Tuesday, May 06, 2014

Octa-Cide, or Jeepers Creepers, Geezers!

Way back when, way back to my days of green gullibility, back when I was filled with romantic nonsense and all aglow with naive moonshine . . . well, anyway, way back a year or so ago. . .

. . . I once foolishly assumed that with age came peace; that as a person grew older they gradually left impulsive and rash behavior behind and settled into some sort of golden bliss. With years and experience, I reasoned, came maturity and wisdom; with age came a cooling of a once-fiery soul. And as animal passions chilled and the libido mellowed, I surmised, reason would at last gain the throne and tranquility would reign supreme.

Well, Bull Whack! From my observations down here at Senior Sentral, more people than not seem to grow old not only disgracefully, but disgustingly. . . .

The other night, over at some miserable swamp clearing in central Florida, seems Doris and Chester Smith had a tiff.  Nothing unusual here; what couple doesn’t have a spat now and again? Well, this little argument escalated until the wife grabbed a knife and let her hub have the biz end . . . again and again. When cops finally arrived they found Chester dead as a mackerel in the moonlight and Doris “distraught and disoriented.”

Now, awful as it may seem, even a spousal misunderstanding that ends in murder is not  that big a deal here in depression-era Florida. One or two seem to happen every day. What makes this incident noteworthy is that Doris is 87-years-old and her husband, now newly deceased, was 93!  My God! Is there no limit? Are some humans murderous all their existence? Now, I am assuming that Doris did not kill Chet for his insurance money (what would an 87-year-old woman do with sudden wealth? Go to Vegas? Buy a new boat or sports car? Party. party, party?) And so, the only answer I can come up with that makes any sense is that Doris was a victim of domestic abuse. Domestic abuse! At that late stage--180 years of cumulative living--and two people, with virtually all four feet in the grave, yet still fighting and resorting to violence as if they were empty-headed teens.

If ever there was a case for quickie divorces in this country, this is it. Imagine: A man seven years short of the century mark working over his 87-year-old wife! How did he even find the strength to beat her? And why did she not flee from him, or, in this case, why did she not just creep from him on her walker or in her wheel chair? If this has been going on for long, why did they not just get a friggen divorce three score and four ago?

Horrible. . . .

Over at Boca Raton the other day, several local trouble-makers were playing a game of eight ball at the Palm Beach Country Club. When tempers flared an argument erupted. Grabbing for something to throw, one of the thugs, David Hartstein, found some pool balls handy and bounced a few off the skull of one brawler. When another hoodlum stepped in for his friend he too received a couple of conks on the cocoanut, just for good measure.

When the riot squad arrived Hartstein was charged with “aggravated battery with a deadly weapon” and taken to jail. The two knot-headed victims were wheeled away to the hospital for treatment. David Hartstein is 62-years-old. His two victims are 92 and 80!

Unbelievable.  . . .

Another young demon, 61-year-old Edward Frederick Glowitz of here in Englewood, was in a foul mood the other night.  Actually, like the pit bulls he probably owns, and the meth-addicted wife he probably beats, Ed Fred is always in a foul mood. Tonight, the more beer the outlaw biker guzzled at the Time Out biker bar, the more pissed off Ed became with life, the world in general, and a fellow biker in particular. Anyway, the verbal spat quickly ratcheted to a physical spat and Ed Fred threw a punch (which missed), then tossed a bar stool (which didn’t). Now thoroughly roused, Ed finally broke through several booze bags trying to break up the fight and managed to grab by the throat the object of his rage. What followed was pretty gruesome.

No mention on how old the victim was but whatever his age, he got a beating he would never forget. The beater first knocked the beatee down behind the bar. Then, as he straddled him, the attacker ripped off a soap dispenser from the counter and hit the man over and over again in the face and on the head. The dispenser finally shattered. Grabbing an empty wine bottle, Glowitz continued the vicious assault until that too finally broke.

With the victim now unconscious, Ed heard that the barkeep had called 911 and he decided to seek safer surroundings. His Harley didn’t get him very far, however, before he was arrested without incident and escorted to jail. Never a note if the victim died with his boots on or if he lived to drink another day.

Stuff like the above, as well as the great many childish-acting old people I see all around, convinces me that some folks may indeed mellow with age but for most, young fools become old fools and homicidal maniacs in childhood are generally homicidal maniacs in fossilhood.

Depressing. . . .

But anyway, about the same time, up the road a bit from this island, 77-year-old life-long rageaholic Walter Crosby was boiling with (what else?) more red rage. Seems a former friend’s wife had stolen--or criminally borrowed--a bracelet from Walt’s wife. Sitting in his trailer, ready to explode over the incident, Crosby finally grabbed his pistol, pointed his wheelchair toward the door, then disappeared into the night, rolling away for some old time revenge. Walt Crosby was coming to town . . . and hell was coming with him. To Walt’s Old West way of thinking, sometimes a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do and sometimes a man has to stand up--or in this case, sit down--for what he believes in. One can almost hear the theme song to High Noon wafting in the background.

Rolling his wheelchair up to the thievin’ varmint’s house, Walter, in no uncertain terms, angrily demanded return of the jewelry. When the accused mocked the old coot and refused to cough up, Crosby whipped out his six-gun and began blazing away. Between steering his wheel chair through the house and trying to aim at the flying targets, Walt missed his marks every time. When cops finally arrived on the scene they arrested Walter “Hell-on-Wheels” Crosby without incident. The culprit now sits in the county calaboose without bond.

Amazing. . . .

Over on the wrong side of the state, over on the Kosher Coast, Bartolo Gelsomino was just a hankering for a heap-big hamburger.  How hungry was Bart for a hamburger?  Well, he apparently was starving to death.  So. . . .

When Gelsomino yelled at the old lady to whip him up a burger, and make it snappy, Ana told Bart to get off his lazy ass and fix it himself.  Since these were not the words a starving maniac wanted to hear, nor were these words spoken in a manner a starving maniac wanted them spoken, Bart got off his lazy ass, walked to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, then killed his wife.  With that little matter out of the way, Bart went to work on that hamburger he so ravenously craved. 

Once his hamburger hunger had been thoroughly sated, Bart realized he might be in a bit of trouble for stabbing Ana to death.  Although the sassy bitch had it coming, unless he thought fast, Bart reasoned, that could prove one expensive hamburger.  And so, the hub tore the hell out of the kitchen, trying to make it look like a burglar had been extremely hungry for a burger as he was burglarizing the place and when Ana had refused to fry him that burger the burglar had gone burger bonkers.  Bart would tell the cops he had seen it all. They would never guess, right? 

Well, in near record time--maybe 10 seconds or less--the case of the “Bungled Burger Burglary” was solved and Bart the mastermind murderer now lays on his lazy ass in jail facing a Murder Two rap.  The chow is gratis now, of course, courtesy of the county, but there are, alas, no hamburgers on the prison menu.  Poor fellow.

Bartolo Gelsomino is 79 and counting.  Bart’s ex-wife, Ana, was, is, and will always remain, 71 forever.

Incredible. . . .

Down at Key West--or maybe Key East, I forget which--69-year-old Juan Zigler entered his local post office and handed the clerk a note.  Because the writing on the message was as scrambled as the writer’s brain it was hard for the baffled employee to figure out just what in hell Juan wanted.  The note did say something about “blowing up the Keys” if certain demands were not met so maybe the senior senor thought he was in a bank and was trying to extort some bingo money.  Whatever, the angry old coot tossed a firecracker with a wire and a hearing aid battery attached to it over the counter.  Nothing happened, of course, and men in white soon escorted JZ to his padded cell without further incident.  Seems the senile terrorist was unsure exactly who or what he wanted to terrorize.  And so. . . .

Whatever, whether Juan is certifiably crazy or just ballz-to-the-wallz nutz, Big Brother has almost no wiggle room when it comes to terroristic threats and a federal funny farm seems the next and last stop for this crazed Florida coot.

A Final Note on Florida Fams--Maybe Mother’s Day will be a bit quieter this year than it was last year up at Lakeland.  God knows it was a total bust in ’13.  Back then, or thereabouts, Bill Pennnypacker got all boozed up, then decided to vent a bit on his crummy childhood by killing his ma.  After slugging her in the face for a few, the son pulled out a pistol and shot her in the shoulder.  Somehow mom managed to find her own gat, then opened up herself.  Sonny’s aim was not so hot; mom’s shootin’ was on the spot.  Bill is now 64 for ever.  And as for his 87-year-old mom?  Nancy’s shoulder is still sore but she’s good to go. Guess blood ain’t so thick after all.  Happy Murder’s Day.

Another Final Note on Florida Fams--Down Charlotte Harbor at Fort Myers, seems Calvin Crow had just about had it with his step-son, Craig.  Not only was the lad a totally debauched drunk, but he was a self-centered lazy loser--a “damned moocher,” said not-so-cool Cal.  Seems the young wastrel did little more than lie around, eat, sleep, and hit the jug.  And so, one day, during a hyper-heated argument, Cal just pulled out a pistol and busted a bunch of caps into Craig. 

Cal’s days as a free man are over, of course.  Even if he gets a mere slap on the wrist—say a year or two--Crow will probably never play bingo or catch that early bird special again since at age 87, Old Crow (sorry, couldn’t resist) pretty much has both his feet and half his body already in the grave.  And as for the step-son, the good news, I guess, is that the boy will survive.  Here’s hoping that at age 66 Craig sobers up, gets a job, meets a nice girl, then turns his life around.

Lord!  Such is life among the seniles and the savages . . . never dull down here in the swamps (shake head—roll eyes—grimace) . . . never dull.