Personally, I hope the federal government never comes back. Just lock the doors and let no one back in.
After all, with “friends” like the feds, who needs enemies? No more sending my tax dollars to Israel, no more American body bags filled for Israeli wars, no more enemies created around the globe and no more people jumping out of NY buildings, no more NSA and Israel spying on me, no more U.S. tax dollars being recycled back to America in the shape of bribes from Israel to buy the loyalty of “my” elected reps, no more weekly attempts to disarm me, no more attempts to cram thirty million illegal aliens down my throat. Before this ugly federal ogre gained momentum, the various American states did just fine caring for the people, keeping the roads and bridges up, and taking but a pittance in tax to do it. Bring back the state governments and let the corrupt federal monster collapse under its own rotten weight. Force the ten million useless federal bureaucrats to get real jobs mowing lawns, digging ditches or guarding our borders from the illegal invasion.
I opt out.
Chester the Pester--Yesterday, as I pulled into Indian Mound Park for the half-way rest of my daily bike sweat fest, I was startled to see a very large dog bounding directly at me. Now, even at some place other than Englewood I would still be concerned at this sight; but this being the “Pit Bull Capital of Charlotte County,” my instant thought was, “Oh, yeah, I’m up! This is it! That’s one big pit and here he comes in three . . . two . . . one. . . .” Thus, bad ribs, wrists, knees, and all, in one flat second I had dismounted and prepared to fight on foot.
To my relief, very quickly I could see that it was a black lab with a green tennis ball in its mouth. Still, as he threw on the brakes ten feet from me, he did not seem too friendly; in fact, he growled. Now, the big-bellied middle-aged male owner of said dog was making only the faintest, half-hearted noise to call back the dog and my quick impression was that this fellow was trying to involve me in a game of “toss the ball” with the dog and perhaps engage me in some ham bone chit-chat with himself.
“He just wants you to throw the ball,” yelled the laughing beer gut.
Blood pumping, drenched in sweat, still in that “flight or fight” adrenaline mode, I was not amused, not amused at all
“WELL I DIDN’T KNOW THAT!” said I in a tone that suggested I was not excited in the least about either prying the ball from a slobbering dog’s mouth and throwing it to him or chit-chatting with a fat idiot.
Naturally, the man did not apologize. But honestly, what makes people act that way? They know their dog is safe, the dog knows he's safe, maybe all god’s creation knows the dog is safe, but what on earth would lead anyone to assume that a total stranger rolling in on a bike sweaty and exhausted would know a large charging dog is safe, especially in a place like Englewood where 9 out of 10 dogs are pit bulls? Stupid. Just stupid.
Then a bit later, as if to hammer home the absurdity of life, as I’m lying there on the bench, I look over to the next bench, and there sits that same old pervert from last week. Since there were plenty of other benches available NOT right next to mine, my thought was that this old degenerate was trying his luck on me again. If this moral meatball only knew my current state of mind, I think he would have gotten as far from me as possible. Should this chap dare approach me again, he will probably find his pervert ass deposited straight into Lemon Bay.
As I mentioned the other day, these creepy Chesters who hang around parks and toilets and pester people for sex are not like me and you and a boy named Sue.
Industrious Thieves—Over at North Port, the “Drug-Addiction, Spousal Abuse, Sexual Perversion, Petty Theft, Murder One, and Wal-Mart Freak Capital of Charlotte County”, someone stole a fire hydrant last night. Now, I know that most of you probably have multiple opportunities each day to lift and move fire hydrants, but for those of you who don’t, let me state that these short metal things weigh a surprising three-hundred pounds. How much is three hundred pounds? Well, next trip to Wal-Mart, check out one of those ubiquitous scooter blobs backing up, beeping and generally blocking the aisles in the “snacks and diet-pop” section of the grocery store. Don’t bother with the really enormous blobs since they are off the charts huge and probably outweigh most Sherman tanks; no, just stick with the “smaller” blobs. Imagine yourself trying to lift that load--that’s how much a fire hydrant weighs.
Although cops themselves are in no big rush to run into this thieving hydrant gorilla, they do have their tazers set for triple terminal voltage, just in case. They also warn the public to be on the lookout for the powerful perp. He is described as “one humongous muscle-bound steroid freak with huge, hard hands that can bend railroad spikes like hair pins and that can rip off a car door with a single jerk.”
Aside: The going rate for three hundred pounds of scrap metal is $1,200. Not too shabby for an hour’s worth of crime. No wonder nocturnal joggers are pitching head-first into holes previously covered by manhole lids and no wonder fire trucks are reaching raging infernos only to find no hydrant and no water.
Thought: Just as there would be peace in the Middle East if Israel worked half as hard for peace in the Middle East as it does for war in the Middle East, so too if these thieves worked just half as hard at an honest job as they do at a dishonest job, they could 1) avoid all those embarrassing cameo appearances on “Cops”, they could 2) escape a dozen or more butt tazings per year, and they could 3) dodge those ugly conjugal visits from 300-pound scooter blobs that they end up marrying while in jail because those are the only things that will have someone doing 40 years-to-life behind state walls.
Lady of the Day—Seems some Sarasota seniors are having problems with sex in public. I have mentioned in past blogs the kinky hairballs and dirty exhibitionists in this area, the lusty log-floggers, the creepo chicken-chokers and the sleazy squid-squeezers, as well. I have also noted the homeless and/or drug-crazed couples screwing on neighbors’ lawns, on public beaches, on park picnic tables, and under gazebos and boardwalks. Friday, a Joan and her John were doin’ a trick in a truck--broad daylight, downtown, busy parking lot, no tinted windows, just a doin’ like dogs do.
Twenty-nine-year-old Whisper Morton—say what?—29-year-old Whisper Morton was spotted by Lust Cops giving a blow job to 54-year-old Wayne Withers. Appropriately, the oral act was being performed in the Ringling Circus Museum parking lot.
When Officer Clancey and Officer Muldoon walked up to the truck, Officer Clancey observed, “And just what might ye be a doin’ down there now, and this one here with his pants down and you there with him in yer mouth? And don’t deny it, we saw ya. What, woman, what now can ye be a sayin’ for yerself?”
Whisper quickly popped Wayne out of her mouth and whispered nervously that . . . that . . . that they “were just a husband and wife wildly overcome with passion.”
“Ha! And listen to her now!” said Muldoon in reply. “Even were this the case, and even if you knew the name of this poor dodger here with his pants down to his knees—which I’m a bettin’ my bonnet you don’t--it’s still against the law to do such sex stuff in public, married or not, where anyone walking by, or biking by, or skate-boarding by can take in the free circus act from you two. And so now, out with the both of ya. It’s off to Lust Lock-Up for you two love birds.”
Thought: Is this why there are so many tinted car windows out there?