A double dip in the drink today. All sweaty and crappy from a long bike ride
to the post office, once back on this sandbar I sprang from my bike and dove
head first into the briny brine, sharks, ‘cudas, rays, and stinging jellyfish
be darned.
Amazing. We
had a misty morning last week when the temperature actually got close to 70. Anywhere north of the Suwannee this time of
year, most would kill for AM heat like that.
Here? The natives were walking
around in sweaters and shivering. Talk
of hot cocoa and turning off the air conditioners was heard. After five years I apparently have not
acclimated to the climate yet since 70 here still feels like 70 there to me . .
. and it still feels wonderful. But
obviously, to Michelle and other bird-boned natives, seventy is the Florida
forty.
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Harvest Time--When it comes to
hunting, we increasingly hear the term “harvested.” Such a nice,
neat, sweet, and typically bloodless human way of putting a bright blue blow on
something “slaughtered,” something “killed,” something “destroyed.” More
and more, hunters, game wardens and others with masculinity issues are using
the Orwellian term “harvested” when it comes to slaughtering deer, elk, pheasants,
and any other animal they hunt and kill. Makes it sound much more like
they are performing some rather important and needed duty, I suppose. I
guess “harvested” sounds like a crop some autumnal yeoman is bringing in, like
bringing in the sheaves rather than some very unsportsmanlike “sportsman”
shooting something dead at two hundred yards with a high powered scope,
something that was just trying to get along and raise its kids and survive in a
cruel environment that the weak and flabby hunter could have never survived in.
Also, “harvesting” smells a lot like the military jargon we hear
more and more often, created by the dissembling media and the Pentagon war-mongers
to euphemistically hide the truth, i.e., “collateral damage” in lieu or
headless kids and “enhanced interrogation” rather than smashed testicles.
Hey,
where ya headed, Fred?
Oh, hi,
Bill. Just thought I'd take Old Betsy
out and harvest a few deer.
Well, good
luck . . . and hey, Fred, thanks for all you and our brave military men are doing
to keep this country free!
No
problem, Bill. Whether it’s harvesting
humans or deer, it’s what we heroes do.
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Easy Street--Mickey Lee Hauri, 51, was wobbling along the other night over at Port Charlotte, drunk as a skunk in a trunk full of junk. As anyone familiar with Florida knows, Mick and his ilk are not only part of the problem; they are also part of the solutionl. Part of the solution in that since so many booze bags have had their driver’s licenses jerked our roads are now a bit safer; part of the problem in that these sots are now crowding the streets on bicycles. Not a week passes unless some local biking drunk is involved in some vehicular mishap. After all, although the automobile has been plucked from their murderous grip, the bad judgment of such idiots remain.
As for Mickey, he was out on aptly named Easy Street on the night in question doin’ whatever dumb drunks do or don’t do after dark . . . and he weren’t feelin’ no pain doin’ whatever he was doin’ or not doin’, neither. Why Hauri pulled right out in front of a van driven by some ancient old rudder who knows, who cares, don’t matter, don’t dare. The impact blasted the drunken dope across the highway and over into another zip code, of course, but the blast was not nearly hard enough to terminate the sot’s existence. Naturally, had Mick been a normal, sober, upright and uptight humanoid we would now be discussing Mickey in the past tense, but . . . . I have yet to hear of a drunk cyclist anywhere being killed by anything.
“Hauri was charged with DUI-Bicycle, failure to yield, and no light at night on the bicycle,” reported the reporter. And, although she didn’t need waste any more of her ink or anymore of our time on the matter, the reporter did anyway when she stated the obvious and noted that old Mick was not wearing a helmet.
Stupid reporter. Of course Mick wasn’t wearing a helmet. Mick didn’t need a helmet . . . he was drunk!. Mickey could have been hit and run over by not one but two fully loaded Wells Fargo armored trucks and still staggered away from the scene looking for another saloon and another drink.
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Crazy Old Cuss—After his wife kicked the bucket, some 80-year-old loon befriended several skanky Sarasota street-walker sorts and these lovelies decided to simply open up branch offices in the man’s home. Now, this sleazy addition to his household may have added some spice to the old fool’s dead dull life, but it was just hell on neighborly relations. Pretty damn quick the homeowners on the block realized that something highly irregular was occurring over at Ebenezer’s place, a house that had formerly been a model of modern mature stability and boredom. The hoarse, hysterical laughter at midnight . . . the screams and shrieks at early dark thirty . . . the empty syringes and the full pecker ponchos at dawn. . . . Hmmmmmm.
“He said they were turning tricks in
the 'Monkey Room,'” one neighbor told a reporter.
Coming and going, day, night, dawn,
dusk, 24/7 the slutty scab-pickers and their equally loathsome “clients” carried
on the carnal carnival with about as much indifference and disregard as log-floggers
at the nearby log-flogging beaches exhibit while jerkin’ their gherkins.
“How's the prostitution business?” yelled an
exasperated neighbor one morning to the lusty geezer.
“Great!” spit back the crazy coot who seemed protective
of his prostitutional property.
Sarasota seems a bit unsure how to handle
this issue. For my money, let the crazed
old creep be. In a week or less he will wind
up frozen in the freezer after bitching out and badgering his drug-crazed
guests for the umpteenth time. Then the cops can move in and hose the place
out.
Problem solved.
