today he is in critical condition.  Cops are still searching for the hit and runner.  But really, what kind of idiot would be out on a bike at 1 am on a Friday night notorious for drunks and high schoolers?  Hmmmmm?   What kind of idiot?  Probably the same kind of idiot who would run a stop sign in broad daylight, that’s what kind of idiot.


Lusty Lesters—Seven steaming dog piles were scooped up on Venice Beach last week.  SEVEN!  Each degenerate was caught squeezin’ his squid in public.  The ages of these disgusting miscreants are 45, 49, 56, 61, 63, 67, and 77.  These lecherous lustomaniacs were following the UC’s around on the beaches and trails and, when the opportunity availed, they hung out their shingle announcing that they were open for biz.

Some folks think “detective” work is all gum shoe stuff, all romantic Sam Spade sleuthery and such with clues and tips and hot leads and hotter babes and an occasional shoot-out just to spice up the routine.  But really?  How much would they have to pay you to do what these undercover cops on our beaches do?  How much would you ask for a day’s work after being followed around by nasty pervs, or sometimes being forced to follow them, or meeting and talking with them in public toilets, or making like you like them, or making like you might really like getting it up the ass by them, or better yet, making like you might really like getting it straight in the mouth by them?  How much would it take for you to do that?  And we are not talking about once in a blue moon; we are talking every flippin’ day!  Not sure about you, but I doubt they make plastic gloves thick enough for me to touch one of these vile creatures. 

True, the fun part, the actual arrest—hopefully after five or more minutes of tazing on the filthy perv’s not-so-private private parts—makes up somewhat for the vulgar ordeal, but cuffing these wretches is only a very small part of the operation; the rest is just pure slime and sleaze.  Whatever these cops are making to keep the filth off our beaches and off our streets and away from the view-shed of women and kids, it ain’t enough.

And BTW—Every one of the above crimes was a mere misdemeanor.  Every man, jack and perv is back on the beaches and hiking trails today.  Great country.


Hate to be so brief, loyal bloggists, but World War Three is upon us and I must do all I can to save the planet, in spite of itself.  As those of you with half a brain know, our “brave little ally” in the Middle East, Israel, and its horde of traitors here in the US manipulating US policy under the cloak of AIPAC, is trying to cajole Uncle Stupid into fighting yet another war for its benefit.  Germany . . . Lebanon . . . Iraq . . . Afghanistan . . . Somalia . . . Libya . . . Egypt. . . .  One loses count of all the regime changes the US has orchestrated to suit Jewish interests worldwide   The big difference with this latest attempt at regime change and criminal war is that it could easily ignite World War Three.  Hence, that explains why am seldom blogging lately—my energies are needed elsewhere.  If I succeed in postponing WW3, I will be back here ASAP; if I fail, well, then, I guess I won’t be back and this blog will be discontinued indefinitely.  In that event I know you’ll understand.