Just a jog through our local telephone directory reveals that 63% of
Florida males are named either “Chester” or “Lester.” Not surprised. Not surprised a bit. Down here among the sexual deviates, down
here at sex crime central, down here where these miserable miscreants
flock, the huntin’ season is year round and pervin’ the park is a sex-crazed
steamer's lark in the park.
If one looks, one sees these nasty lechers everywhere. But mostly, one sees them where the action
is—the parks. You know it is a prowling perv
if a) he is in a park, b) he is alone, c) he is between sixty and eighty, d) he
is always bald except for that whizzo of gray hair around the dome, e) his
clothes are always nondescript (dull and drab) and his shirt is always tucked
in, f) he has a paunch, g) he’s always just sitting and never engages in any
activity like frisbee tossing, fishing, sea shelling, etc., and finally, h) he is
always watching, and I mean watching,
every damn man-jack-male who negotiates the park alone.
These disgusting depravos just sit, either at a picnic table or in
their car, and stare . . . and stare . . . and stare. They are not like me and you and a boy named Sue;
they have no compunction whatsoever about staring and staring; I suppose it has
something to do with being so focused on what they crave (oral and anal sex)
that the entire world is blocked out.
This behavior must be similar to what a hungry snake experiences when it
locks in on a victim.
Whatever, these abnormal scrotum are actually the new normal down
here, at least in our numerous parks.
These norms seem to outnumber we abnorms by about 100 to one. It is a pity that some of the useless,
worthless, soberless drunks here who sleep in the woods for a living do not do
something useful, worthwhile and soberful for a change and strangle a few of
these sex-crazed hairballs until they get religion or their eyes pop out,
whichever comes first.
___________________________________________
Some
folks just don’t want to be saved from themselves. Some folks just want the
freedom to be stupid. . . .
The other night, in a pub over in Pit-Bull City (Englewood), a bunch of biker booze bags were holding high carnival by loudly celebrating one thing or another--perhaps a new break-through in genetic research, perhaps some advance in rocket science, perhaps Nate “Hammerhead” Sharkey’s parole and release from prison. Anyway, after several hours of such revelry one of their number drunkenly announced that he was “outta here.” Now, since this individual, aptly named Bryan “Boozin” Boozan, was in no condition to stand upright and blink at the same time, much less drive a big Harley on dark streets, the idiots’s pals snatched his keys and refused to give ‘em up. In theory, right move; in practice, wrong reaction.
For some reason, the subject of this well-intended altruism took umbrage not with his friends, but with the poor pub which had served him only too well. In a wild rage, the blotto biker unleashed a one-man demolition derby upon the contents of the establishment. Chairs, tables and pool cues were broken against the bar and floor and reduced to match sticks; beer bottles, glass mugs and pool balls were hurled into mirrors, windows, light fixtures, and whisky bottles. When the brave bar tender unwisely tried to micro-manage the situation, she was smote by a flying beer bottle for her efforts. When the blue lights finally arrived, Boozan the Barbarian had pretty much destroyed the saloon single-handedly.
Somehow in the pandemonium, Boozan managed to recover his keys and made a wobbly getaway. When the cops ran him down after a one-mile chase they found our drunken jack hole arguing with some poor devil in a driveway. Nearby lay the wrecked motorcycle. Boozed-up Boozan (sorry . . . just couldn’t resist one more) was cuffed, charged with a year’s worth of offenses and carted off to the county calaboose.
The other night, in a pub over in Pit-Bull City (Englewood), a bunch of biker booze bags were holding high carnival by loudly celebrating one thing or another--perhaps a new break-through in genetic research, perhaps some advance in rocket science, perhaps Nate “Hammerhead” Sharkey’s parole and release from prison. Anyway, after several hours of such revelry one of their number drunkenly announced that he was “outta here.” Now, since this individual, aptly named Bryan “Boozin” Boozan, was in no condition to stand upright and blink at the same time, much less drive a big Harley on dark streets, the idiots’s pals snatched his keys and refused to give ‘em up. In theory, right move; in practice, wrong reaction.
For some reason, the subject of this well-intended altruism took umbrage not with his friends, but with the poor pub which had served him only too well. In a wild rage, the blotto biker unleashed a one-man demolition derby upon the contents of the establishment. Chairs, tables and pool cues were broken against the bar and floor and reduced to match sticks; beer bottles, glass mugs and pool balls were hurled into mirrors, windows, light fixtures, and whisky bottles. When the brave bar tender unwisely tried to micro-manage the situation, she was smote by a flying beer bottle for her efforts. When the blue lights finally arrived, Boozan the Barbarian had pretty much destroyed the saloon single-handedly.
Somehow in the pandemonium, Boozan managed to recover his keys and made a wobbly getaway. When the cops ran him down after a one-mile chase they found our drunken jack hole arguing with some poor devil in a driveway. Nearby lay the wrecked motorcycle. Boozed-up Boozan (sorry . . . just couldn’t resist one more) was cuffed, charged with a year’s worth of offenses and carted off to the county calaboose.
As for the good samaritans? Well, so much for trying to help a friend! A demolished biker bar, an injured biker bar bartender, a biker’s bike now a hunka-junk, and a jugged biker buddy with a laundry list of charges— could it have been any worse had they just let the damn fool leave?
