Friday, December 20, 2013

Outta Here!

There will be a hiatus in this blog for a bit since I have some travel to attend to.  To all my faithful bloggies, and to all you unfaithful rats, as well, see ya on the flip side.  Happy Holidays!

Hmmm.  On a bench at Perv Park today, as I lay on my back sweating, I noted a dozen circling buzzards over head, maybe 500-600 feet up, soaring gracefully around and around and never flapping a wing.  I closed my eyes for a minute or two and was shocked to see said vultures orbiting right above me, maybe a hundred feet up.  After a few minutes they moved on, but. . . . It really did strike me as an omen.  Do these symbolic death birds know something I do not?  Is my ride on this mad merry-go-round about to end?  Is some road raging, gun-toting nut-job meatball about to add a sixth and final hole to this bald cyclist’s head?

Speaking of “birds” and mentals. . . . I have only been flipped off once that I am aware of, and that was a year or so ago on this island in the stream. 

The bane of cyclists are loose pitbulls, senile seniors and aggressive motorists.  For some reason, when many drivers of four-wheeled vehicles approach a stop sign, they hurry to get ahead of a biker approaching the same sign.  Almost all drivers underestimate how fast many of us bikers are going on the roads and they assume that getting behind us will cause a long delay of a whole two or three seconds.  Wrong.  Unlike cars and trucks, if the way is all clear, few of us on bikes bother to even slow down at stop signs, much less stop all that hard-won momentum.

Anyway, during the road rage incident in question, I was rolling down off the north draw bridge toward Manasota Beach on this island, doing maybe 25 MPH.  Well, this pick-up driver was convinced that he could reach the intersection before me and so he gunned the truck to get around me, even though we were maybe but a hundred feet from the sign.  As it proved, we were destined to reach the stop sign at about the same time, but he refused to slack off and continued to crowd me over.  Now, I NEVER bring a 10 pound bike to a two-ton Ram Charger truck fight, but I did look over at the driver like “WTF?”  So, he rolls down the passenger window and birds me. 

“How about giving me a break?” I yelled back. 

Fortunately for both of us—I always carry a revolver—he went his way and I headed to the beach for a rest.  I doubt if it was anything personal against me, save that I was a “health-nut” and probably voted for Obama and might even be gay and looked happy and maybe had a beautiful wife and didn’t smoke and. . . . Well, maybe it WAS personal afterall.  But hey, unless someone actually knows me, I never take such crap personal, which is more than I can say for virtually ALL road rage mental meatball misfits.


Judge Judy—That’s Michelle’s favorite program, hands down.  In fact, that is just about the extent of Michelle’s entire TV watching experience—just a half hour of JJ at night.  I admit, it IS entertaining.  Rare is an episode when there are decent looking, normal acting people involved. Nope, just like that repellent “Maury” thing that precedes Judge Judy in which screaming, brawling people threaten murder and mayhem because this loser or that loser scored a bulls eye on a rabbit test, the show screeners for Judith’s show also seem to attract the “poor, crawling, wretched refuse” of this country.

Other than mixed-race couples in virtually every episode, the other constant seems to be enormously fat women.  This is no accident.  Clearly, the camera is always keen for a shot or two of these loathsome lard’s full dimensions even tho they are standing behind benches.  

One black woman was in a league all her own.  The ass that she was lugging around  actually looked in shape and size like a big square box that a large window a/c might come in.  The butt was almost perfectly square.  How does something like that become almost a perfect square?

In olden days, when men were called away for long periods of time, and when they were leaving behind wives of dubious fidelity, they had cock-blockers, aka chastity belts, fastened to the woman just to make sure.  The husband kept the key.  Today, if Judge Judy is any indication, most men over forty need not worry about the virtue of the land whales they are married to when they go away on business since no man in his right noodle would even look at, much pursue an illicit affair with, these human refrigerators that a growing percentage of American women have become.


And Still They Come—A grade school teacher was arrested at his Tampa home and charged with stashing kiddie porn on his computer.  He admits as much.  Whoa.  We need to do a MUCH better job at screening teachers . . . and boy scout leaders, and college football coachs, and priests, and camp counselors, and . . .  well, just about anyone with a free pass to be around kids needs to be gone over with a fine tooth comb, I engage.  This old bull of hiring these demons, then praying for the best, then expressing open-mouthed astonishment when they are arrested, that formula just don’t cut it no mo.  Lots of lives can be ruined in a few months or days or even minutes by such depraved individuals. 

One of my all time favorite teachers was Mr. Gordon Brown of the 5th grade.  I loved that man; he was a game-changer for me.  My life began to turn around at that point.  It makes me shudder to think that had Mr. Brown been a creeping deviant like the above, my life would have certainly went south from that point on and maybe stayed stuck there.