Blunt Force Drama

A few thots on a few local news items.

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Preface–Home is Where the Beer Is

And when God created the heaven and earth he noted that the land was empty and void and it troubled him greatly.  Thus, God created Adam and Eve, who in turn created Cain and Abel.  Abel chose to stay home like a good son but after Cain slew him, Cain fled into Gog or Megog or maybe Eggnog and thus became the world’s first homeless man.” 

That’s Scripture.  That’s fact.  It’s in the Bible so it’s got to be true.

Today, we here in the Sunshine State have a surfeit of those homeless descendants of Cain.  Indeed, in any given season it seems as if the descendants of Cain outnumber the descendants of Abel by about a hundred to one.  For the most part, these homeless here are not the tug-at-your-heart-strings sorts, the down-on-their luck families, the recently unemployed, the recently foreclosed on, the parents struggling to hold it together, the kids struggling to attend school, the pets struggling to avoid being eaten, etc.  No, those accounts of the truly homeless which make the evening news are the rare–mercifully rare—here in paradise.  The homeless we Floridians mostly have in mind when the term is mentioned are those who drink and drug for a living, those who sleep on cardboard down by the river, those who live in the woods or under bridges, those who exist in the great outdoors like wild hogs, those whose situation here has zero to do with up-ticks or down-ticks in the economy. 

The following is dedicated to those boozed up losers, those maxed-out meth heads and those mentally deranged maniacs out there whose numbers here in Florida seemingly grow by a million or more each year. Without the contributions of these stalwart stump grubbers and swamp savages this article could never have been written.  Thanks to each and every one of you Florida homeless-sapiens out there for your help . . . you know who you are.

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PART ONE–HOW THE HOMELESS GOT HOMELESS

Maybe we can’t fix stupid, or crazy, or pervy, or senile, but we can damn sure cure ‘cheater’.” 

So spoke some wise person, perhaps a cheatee themself who had been cheated on at some time in the past by some cheater  Or perhaps when our seer penned those trenchant words they merely had in mind the Florida female fun fest that took place recently over on the wrong side of the state. 

In Broward County, a 30-something wife walked in and discovered her husband (and daddy of her child) with a female business associate engaged in hard work.  Judging by the passionate embrace and the tight fit of their plumbing the labor had nothing to do with business.  And sooooooooo. . . .

It’s a sad state of affairs when women must carry stun guns on their key chains for defense.  Well, surprise!   Some ladies actually use a taser for offensive purposes.  The husband let slip his erotic embrace the very moment the volts of vengeance reached his main sex unit.  Over and over again, a totally outraged wife zapped, zapped and ZAPPED some more the cheating cad.  While the hub did his little chicken dance on the bed sheets, the cuckolding Jezebel made her naked flight out the window.

With her unfaithful rat of a husband now more electrode than human, the wife turned her attention to the fleeing harlot.  Chasing her down, the furious woman gave the deal-breaker some good old timey down home tase therapy from her ray gun.  As the neighborhood looked on in disbelief . . . on her back, on her belly, on her butt, on her fake boobs . . . everywhere there was a spot, there the juice of justice sought satisfaction.

Meanwhile, also over on the wrong side of the state at Palm Coast, 41-year-old party beast, James Irvine, faced a dilemma—he was a hankering to go out and get dead-dog drunk but with the old lady at work there was no one to watch the couple’s ten-month-old baby.  Well, for a desperate booze bag like Jim this conundrum was a no brainer.  Bingo! Leave the child with his “sweet-natured” and “great with children” pit bull.  And so, Jim simply took his much-needed break from the rigors of child-rearing and stepped out for a night of some serious get-down pub-crawlin’.  Somehow, perhaps from an aroused conscience at the bar, Irvine’s wife caught wind of what her soon-to-be-ex husband had done and she called the cops.

Although the baby was found safe in a bedroom, all concerned can be thankful that the pit was not hungry–a flimsy mobile home door would have been no match for a starving four-legged food blender. 

Lingering longer on the wrong side of the state. . . . Imagine for a moment that you are a fifty-something-year-old man, deep in debt and your double-wide is headed to the bank; imagine too that there are no jobs in sight except perhaps baggin’ grub at the local super or donning a Statue of Liberty costume and waving a sign all day outside a “We Buy Gold” pawn shop; imagine that you pop pain pills like other people pop popcorn and you drink up and pee out your weight in box wine per week; imagine that the cutie pie you married two decades back now more resembles a Kenmore Refrigerator than a human and last time you remember having sex with her it was like trying to screw a sofa.  Imagine that you . . . well, shoot, there’s lots more bad to “imagine” but space is short and I’m sure you get the drift.

Now, just when you think it can get no worse, imagine that it does. WHAM!  A piece of space junk crushes your last mode of transportation, a rusty girl’s bike, your human refrigerator wife suddenly demands sex again, or, as actually did happen the other day over at Pembroke Pines, a septic tank truck crashes right at your door step.

At the time it occurred, Joe Dirt, a driver for “All Star Toilets,” was texting his drug dealer about an impending transaction when he lost control of his sewage truck.  The vehicle then hit a utility pole, then overturned, then dumped a million gallons of “waste” all over the place.  Within seconds a “really sinister odor,” a smell from hell matching any of those in the fabled plagues of Egypt, swept over the entire community forcing a mass exodus of nose holes to points up wind.

In fairness, authorities responded quickly.  Clean-up crews were soon “Johnnies-on-the-spot” and the area was sucked up and flushed in a jiff.  Authorities grandly announced that there was no longer any danger to nostrils and the denizens could now return to their homes to live and smell in peace. Right.  Of course there was no longer any foul odors for the authorities; “authorities” had long since rolled up their windows and left as quick as they could.

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Part Two—HOW THE HOMELESS GET HEADLESS

When the Fit Hits the Shan–Over here on the right side of the state for a change, in one of the numerous hobo jungles that shame affluent Sarasota, three habitually homeless bums were holding high carnival the other night. Seems one of the thieves had “borrowed” some steaks from the local grocery store and the three were having an old-time cook out. During the party, as the gentlemen were guzzling “borrowed” beer and swapping lies about how successful they had been in former lives before cops, lawyers, judges, and $30,000 in unpaid child support conspired to bring them down, one of the rioters accidentally kicked the grill and plopped the sizzling steaks plunk into the sand. Seems this awkward act upset one of the revelers just a tad. Ranting and raving, the hungry hobo jumped up, cussed a few licks, knocked down the clumsy hobo, then grabbed a nearby machete and let him have it. Five minutes later, when the hungry hobo was finished, he dropped the bloody machete, wiped the sand from the bloody steaks, placed them back on the grill, grabbed himself another brew, then sat back and quietly watched dinner cook.

The next day the angry hobo was sitting in the county clink without bond. Not far away, the clumsy hobo was laying in the county morgue without his head. Never a dull moment down here among the swamp savages.

Postscript: Seems that the “friend” of the homeless, headless victim, one Donald Wayne Mann, may have had a hand in the above head case.  If readers can remember back that far, the three gentlemen in question were drinking stolen beer late one night and grilling stolen steaks on a stolen grill at their jungle lair in Sarasota.  When one of the drunks accidentally kicked the grill and dumped the sizzling steaks onto the sand, the fat hit the fire, literally.  Within seconds the clumsy drunk had not only kicked the grill but he also kicked the bucket when a very drunk, very hungry, and very angry Ricky Leer grabbed a machete and chopped off the awkward man’s head.  No trial date set.

A short time later, again at Sarasota . . . .

chop . . . chop . . . chop . . . CHOP . . . CHOP . . . CHOP . . . chop . . . .chop. . . . 

. . . a gentleman was merrily chopping wood at another of the numerous homeless camps that so enliven this sun and fun resort town. Perhaps as our woodsman worked, perhaps he was even singing that old Monty Python ditty about the life of a brawny lumberjack.

LUMBERJACK:

I’m a lumberjack, and I’m okay.
I sleep all night and I work all day.

MOUNTIES:
He’s a lumberjack, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he works all day.

LUMBERJACK:
I cut down trees. I eat my lunch.
I go to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays I go shoppin’
And have buttered scones for tea.

MOUNTIES:
He cuts down trees. He eats his lunch.
He goes to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea.

He’s a lumberjack, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he works all day.

LUMBERJACK:
I cut down trees. I skip and jump.
I like to press wild flowers.
I put on women’s clothing
And hang around in bars.

MOUNTIES:
He cuts down trees. He skips and jumps.
He likes to press wild flowers.
He puts on women’s clothing
And hangs around in bars.

He’s a lumberjack, and he’s okay.
He sleeps all night and he works all day.

Unfortunately, at the same time as this was going on, 58-year-old Michael Joseph Silva was nearby rolling in the weeds, trying to get some sorely-needed shut-eye.  

chop . . . chop . . . CHOP . . . chop . . . chop . . . CHOP . . . chop . . . chop. . . .

LUMBERJACK:
I cut down trees. I wear high heels,
Suspendies, and a bra.
I wish I’d been a girlie,
Just like my dear Papa.

OHHHH . . . I’m a lumberjack, and I’m okay.
I sleep all night and I work all day.


When the lumberjack refused to quit his chopping and howling as ordered, Silva charged the crooning chopper and took an angry swing.  The singer dodged and the fist missed its mark.  Spotting a machete nearby (seems ALL hobo jungles in Sarasota have machetes laying close at hand), the enraged attacker gave a mighty Paul Bunyan chop of his own in hopes of detaching the lumberjack’s yodeling head from his chopping body.  Once more this jack-be-nimble was quick and he ducked the main blow, though he did receive a small slash on his head.

Now thoroughly convinced the sleepless attacker meant business, our woodsman had the good sense to flee the scene posthaste and call 911.  Today, the attacker lies on a Sarasota County cot getting those Zeeee’s he so desperately needed and the would-be victim is back, it is assumed, chopping his wood and humming his tranny tunes.

After this incident, and the machete head removal preceding it, one thing seems clear to me:  If you are planning on becoming a homeless vagabond any time soon, and if you value your cabeza, steer clear of the “Anger Mismanagement and Decapitation Capital of Florida,” Sarasota.

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PART THREE–HOW THE HOMELESS GET HOMES

Homeless Honeymoon—Staying with Sarasota, two twenty-somethings, one Brittany Smith and one Robert Davis, simply could not resist all that animal magnetism each was exuding one evening.  It was sex at first sight.  Like sparrows, rabbits, Mexicans, and other critters who breed on sight, one look and these two homeless-sapiens just decided to screw . . . and screw the preliminaries.  Since the two had no digs, no need to ask, “Your place or mine?”—the couple simply stopped on someone’s front yard, took ‘em off and got it on. 

Meanwhile across the street, self-chosen officials of the local Neighborhood Lust Watch, Fred and Ethel Mertz, were getting more and more scandalized the more and more they watched.  Ethel grabbed the phone to dial Sarasota Carnal Control but before she could, Fred decided that they needed more evidence.  And so, peering from their window, Fred and Ethel watched and watched . . . and watched . . . and watched . . . . . and . . . . . . watched, and just to make extra sure certain that the amorous couple over there whacking on the lawn was doing what the Mertzes thought they were doing, Fred and Ethel watched some more.  Finally, despite Fred’s insistence that they collect even more evidence, Ethel pegged 911.  Carnal Control swat was on the scene in ten seconds flat.

Alas, it proved a costly tryst for our Romeo and Juliet—not only were Bob and Brit caught with all that evidence hanging out, but the bond for First Degree Naked Exposure and Illegal Use of Private Parts in Public (fucking on lawns) was set at $7,500 each. 

Panty-Sniffers in Paradise—Over by Punta Gorda, local vagabond 43-year-old Lee Hill, was returning to his home under the bridge down by the river the other day.  With him was a 14-year-old he had met a few hours earlier and who he proudly introduced to any and all as his “son.” Gone to buy more beer were the boy’s mother and sister who Hill proudly called his “wife” and “daughter.”  Well, it so happens that as the two homeless gents approached their home under the bridge down by the river they noticed a familiar figure—another homeless-sapien.  Seems at the time this 48-year-old chap was preoccupied with the sleeping arrangements of Hill’s two beer-buying women folk, viz, he was busily sniffing the underwear of Hill’s “daughter.”  When confronted, the surprised sniffer first tried to deny what he was doing, then nervously laughed it off as a joke.

Lee Hill was not smiling, Lee Hill was not amused.  Like an enraged Don Quixote defending the honor of his fair Dulcinea’s underwear, Hill and his “son” pitched into the pervert and gave him a curb stomp that he would never forget for as long as he sniffed panties. When finished, the knight-errant and his faithful squire had broken every major and most minor bones in the wretch’s body and very nearly used him up utterly.

Somehow the victim managed to stagger away to a nearby Race Trac convenience store.  At this Mardi Gras time of year, one can only imagine what the startled clerk thought when she looked up and saw this fellow wander in with every pore pouring . . . (sorry, couldn’t resist) every pore pouring blood from head to heal.

“Wow, now that’s the most life-like Freddy Kruger mask I have ever seen. . . . EEEOOOOOWWWWWRRRRRGGGG . . . . OH MY GOD!

The panty-sniffing pervert survived this vigilante beat-down, but just barely.  Although panty-snorting is pretty pathetic in and of itself, it is not a crime as far as I know and the perv is facing no charges. Not so Don Quixote, aka Lee Hill.  Although Hill defends his action, insisting that any other self-respecting “father” would defend the honor, chastity and purity of his child’s underwear, the “family” itself does not seem all that impressed by the chivalry of this modern day cavalier.  Indeed, none have even bothered to visit their “father” and “husband” in his new home, the county calaboose.

Notes on Nose Lust: I suppose it is a lot like prison.  When everything has been taken from you—whether through your own dumb fault or not—it stands to reason that you become very sensitive about the few things that remain to you, including your “ethos.”  Willing to fight, even die, for what you believe in–even if what you believe in is crazy as hell—when one who has little left to lose fights for what he construes as right and proper, then he can really lose his marbles over something.  And clearly, Lee Hill loses his marbles over panty-sniffing.

Actually, it was not so much the beat-down of the perv that amazes me, so much as the over-the-top degree of the beat-down administered by Hill & Co.  Now, loathsome as the act may have been, to my knowledge smelling up someone’s undies has not yet become a capital offense and Lee Hill, vagabond vigilante or not, had no business sentencing the culprit to a near summary execution.

Whatever, from homeless vagrant to heroic Man of La Mancha, the legend of Lee Hill, and his faithful squire, Sancho Panza (fourteen-year-old “son”) will no doubt spread far and wide and will be told and retold and reretold around countless homeless camp fires for ages to come. Together, these two did in fact gallantly uphold the virtue, honor and chastity of their fair Dulcinea’s Holy Underwear by roundly cuffing, thoroughly throttling, and mostly killing a panty-sniffing pervert under a bridge over near Punta Gorda, Florida.

Who could make this crap up?  And where am I going with it?  No place really. It ends right here.  But. . . . Oral sex?  Anal sex?  Hand sex?  Now nasal sex?  Hmmmmm.  Whatever happened to just plain vanilla vaginal sex? 


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