More On Travel, Part Two

gene_miller_and_tomUnlike the day before, there was no relegation of duty on this, the first full day of work. Before Gene hardly had time to consider his late humiliation and his hike back to Sheridan, he found himself on a hay wagon. 

While the rotund and good-natured brother-in-law drove the tractor through the pasture, Mr. Carlson and I walked along on either side and “bucked” the bales from the ground up to the wagon. For the first two rows or so, we were able to place the bales on the wagon ourselves and stack them in a way that would interlock the load. After the second row, however, Gene was up. When a bale was thrown to him, he was expected to use his hay hook and drag it into place on the wagon. This, of course, took some getting used to and the struggle between the Barney Fife look-alike and the hay was hilarious. Most of the bales probably outweighed him. Beyond a doubt, this was the first real work Gene had encountered in his life. Pumping gas and picking cherries did not prepare him for it. Even tossing brush in Canada was nothing compared to hauling up a ninety pound bale of hay every ten seconds under a blazing sun while trying to maintain your balance on a moving wagon. But for most of the day, my buddy seemed determined to prove his manhood and escape his disgrace.

Late that afternoon, after we had already loaded and unloaded ten or more wagon loads and were working on our last haul of the day, Gene was obviously on the verge of total collapse. Although Mr. Carlson and myself had the truly hard jobs of tossing the dead weights five and six rows high, Gene was so exhausted by this time that he could barely get his hook into the hay to help pull it up. Long forgotten in his misery was the manly attempt to prove his mettle. Of course, Mr. Carlson and myself were thoroughly fatigued and quite miserable ourselves. With some of my last energy, I struggled to hoist up a bale that felt like solid lead.

Come On! Get it up here!” Gene snapped sourly.

Needless to say, that pissed me off. When I came to the next bale of hay laying on the ground, an aroused sense of strength came over me. Grabbing the bale by the twine, I hurled it up at Gene with all my might. The weight and force of the bail knocked him over and almost off his perch.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed.

“Well you deserved it!” shouted the ever-observant boss from the other side of the tractor.

By the time the wagon was unloaded, we were all too exhausted to be angry at anyone or anything. Curiously enough, roles were reversed at the supper table that evening; I was the one this night who ate like an animal and Gene was the diner who could barely hold his fork. Also that night, back at the trailer, there was no cussing tirade or mention of walking back to Sheridan. Both of us were asleep in five minutes.

For the next seven days, this was the routine. When we had cleared one pasture of “dead soldiers,” we’d move on to the next. Over the week we adjusted to the backbreaking work. Even though Gene was given the easier tasks such as stacking, no job on that ranch was easy and my friend more than carried his weight. Between slave labor and sleep, there wasn’t much time left for anything else. Although we saw the antelope and deer coming out of the hills each evening to drink from the creek as we were returning from the pastures, neither Gene or I had time to admire the beautiful Big Horns that towered to the west; nor did I have the requisite energy to slip over the fence and catch Brown trout from the nearby stream. We worked hard, we slept hard, and somehow, we managed to eat hard.

Neither before or since have I ever seen so much food as was spread on the Carlson table in that kitchen. In the morning, there were pancakes, biscuits, gravy, fried potatoes, eggs, ham, bacon, and sausage. For lunch and dinner, the table groaned with bowl upon bowl of mashed potatoes, vegetables, stuffing, relishes, pickles, and fresh rolls. Since they were a ranching folk, they were also a meat-eating folk. I recall that there was as much elk, antelope, and venison on the table at any given time as there was beef, pork and mutton. And now, since Gene felt he was earning his lawful right to eat like a horse, he ate like a horse. Despite this, I do not think he added one ounce of muscle to his thin frame

“What’s wrong with him? Why is he such a scrawny little runt?” Carlson nudged me one day as Gene walked across the lot to the trailer. “Is it the cigarettes…or does he just jack off too much?”

Since they were visiting and thus did far less work on the ranch, Mrs. Carlson’s sister and brother-in-law were much more lively and talkative at the table than the rest of us. Their home was in the California desert near Indio. Every autumn during dove hunting season, the actor, Clark Gable, and a few friends would come with sleeping bags and camp in the couple’s back yard.

“Oh, yeah,” said the brother, “he’s a heck of a guy…a man among men.”

The Carlson’s brother-in-law was a “heck of a guy” himself. He took a shine to both Gene and myself and was full of fun and life. He tried to pitch in and help us, but years of easy living and good food had made him soft. One day, as we were trying to repair a water pump down by the brook north of the house, the wrench the brother was turning with all his might suddenly slipped. Belly first, the little man flopped full into the water. In truth, the stomach was so big and the pool of water so small, that most of the latter splashed out. Though the brother cussed and fumed, neither Gene or I could hold back our laughter.

In her own domain, Mrs. Carlson probably worked harder than any person on the ranch. Her sister stepped in and helped, but the overloaded old lady was seemingly baking, cooking and cleaning up from dusk to dawn. From her chilly demeanor toward Gene and I, it was evident that she didn’t think either of us was worth the princely sum of $5 a day or the extra work she was forced to do on our behalf.

After lunch one day, Gene and I noticed that Mr. Carlson was standing with his favorite horse in the driveway. The golden stallion (above; Mrs. Carlson, Oscar Carlson, Gene, me) was a progeny of “Trigger,” Roy Rogers’ famous trick horse. As we walked by I could see that the animal’s rear legs were spread far apart.

“Oh boy, he really loves this,” laughed Carlson. He was energetically scratching the horse’s testicles.

“Did you see that?” said Gene after we got to the trailer. His eyes were wide with disbelief. “Did you see that sick son-of-a-bitch scratching the horse’s nuts? Man, that fucker’s crazy…crazy!” This was all the evidence Gene needed to convince himself that Carlson was not only despicable, but depraved.

On our last day at the ranch, when all the hay had been bucked and stacked, Mr. Carlson saddled a couple of pack horses, handed us the reins, then told us to ride wherever we would. Although he cautioned us not to run the animals, as soon as we were out of sight, that’s the first thing that we did. After years of watching TV Westerns, we couldn’t imagine a horse walking anywhere. By the time we rode back to the ranch later that day, our buttocks were so tender that we could hardly sit in the seats of the Corvair when we got ready to leave. After the brother-in-law took a few Polaroid snapshots, Gene and I bid everyone good-bye and struck off once more.

As we turned down the road toward Buffalo, I mentioned to Gene that the old man had asked me to come back that autumn; he needed help on the ranch as well as someone to drive broken down horses to the glue factory in North Platte, Nebraska.

“Did he say anything about me?” Gene looked over anxiously.

“No, he just said me.”

“That son-of-a-bitch,” sneered Gene. “Anybody that would scratch a horse’s nuts….”


More On Travel


In keeping with the travel motif I seem to be stuck in, the following is a reminiscence of 1965.  After high school graduation, myself and a friend, Gene Miller, hit the road in my red Corvair, determined to see the world.   I was 17, the draft and Vietnam war would nip at my heels the following year and I was determined to live a little bit before a died a lot.  After a series of odd jobs–picking melons in the Mohave desert, picking cherries in Oregon, cutting timber in Canada–and after living on a diet of doughnuts and Dairy Queens, Gene and I one day bought a couple of cowboy hats and decided to become Wyoming cowboys.  But first, even he-man cowboys gotta eat.  As the folksinger, Joan Baez, sang so appropriately and raptly, “In the summer of ’65, when the hungry wuz just barely alive. . . . “

“Look at all those dead soldiers,” I said to Gene as we drove beside a pretty pasture wedged between the road and the hills. There were hundreds of hay bales just laying there.

“Alright! Let’s do it,” replied Gene.

We had reached a point about thirty miles southeast of Sheridan, Wyoming. Although the Bighorn Mountains still towered to the west, we were now surrounded by pure prairie near a “T” in the road called Ucross. Easing the Corvair off the highway and onto a gravel road, I entered the driveway and stopped outside an old, two-story home. With our dime store cowboy hats set low for business, Gene and I walked through the gate to the house. Before we could knock, we heard a “Can I help you?” shouted from off to our side. Walking over to the corral, we met a large man in coveralls. He had a massive head and his eyes bulged when he stared.

“What can I do for you two cowboys?” he asked

“Howdy,” I smiled in my best Marshal Dillon. “We saw all that hay out there. Do you need any help putting it up?”

The man looked at me for an instant, but by his quick response it was evident that he’d already given the matter due consideration.

“Well, yes I do, now that you mention it,” he stared. “How much do you work for?”

Happy just to have jobs, neither Gene or I could come up with any figure in the one second or less this man gave us to think.

“I’ll give you each five bucks a day,” he offered. “You can sleep in my hunting trailer back there behind that haystack…and you can eat at my table.”

With the contract set in stone, we all introduced ourselves. Oscar “Windy” Carlson was his name, a big, bursting Swede who laughed and raged equally, I reckoned, judging by his great bulging eyes. He ranched sheep and horses in the spring and summer and in the autumn and winter he led hunting expeditions into the Big Horns. Mrs. Carlson (“the old lady”) was in the house cleaning up after lunch, he said. Her sister and brother-in-law from California were visiting and would stay at least another week. Mr. Carlson wore a beat up cowboy hat.

“How do you like our hats?” Gene asked.

“Ha!” the big rancher laughed with a snort. “Those are dude hats. No real cowboy would be caught dead in them.”

Somewhat crestfallen by this comment, we asked if there were any extra work gloves around. These were in stock aplenty. Mr. Carlson also pulled out a very small pair of old cowboy boots. Who they came from we never did learn (perhaps a child), but they fit Gene almost perfectly and they were, as of that moment, officially his. Forget his idol, Frank Sinatra; with his new footwear adding inches to his height, my scrawny, Barney Fife buddy felt like Roy Rogers and Gene Autrey combined.

And now, without any further ado, we began the earning of our keep. Having already sized us up at a glance, our new boss selected the more muscular of the twosome to do the really hard work of stacking bales of hay; the punier of the litter seemed fit only for light construction and thus was given a hammer and nails and told to repair the corral. After taking my position atop an already high stack of bales, shortly Mr. Carlson returned driving a little Ford tractor. On the front was a fork with what seemed like a hundred bales of hay. After the load was dumped atop the stack, it was then my job to grab up each one and neatly stack it, much like a brick layer sets and interweaves a wall. From past experience, I estimated that these bales were some of the heaviest I had ever wrestled with and each must have weighed between eighty and ninety pounds. Hardly had I struggled one load into position, when I would look up and see the little gray tractor returning with another large installment. Had I not been fairly strong and experienced, I probably would have collapsed during the first hour under the broiling sun.

Meanwhile, at the corral, Gene was having a fine time. Through my grunts and groans, I could hear the tapping of his hammer occasionally, as well as his cheerful whistling. Every fifteen minutes, Gene’s addiction forced him to take a long cigarette break in which he would sit himself atop the fence like an old ranch hand. There, he would rest, reflect and admire the scenery. Once or twice an hour he would mosey over to the haystack in his authentic cowboy boots to chat and tell me how lucky we were to actually be working on a real Wyoming ranch.

“Man, this is great…just great,” he laughed. “Wait till we tell the chicks back home…they won’t believe it!”

Unfortunately, I was far too busy and exhausted to be of much company for Gene. Nor did I have the time or energy to ponder how lucky I was to be working and dying on a Wyoming ranch. Unperturbed, Gene would then saunter back to the corral with a carefree smile and begin his tapping and whistling again. Obviously, ranch work suited my friend to a tee.Unbeknownst to either of us, on his numerous trips back and forth from the pasture, our new boss took note of all this. Although there was a low rumble deep down below, for the time being Mr. Carlson kept his own counsel.

Around dusk, the old man brought in what seemed like the hundredth load of the day and dumped it on the stack.

“That’s it, Mike. Time to eat. Do this in the morning,” he boomed above the tractor.

As I eased my body down from the stack to the ground, every bone in my skeletal system seemed alive with pain and punishment. My hands were swollen and sore, my arms and shoulders were on fire, my legs felt like noodles, and my brain was thoroughly fried. Even the lucky parts of me that weren’t sore were harassed by sticking things that had fallen down my jeans. When I had finally washed the dirt and grime off and combed the hay from my hair, I joined everyone at the supper table. Gene was already there.

“What kept you?” he laughed. “We were going to start without you.”

Cheerful as always, fresh as a daisy, my friend was in high spirits as he joked and jested with the Carlson’s sister and brother-in-law. While Mrs. Carlson kept bringing out food, her husband sat at the head of the table, listening to the chatter, but perfectly silent.

As the various bowls and platters began moving around the table, I was unsure if I could even hold my head up long enough to eat. I tried to smile and act polite but I would have much preferred to simply crawl into bed. When the mashed potatoes came my way, I took a dab and passed the bowl to Gene. Still laughing and talking with the others, Gene took enough potatoes to make up for me, and then some. I didn’t bother with the gravy when it arrived but instead handed it on to Gene. My partner needed plenty of gravy for all his potatoes and poured it on thick. Mr. Carlson took note, but said nothing.

When the vegetables came, I took a little, Gene took a lot, and when the roast was passed, I simply handed it on to Gene. Perhaps it was the clean air and bright sunshine, or perhaps it was the great table conversation; whatever it was, Gene had worked up a cowboy-sized appetite and his eyes were already feasting on the meat.

“Man, that looks good!” he said with a big lip smack.

Grabbing a big chunk of roast, he flopped it down on his plate. At the head of the table, the boss’ eyes began to bulge.

There was hardly any room left on Gene’s heaping platter when the bread plate came around. I took a slice and passed it on. Gene grabbed two slices.

With eyes popping from his head, Mr. Carlson at last exploded.


Everyone at the table was stunned by the sudden outburst. Gene, of course, was more startled than any. With disbelieving eyes, he stared at Mr. Carlson, a big grin still frozen on his lips.

“If a man works hard for me, he can eat all he wants at my table,” continued the red-faced boss loudly, “but YOU didn’t do a GOD DAMNED thing today!”

As can be imagined, by now I had forgotten my own misery and had straightened up in the chair. Poor Gene. I noticed that under Carlson’s bulging glare, he was slipping ever so slowly down in his chair, still wearing the ridiculous smile.

I do not remember who broke the icy silence following this rampage. Perhaps no one did. But I do recall that Gene meekly placed the two slices of bread back on the plate. And I do remember his reaction after we finished supper in silence and retreated to our little trailer behind the hay stack.

“GOD DAMN HIM!…THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH!!” yelled Gene. “He’s not going to get away with this. THAT DIRTY BASTARD!”

My friend was as hot and angry as I had ever seen him.

“I’m leaving….I’m leaving! THAT LOUSY SON-OF-A-BITCH! Take me back to Sheridan!” Gene demanded as he started snapping up his duds.

Had I not been so tired and sleepy I might have enjoyed a good laugh. The spectacle of that little squirt storming and raging about the trailer in his new hat and boots like some bantam cowboy was ludicrous, indeed.

“Gene,” I moaned, “I’m not going to drive you back to Sheridan. I’m dead. I got to get up in the morning and work.”

“TAKE ME BACK TO SHERIDAN. If you don’t take me back, I’m walking.”

“Man, you’re gonna have to, ‘cause I can’t make it,” I said while flopping down on the little bed.

After several minutes of thrashing about the trailer, searching for a sock, cursing Carlson with every breath, Gene stopped when he heard a loud rap. When I looked up, I saw that the door had opened and Mr. Carlson was stepping in. After a few words about how tiny the trailer was and other small talk, the big, smiling Swede sat down. I noticed that the grin had returned to Gene’s face as well.

“Now look, I’m sorry about that little blowup at the dinner table. I shouldn’t have went off like that. It was wrong,” said the boss patiently, all the terrible red in his face now drained and his eyes safely back in their sockets. “All I ask from any man who works for me is a day’s work. If a man gives me a day’s work, he can eat all the food at my table that he wants. Now Mike here, he worked his ass off today.”

Then, looking back at Gene once more, Carlson’s face started to flush.

“But YOU…,” pointed the old man, his eyes beginning to bulge. “Now you know God damn good and well you didn’t do a fuckin’ thing today! I’m sorry about tonight, but you deserved it.”

Gene’s smile suggested that he agreed.

“Now you two try to get some sleep. We’ve got a lot of work tomorrow,” concluded the boss as he rose to leave.

Hardly had Carlson closed the door behind him and left than Gene’s stiff grin dissolved into an ugly grimace.

“That son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed. “God dammit, I’m leaving! If you won’t take me back I’m walking.”

“Gene, you can’t walk back tonight. It’s thirty miles…and there’s wild animals out there,” I groaned while laying back down. “Let’s go to sleep. I’ll take you in the morning.”

Perhaps it was a combination of factors–not the least of which were “wild animals”–but after stalking about and cussing for an hour or more Gene did finally crawl into bed.

The following morning, after no mean amount of mighty persuasion, I coaxed Gene into the house and back to the dreaded dinner table. Surprisingly, everything went smoothly. Everyone acted as if nothing had happened at the last sitting and Mr. Carlson seemed in the best of spirits. Gene, of course, was noticeably less loquacious than on the previous eve and when the toast tray was passed around that morning, you better believe he took only ONE slice.

(continued tomorrow)

Geezer Sleezers

images(6)Let’s face it, “dirty old men” have pretty much had a corner on disgusting depravity and degeneracy for decades now.  Judging by recent reports, it would seem that down here in South Florida such crimes are a market our salty seniors don’t plan on relinquishing.

Other age groups, from puberty up, engage in depraved behavior, ‘tis true, but simple longevity has allowed the geezer to perfect the art of human degeneracy to a point at which no other age group can hope to compete.  Whether they are flashing little girls, or buggering little boys, whether they are, with mouths adrool, merely leering at the undeveloped boots and boobs of tweeners, or whether, like the Geezer Squeezer “Doc” over by Miami giving free door-to-door breast exams, senior sex sleezers seem to have it all.  Of course, few acts in the course of human events are more loathsome and disgusting than a sexto-, septo-, octo-, or nonagenarian  whacking his meat weasel in public for all to see.

Not only has longevity aided the coots above, but it also insures that oldsters will take their rightful place among the other age groups in other crime categories.  As any rocket scientist, brain surgeon or Mensa member who follows this blog will quickly attest, seniors are already making their mark in robberies, domestic disputes, assaults, bank jobs, murders (a 60-year-old just stabbed to death two men in a bar brawl in Florida a while back) and indeed, in all forms of crime.  And, this blogger also notes that geezers are making waves elsewhere, notably among the ranks of those busted on dope raps, both using and dealing.  Just last week, two local characters in their sixties, one Mork Anthony Smith and one Julius Geezer Jones, were hauled in for peddling poison here in Charlotte County.

So you see, t’would seem indeed that in Florida the sky’s the limit when growing old disgracefully is concerned.


Anyone visiting South Florida in the winter does not need me or a nightly newsreader to inform them that people are living longer.  At first blush it is heartening, I suppose.  After all, we tell ourselves, “if I lay off the meth and eat my Wheaties, I too just might survive to see my great grandkids earn Phd’s and wind up waving “We Buy Gold” signs outside some ratty pawn shop. Most of us, I think, have this image of sweet old people aging, of feeding pigeons, baking cookies, and being wise, patient and understanding. Well, like I said, this is Florida and one can pretty much pitch one’s sweet old image thing. After living here five years I have learned that for every person growing old gracefully there are a dozen others growing old disgracefully.

Nope, it’s not just the nice old man who is living longer; it’s also the creepy crackpot and the pervy pedophile who is stretching the mess out. Back in the good old days, back when leprosy, cholera, consumption, ague, and plague were around, these sex fiends mercifully were killed off in their late thirties, early forties, tops. Now, however, now with medical break-throughs by do-gooders, pedos, pervos, steamos, depravos, flashers, fiddlers, floggers, buggers, and sundry sexual miscreants of all description are now living twice as long and are thus cramming twice the amount of sexual perversions into one miserable life. Now, one might sincerely ask: How can anyone in their eighties and nineties even move, much less muster the energy requisite to molest a little kid or flog a log in public? Well, take it from us, we South Florida “tweeners” (40-70 age group), they can . . . and they do!

I once lived on a beach, in Greece, down where the famous olives come from. Like lovely virgin olive oil, life was smooth and slow near Kalamata. Among the locals were two elderly gents who frequented the taverna next door. Each day these two sat quietly under the lemon arbor, fingering their worry beads, chatting with friends. I soon came to know and enjoy these stately old guys in their well-worn suit coats and vests. Each—both in his eighties—I considered a model of mature manliness—wise, patient, dignified, and rather noble in bearing. I thought all those thoughts right up until the day I saw both these octogenarians behind my place crawling on their bellies in the dirt. They were trying to peek over our cliff so that they could leer down at the nude sunbathers on the beach below.

And with that abrupt bursting of my silly romantic bubble I soon came to realize, in Greece as elsewhere, that though beaches might bring out the raging bull in some men, it is the eighty and up whose giddy-up is especially aroused. Whether the sun, the sand or the salt, whether it’s that never in history have so many worn so little and shown so much, whatever the whether, fact is that beach conditions are usually perfect for outrageous outbreaks of octo-erotics.

In the five years that I have lived on this sandbar in the Gulf (Manasota Key) I have truly lost track of the number of sex crimes committed by our local lechers eighty and up. Not a day passes, as they say, not a day passes unless some ancient sex wretch is hauled in for some nasty bit of sexual disgustivity.

Just the other day, a vice cop was patrolling Flatwoods Nature Park near Punta Gorda.  Seems one Joe Ogden was taking the “nature” part of the park a bit too seriously.  While this proud pervert was petting his one-eyed weasel in the parking lot, advertising its availability to any and all, Ogden spotted Lust Control at about the same time that Lust Control spotted Ogden.  Joe quickly tried to stash his trash and act like any other normal park perv hanging around with his penis hanging out.  But alas, this nasty tub of chicken guts was too late.

Strolling up, the officer did that which we are not paying him nearly enough to do and took Nature Joe away.  And, in a blink, of course, the judge did that which we are paying him way too much not to do, viz., he turned Joe loose.  Thus, within an hour of arrest, Joe Ogden was back out and at it again, doing that which he does best—proudly exposing his 81-year-old not-so-private privates to a disgusted public.

Up the strand a bit at nearby Venice, an undercover Lust Cop (LC) was patrolling the walkways at Caspersen Beach. This area seems to be a magnet for local log floggers and dirty degenerates, in general. Pretty damned quick, disgusting deviant, Antoni Kurzydlowski (what else could he be with a name like that?), was arrested for lewd behavior–for following the LC and fondling his miserable self as he did, and for hanging out his shingle and bluntly advertising that he was open for biz.  It is assumed that before he cuffed this dirty old wretch the LC put on an extra pair of latex gloves. Too damned bad seventy-something Antoni gave up quietly since I would love to report that he got a good 15-minute round of remedial tasing for his future consideration. Whatever, after plunking down chump change for his bond ($500), K Man was soon out on the paths and boardwalks of Venice again, doing what comes naturally—welcoming visitor and local alike to the sick world of Dr. Disgusto.  

How much money does the above cop make trying to keep such raw sewage off our beaches?  Whatever it is, it ain’t enough.  Don’t think you could pay me enough dough to go hands on with such scrotum.  Of course, unspoken but understood perks might bend me a bit.  If I was allowed to tase in the “groin” and buttocks such gentlemen in 30 second increments for say a total of 10 minutes per customer, then this might alter my attitude a bit.


Over on the wrong side of the state, over at Fort Lauderdale, 81-year-old kiddie fiddler, Murray Snider, was arrested a short time back for (what else?) for fiddling kids. Although hooked up to an oxygen tank and seemingly more dead than alive, this ancient degenerate admitted to molesting little kids all of his despicable life. Although they finally caught his creepy Chester ass, “better late than never” seems pretty lame at this stage of his “career.” How this man managed to elude justice all these years, how many lives he ruined in the process, just sorta staggers the thought process. What should be done with this lovely fellow?

a) Take away his oxygen and let him flop like a carp on a river bank?

b) Drop him off naked in the middle of the Everglades?

c) Hang him upside down from a palm tree and start a small fire under his head?

d) Hand out saws, drills and needle-nose pliers and turn him over to his victims?

e) Give him a nice clean room, with plenty of free food and medical attention for the rest of his miserable life?

Wanna guess which punishment the State of Florida will choose? Justice? Give me a fuggin’ break!

Also at Fort Lauderdale, Phillip Winikoff came up with a brilliant scheme. Seems poor Phil never quite got his fill of female breasts in his life, dang it. What to do? Should he surf porn? No, not that—Phil wanted his boobs up close and personal. Should he hang out at “Hooters”? No, not that—one might only gawk in those clip joints, and Phil wanted his bobaloos “hands on.” Should he jump in and join the dating scene? No, not that either—too tedious and it would only be one rack at a time. And so, Winikoff came up with a novel idea—he would pass himself off as a physician; a physician who goes door-to-door giving gratis breast exams!

After “examining” only a few fine “chesticles,” however, “patients” became suspicious when the “doctor” seemed to be spending way too much time with his tests and taking way too much pleasure in his work. Indeed, when Winikoff’s trembling fingers moved to other parts of the victims’ bodies during the exam, there was no longer any doubt. The Perv Patrol was called in and “Dr. Phil” was quickly “busted.”

Since Winikoff was sentenced to a year in the “jug” for his sex scam, it would appear that the judge, unlike nearly all others, was not amused by Phil’s foolish fetish. The shameless wretch also received 18 years probation. Okay then, when added up that means that Phillip Winikoff will be an even one hundred when his galloping libido is finally unleashed on society again since this pervert and Viagra junkie is today a steamy 83-years-old! Surely, there has to be some kind of record here, if not for Florida’s oldest active sex predator, then for Florida’s most original active sex predator.

Of course, in all fairness it should be noted that Florida is US Cex Crime Central for all steamers, not just octo-coots. Take for instance, a typical sex sweep in Sarasota the other night. . . .

Other than keeping our jails full and our prison guards employed, one way illegal aliens boost the economy is, I suppose, by avidly supporting the World’s Oldest Profession. Take a breeze through virtually any police vice blotter from Ventura, Californicate, to Boston, Masturbation, and invariably the Juans outnumber the Johns sixty to six in street sex stings. I think it must be a genetic thing. When I worked in the Mojave melon fields as a teen, I remember that going to the whore houses and getting some “poooosy” on Saturday night was seemingly all that these oversexed people talked about as we slaved under the deadly desert sun.

Of the six netted the other night in the Sarasota sex sting, five were lusty Latinos. From the looks of these swarthy “gentlemen,” not a Jose or Jesus among ‘em was here legally. In fact, bewildered and disheveled, it appeared as if all had just jumped down from the box car a few minutes earlier. Clearly, ‘tis a slow news day when the dead-tree media reports such arrests since these street level stingers are definitely NOT news.

Of course, any such roundup would never be complete here at Senile Sex Sentral unless at least one geezer was not netted. Old Anglo, Merle G. Widmer, looks a bit amused and idiotic among the mug shots of frowning Mexicans. Maybe Merle is quietly proud that at this late date, with both feet firmly planted in the grave, maybe Merle is happy something about him still works. Good God. Great Zeus. Big Buddha. Widmer is so old that the sleazy skank he solicited for sex could have been his Great-Great-Great-Grand daughter. Did a mere age disparity of three score and ten trouble this 88-year-old prehistoric fossil? Nope. Not he. Not a bit. Just pop in about a hundred big blue bombers and old Merle was ready to get it up and get it on with that poon any way he could.

Also in Sarasota, sixty-nine-year-old Tom Petcher is back out on the streets. Since it’s going to be a wondrous warm week ahead in South Florida it is assumed that Tom will once more be on the beach at Siesta Key catchin’ them rays, flashin’ those little girls and spankin’ that monkey of his.

Not long ago, Tom was at the same beach, doing what he loves most—exposing himself to children. With his swim trunks pulled down to his ankles, Petcher the Letcher stood in knee-deep water and put his bat and balls in the on deck circle so that a couple of fourteen-year-olds could admire them. When the girls turned away in disgust, our bat boy simply floated around on his back with his mast sticking up at full staff. Again, the tiny teeny-boppers in their teeny-weeny bikinis moved away from this lustsome, lewdsome, loathsome loser.

By now, thoroughly aroused and just a bustin’ with sexual serendipity, Lester the Luster just had to be jerkin’ his gherkin to relieve himself. Fortunately, this gherkin-jerkin’ gave the Siesta Key Perv Police just enough time to reach the beach and catch the wretch as he fled through the parking lot. As noted above, this lovely citizen is out today, flashin’ his trash, free as a blow-fly. 

Punishment for Tom? Hmmm. Let’s be creative. How about staking him out naked on several square feet of solid fire ant colonies, then let’s pour a can of Coke on his not-so-private private parts, then let’s pull up a chair and enjoy the free show. Don’t think Tom will be so eager to flash anyone or anything when those ants are finished. I doubt if Tom will even have anything to flash when the fire ants and flies finish their feeding frenzy.

Still in Sarasota: After his wife bought the worm farm, some 80-year-old loon befriended several skanky Sarasota street-walkers and these lovely ladies decided to simply open up branch offices in the crazy coot’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 at dawn . . . the full pecker ponchos at noon. . . . 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 floggin’ their logs.

How’s the prostitution business?” yelled an exasperated neighbor one morning to the lusty geezer.

Great!” spit the crazy crank who seemed pretty protective of his prostitutional property.

Sarasota seems a bit unsure how to handle this issue.  For my money, let the old nut sack 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 city can move in and hose the place out.  Problem solved.

Odd. I’ve noticed that when someone commits a certain-certain sexual crime, and gets away with it, copy-cat perverts spring up. One particular miscreant seemed to lead a charmed life. Unlike the run-of-the-mill deviant, this individual would flash his bald-headed clown to kids in the beach parking lots, but unlike other misfits, he kept his lust on a short leash and did not linger long. Although he was eventually cornered like a cockroach and captured, imitators sprang up. Several of these SDP’s (steaming dog piles) are running around in this area now, exposing their naked ugliness to women and kids. Truly, these are some pretty broken animal crackers. Just yesterday, Lust Control nabbed Albert Hickerson. This old degenerate, age 76—say again—This old degenerate, age 76, was seen sitting on a picnic table squeezin’ his squid. And yet, as quick as moral meatballs like Al are taken to predator prison for one day or less and treated to a few free hots and a cot, two more seem to be released.

The above are just a few sundry items that have occurred here recently. By no means assume these are anomalies. Nope, these are rather pedestrian accounts that appear virtually every day, every week, month, year, decade, down here at Cex Crime Central, aka South Florida. One might think that, given the antiquity of the perps, that the problem would abate naturally as these octo-pervs bite the big one. But nope, like dragons teeth of yore, when one kicks the can it seems like five more rise up to take his place. Case in point. . . .

Over at Fort Lauderdale a short time back cops picked up Robert Malone as he was shuffling along a noisy highway.  Just as there are bad ways to die, there are worse ways to live.  Certainly Bob Malone was locked somewhere in the latter world.  For the past fifteen years Malone had been on the run from New Jersey for warrants on sex crimes.  Of course, first thing Bob does when he lams is head to Florida. Apparently, it’s what all molesters, rapists and kiddie fiddlers do because it’s warm, there are plenty of kids here to fiddle and sex criminals, like all other birds of a feather, enjoy flocking together to swap tales and pass on secrets for success.  That’s the bad news.  The good news is that Bob Malone is 70 and when next he gets out of a Jersey jail it will be in a state-issued wooden box.  Six feet of Garden State sod should cure Bob of his perversion, I think.

And that’s what I mean by dragon’s teeth. The year-round warmth draws predators and perverts to Florida like everyone else. Better to be a steaming sex fiend and warm than a steaming sex fiend and cold, or so the reasoning must run.


Land of a Thousand Dunces


This blog entry is dedicated to the 74-year-old cyclist who was determined to prove that he had the right-away this week while a tractor-trailer was also rolling through the same intersection.  No surprise to learn, I suppose, that the truck won.  No surprise either that Charlotte County today counts one less stupid biker on the road. And last, and certainly least, no surprise that this offers a seamless segue into today’s blog.  Below, an oldie, but a goodie, on the cerebrally challenged among us; I think you’ll laugh anew, as I did:

Stupid people should have to wear signs that just say, “I’m Stupid.” That way you wouldn’t rely on them, would you? You wouldn’t ask them anything. It would be like,

“Excuse me . . . oops, never mind. I didn’t see your sign.”

It’s like before my wife and I moved. Our house was full of boxes and there was a U-Haul truck in our driveway. My friend comes over and says, “Hey, you moving?”

“Nope. We just pack our stuff up once or twice a week to see how many boxes it takes. Here’s your sign.”

stupid-people-stuck-in-a-playground2A couple of months ago I went fishing with a buddy of mine. We pulled his boat into the dock, I lifted up this big ‘ol stringer of bass and this idiot on the dock goes, “Hey, y’all catch all them fish?”

“Nope! Talked ’em all into giving up. Here’s your sign.”

I was watching one of those animal shows on the Discovery Channel. There was a guy inventing a shark bite suit. And there’s only one way to test it.

“All right Jimmy, you got that shark suit on and it looks good. Now, jump into this pool of sharks, and you tell us if it hurts when they bite you.”

“Well, all right, but hold my sign. I don’t wanna lose it.”

Last time I had a flat tire, I pulled my truck into a gas station. The attendant walks out, looks at my truck, looks at me, and I SWEAR he said, “Tire go flat?” I couldn’t resist. I said, “Nope. I was driving around and those other three just swelled right up on me. Here’s your sign.”

We were trying to sell our car about a year ago. A guy came over to the house and drove the car around for about 45 minutes. We get back to the house, he gets out of the car, reaches down and grabs the exhaust pipe, then goes, “Darn that’s hot!” See? If he’d been wearing his sign, I could have stopped him.

I learned to drive an 18-wheeler in my days of adventure. Wouldn’t ya know I misjudged the height of a bridge. The truck got stuck and I couldn’t get it out no matter how I tried. I radioed in for help and eventually a local cop shows up to take the report. He went through his basic questioning. No problem. I thought for sure he was clear of needing a sign . . . until he says, “So, is your truck stuck?” I couldn’t help myself! I looked at him, looked back at the rig, then back to him and said, “No I’m delivering a bridge. Here’s your sign!”

Fun With Cretins


Squidbillies was one of my favorite programs. Don’t ask me why ’cause I ain’t agonna go there. First came “Beavis & Butthead,” then “Squidbillies.” For good reason both came on only at 2 or 3 in the morning. Women hate them, of course; and guys, of course, love ’em. Below is a little narrative from these redneck Georgia cartoon cretins.

Sheriff (far right): You passed, boy!
Rusty (green thing with red mullet, front row): I did? I did! Hell, yeah! I’m a high school congraduate. 

Earlie Cuyler (Rusty’s dad, hat, liquor bottle, front row): Graduations, Rusty.
Rusty: Ain’t nuthin gonna stop me now but my innate inabilitree to progress cognatious thunk.


(Rusty and Krystal—large, shapeless slut, not pictured—are looking at a photo album) 

Krystal: Well, then there’s one of me. Here’s one of them what you call ’em Glamour Shots what have you. Whaddaya know, there’s me. No, that’s a bus.


Earlie Cuyler: What did I tell you about drinking underneath the age, huh?
Rusty: You said if I could afford to bring back enough for you then you don’t care what I do. And it’s my body and I can kill it however I want to. And America’s about freedom.


Granny (old squid in walker): Don’t you dare hurt him! 

Earlie Cuyler: Oh, and what’s your saggy mouth gonna say about it? 

Granny: Ablomandelebicus, Pentoculus, Benturpenoise, Farntormion, Crisco, Dophenecta, Glabbafontonion, Smectarufus, Fontanox, Chicken Dance, Trenoctor, Pontallafamarion, Tudonox, Mellicanisis! [the walls of the house open up and Earlie is struck by lightning] 

Earlie Cuyler: You lucky bitch! That’s the one thing you could have said.

Come High or Hell Water

Amazing_Moment_2 (1)What Can You Say?  Seems federal bureaucrats are reading this blog. 

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration did a study to determine who, men or women, confuse the gas with the brake pedal most often.  Although I personally do not give a flying fig which gender is the craziest, this fancy study discovered that women, three to one, most often are the culprits. And, in another goofy million-dollar study, the group learned that most of these accidents occur—surprise, surprise—in store parking lots.  The NHTSA went on to add that there are a whopping fifteen such accidents per month in the U.S.  Ho, ho, ho!  Got news for these feds: There are more such accidents than that per month here in Charlotte County, Florida alone.  Hardly a day passes without a “confused” senior mistaking the gas for the brake pedal and boring a hole straight through some wall or backing over some slow dodger in a parking lot.

Just recently, over on the kosher coast, 76-year-old Gertrude Klangenhoffer plowed right through the front door of the local Publix grocery store.  Witnesses said Gertrude’s car appeared to be going at least 50 MPH when it blasted into the store sending people and potato chips flying in all directions.  Although one shopper was pinned beneath the car and a few others were mussed up some, it was only by the grace of a wonderfully indifferent god and some really fleet feet that more folks were not squashed or critically killed.

As for Gertrude, well it’s hardly worth noting that she still has hardly a clue about what happened.  Contacted at the home, her husband stated that his confused wife (who, unfortunately, was not injured in the least) was “trying to put the pieces together.”

With a little luck, Mrs. Klagenhoffer will be at it again today or tomorrow, exercising her god-given right to confuse the gas pedal for the brake, crashing through walls, sending glass, bricks, floral arrangements, Cheetos, and body parts flying in all directions.

Geezer On Geezer

Up at nearby Venice, retired banker, Sir James Winchester IV, Esquire, was standing in line the other day among the common rif-raf, doing business at (where else?) a bank.  Seems the 74-year-old didn’t much like the way this particular money mill was doing business, thought he could do it ever so much better, and loudly made known his sentiments to the poor serf who was serving His Highness at the time as teller.  When a 71-year-old commoner in line behind Sir James—a commoner whose common sense was shorted out it seems by the tenants of Christianity—thought that he might play Jesus the Peace Maker and try to calm His Majesty down a bit, His Majesty turned angrily about and gave the uppity peasant a right sound rap on his thick skull.  The Royal blow knocked the impudent knave to the floor, dashing his glasses to bits.  Just as Lord Winchester was about to administer a real chicken lickin’ on the would-be Jesus and give the rascally peasant a Royal curb stomp he would long remember, the bank manager stepped in and parted the two combatants.

See?  That’s what I mean.  Here in the “Land of the Living Dead” there is never a dull moment!

Senior Disturbance #2

Seems 72-year-old Jim Montpelier was also on the warpath the other night over at North Port.  Jim may well be totally marbles since the report states he was “living with his family,” which usually means, “this man is totally batz and is under complete house lock down to save society from his craziness.”  Anyway, Jim got it into his scrambled thought process that he wanted to go tooling around in the family car at midnight.  So, when a member of the family, a 44-year-old woman, refused to hand over the keys, the frolic was on.

Jim first locked a pretty good rear naked choke on the lady’s neck as he tried to not only struggle the keys out of her fist but strangle her life right out of this world.  When that failed, he went to work removing great gobs of the gal’s hair like he was pulling crab grass.  Yelling for help, the hard-pressed woman then bit the crazed coot hard on the arm which forced him to release his hold.  After that, she then gave her attacker a few small smacks for man and one giant slug for mankind.  Old Jim flew backwards and hit his noggin hard, not on a moon rock, but on a bread box.

After a bunch more fighting, wrestling, hair pulling, and enough wild racket to wake the dead, cops finally arrived and gave Jim that thing which he fought so hard for—a midnight ride in a car.

Ha!  Old folks down here get pretty dang ornery when you try to separate them from the things they love, including their means of backing over people in parking lots or boring holes through post office walls.

Moral of the story:  You are damned if you do and you are damned if you don’t.  If crazy Paw-paw or goofy Grammy steals the car keys and then proceeds to run over and destroy everything they encounter, you know you’re gonna find your butt in serious trouble.  Don’t surrender the keys to ’em and you find yourself in a Texas Death Match at midnight in which not only is your home demolished and you wind up with a five-figure medical bill, but you find yourself being fitted for a really bad wig when you leave the hospital.

Great Balls of . . . Trash

Senior Sanitation Chief Engineer (big garbage man) Bob White was perhaps whistling a little tune the other day as he merrily blew up I-75 with a full load of Residential Refuse and Industrial Waste Matter (garbage) in his Multi-Functional Waste Management Vehicle (trash truck).  Suddenly, a driver in another lane motioned for Bob to look behind.  In the mirror, Bob realized that his trash truck (Multi-Functional Waste Management Vehicle) was on fire.  Bob didn’t get to be a big garbage man (Senior Sanitation Chief Engineer) for nothing.  Parking the fiery mess, Bob then dumped the whole load on the side of the road where it quickly began to ignite the surrounding countryside.  Although the action saved the truck, the move threatened to engulf the entire State of Florida in flames since there is a no-burn drought notice hereabouts and everything organic is kindling dry.  Clearly, this waste was not managed too well.

Whatever, the local fire department reached the scene and the five tons of flaming garbage were doused and several Waste Management Specialists (trash men) were compelled to put the mess back in the truck again.  Just don’t seem fair, do it?

Fleecing God’s Sleepless Sheep, or “But Wait! There’s More!” Part 2

shamwow (1)Yesterday we blazed new trails by offering an in-depth, super scientific look at info-mania, info-mercials, info-scams, and the worthless info-junk being hustled on TV. If you doubt that this stuff is info-useless, then go to any yard sale or snoop in any garage, basement or out-of-the-way closet in America or Canada and you will clearly see the effectiveness of these dust-gathering products.

The Typical Cast on an Info-hustle include:

The Hucksters: One Boss Hoss, One Slavish Shill, One Shameless Claque.

The Targets: Me, you, us, we—fat, broke, depressed insomniacs who believe in UFOs, that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, and that Israel is our ally.

Boss Hoss: Most of these fast-talking crooks look like they have done a stretch somewhere in the past and will also do a stretch or two somewhere in the future. Years ago, these slicksters—“sharpers,” they were called—worked carnivals, medicine shows and back street shell games; they wore silk shirts, checkered vests, spats, and sported those little thin mustaches and long sideburns. Now, today, (depending on the product) they are either nearly naked, or clad in a chef’s costume, or holding a bible, or reading a teleprompter. Unfortunately for us, these sharks are very good at their trade. I’ve noticed that Brits, Aussies and others who don’t speak good English are popular (I guess we Yank and Canuck suckers think their toney accents are more credible and honest). These smooth scammers could hustle the habit off a nun.

Shills: My guess is that all of these folks are Boss Hoss wannabees doing their apprenticeship. Most will never make the grade for it does take a bit of brains, a lot of charisma and a ton of shameless lying to shake us down, but the shills give it their all. For food blender or oven ads these individuals do little more than lick their lips on cue for nano-second camera close-ups. Always starved, of course, by the time the lip-lickers are offered something tasty by the Boss Hoss they are shivering in orgiastic food lust. Even before the morsel hits the lips, the shill is euphoric on its tastes, textures, juiciness, etc. Male or female, the only requirement of the food shill seems an ability to drop their jaw in amazement a minimum of ten times a minute. Again, lots of quick (one second or less) camera shots of their always amazed mugs, lots of licking lips, dropping jaws, sparkling eyes, and beaming smiles.

For other products, say a Super Atomic Suction Home Cleaning System (vacuum cleaner) or a Buck Rogers Magic Diet Belt (batteries not included), the shillistas do little more than drop jaws in amazement and feed the boss inane questions and comments, like “It’s that easy?” and “This is like magic!” and “Everyone needs this!” and “How did we ever live without it?”

images98I think the most egregious panderer in the shill category is “Joe” (left) with the Nu-Wave Thermonuclear Radioactive 21st Century Magic Oven. This guy is always ecstatic over the virtues of the oven. The food is always “the best I have ever tasted” and “Ooooooo, oh my God . . . Mmmmmm, I can’t believe it!” and “This is so good I need to tell all my friends!” even though he has hardly got it past his lips yet; as he chews the tasty morsel, the jaw bone works in an exaggerated manner; his ample torso shivers in spasmodic delight. This chap is just a walking, talking chunk of hard sell. Joe’s shtick is so over the top that I sense he would sell his mother, wife and daughters into slavery if the price was right. Pound for pound, Joe is the lunker bass of all shills.

The Claque: Bought audiences. These people are either Grade B or Grade C actors working for coffee and sinkers or they are hapless shareholders who sense they too have been smoked and the louder they cheer, applaud and stamp their feet the quicker they will get their lost investments back. On one infomercial the claque applauds on average about once every nine seconds.

“But wait, there’s more…We’re going to throw in an extra knife” (thunderous applause).

“The Magic Bullet chops and blends everything, even old shoe leather!” (thunderous applause)

“No more dieting, no more fat! With the Magic Belt you’ll never miss another meal again!” (outrageous, insane applause)

My favorite claque are those who marvel at the Magic Bullet. This cozy crew contains all elements of society: A disheveled old hag with a smoke dangling from her lips: She represents the lazy, seedy side in us all. This old bag of sag just wants a cheap product that is effortless to operate, never has to be cleaned and something that lets her smoke, drink and watch her daytime TV in peace. Then there is “Berman“—a lazy, baldo fatso who adds skepticism to the mix. Berman is sullen and moody; he constantly crooks a doubting eyebrow at the claims of the Magic Bullet. But Berman also crumbles to the touch the very instant he tastes the results. Berman sets the world speed record for “doubter who is won over quickest.” There are also two sets of clueless yuppie types who, between sex and parties, have no time for serious cooking and they just want a product that will do everything for them and which will allow them more time for sex and parties. With knowing looks and nods, they are won over to the Magic Bullet long before we are.

In another con, this time for the Magic Bullet Express (just a typical blender), “Granny” along with a rock-faced “Aunt Something” have replaced the skeptic Berman. The Theory is: If we can convince these nettlesome, nagging old grunt buckets and Berman the Bozo, then we damn sure can satisfy you hicks in Dirt City, Iowa.

Some of the other info-categories I won’t get into are:

images56Tele Evangelists: Saving souls is obviously way down on the “to-do” list of these sleazy scoundrels with their slick suits and fancy doos (right). Clearly, to keep the salvation money machine fed, all these men and women want is cold hard cash NOW! I’m sure there are more honest faces behind bars than these christian cons.

Male Enhancement:  In a sex crazed society small wonder that these come-ons are gaining in popularity. Now, there is even female enhancement. Does anyone else find these public pubic ads nasty and disgusting? Same with ads for yeast infection, condoms, hemorrhoids, and feminine napkins?

Music-mercials: I must admit, I watch these things over and over….

“Best of Country Gold”

“Best of 70’s Silver”

“Best of Polka Mood Music”

“Best of Blue Grass Funeral Dirges”

“Favorite Christian Hymns Performed on Bongos, Spoons and Kazoos”

……and so on,

Here’s a few Info-Buzz Words and Phrases that are used again and again:

“Don’t wait…Order Now!”  (Which Really Means: “Don’t think…Act now! If you think, or if you had a thinker to think with at 3 in the morning, you would never buy a hunk of junk like this in a million years.”

Not sold in stores.”  (WRM: “Of course it’s not sold in stores. Without our hustle, hype and big British jugs, no store could ever move this worthless stuff in the light of day.”

Hurry!!! Supplies Are Limited!  (WRM: “No they’re not. As long as there are enough suckers out there like you we will make this junk for another thousand years.”)

Time is limited…We can’t do this all day!” (WRM: “Yes, we can….We can shake you suckers down all day if you keep the greenbacks coming.”

But Wait! There’s More!”  (WRM: “No there isn’t. It’s the same amount of petty stuff but like the witch who led Hansel and Gretl into the oven by scattering cake crumbs on the ground, we keep leading you mopes to the telephone to order, one bite at a time.”)

“System.” Everything hustled is a “system.” It is never a cooking pot; it is the “Nu-Wave Infrared Invection Thermo System.” It is never just knives being hawked, it is “Chef Tony’s Kitchen Culinary System.” It is never just a girdle to hold your fat butt in, but the “Kemara New Bottom Shaper System.” “Magic Food-Saver System” (zip-lock bag). “System” sounds so much more modern and polished and suggests you are getting much, much more than you really are. None of this stuff is a “system,” of course. NASA is a system; the Federal Reserve is a system; the National Park Service is a system. The “Contour Core Sculpting System” is a Flash Gordon belly belt with a battery inside, not a “system.”

Letters from unhappy campers:

the magic bulit is peice of junk. I payed good money and it never worked. I hpe who ever made this crap dies.   Bob of Birmingham

I only used the NuWave Oven a couple of times. This was two years ago. I saw the ad on tv and fell for the product. The rack broke almost immediately; it was replaced without charge and I did not send the defective one back. The dome cracked. I contacted the company via email. It took months for them to respond. They finally called me but by that time, it was too late. The company said they would replace but had already discarded it; I could see the hand writing on the wall. . . .nothing but future problems. The unit was also heavy, cumbersome and took up lots of counter space. It ended up in my trash can.   Roger of Texas 
I bought this and it opparantly did not work. nothing but junk!~!!!!!    Carl of Omaha
Operantly the people with negative comments can’t spell. Maybe they can’t read either and therfore can’t use this thing.    Ed of Illinois

Ed, you mean “apparently” you *** idiot?    James of Providence
Yeah, talk *** about people’s spelling NOW moron.   Robert of Oregon
Well i don’t think it’s your place to judge Ed. Please be nice you idiot!   Shawna of Sarasota

I bought the Nu-Wave oven-pro on sale before Easter to cook a fresh 8lb turkey breast. Tried it on a few steaks (double the cooking time), some sausage links (double the cooking time), and finally the 8lb turkey breast (should take 1 hour). After FIVE hours of cooking, the temperature never went over 150 degrees. Gave up, put it in regular oven for 30 minutes to get it to 170 degrees. Returning product today. The informercialis deceptive advertising! The oven would cycle on and off but never got anywhere near the claimed 350 degrees on high setting. My thermometer is accurate. Like trying to cook a turkey with a hair dryer!  Marsha of Milwaukee

Fleecing God’s Sleepless Sheep, or “But Wait! There’s More!”

Leelou Blogs Chef Tony (1)Back when I was living under a bridge, back about seven or eight years ago, I had a tiny battery-operated TV. When I couldn’t sleep I’d flip the stupid thing on. Except for the weather channel and two local access stations, at 2-5 AM every channel is airing an infomercial. If you think that this is a sure guarantee to either 1) put you back to sleep or 2) assure suicide, think again. Gold is where you find it.
Here was the script. . . .

On one channel a rotund “Chef Tony” (above) is hawking his Magic Kitchen Knives. These incredible blades, which no self-respecting cook should be without, cut, peal, slice, dice, mince, chop, whiz, whack, whomp, whoop, and wheeze any and all vegetables, fruits, poultry, fish, meats, and cans. Cans? Yep! Ever wanted to slice through a bunch of pop cans? Well now you can. Ever had the urge to cut clean through a large iron safe? Well now you can! And what about that old Sherman Tank out back you’ve always dreamed of sawing in half? Well, now you can do that too with Chef Tony’s miracle blades, and all this, assures Chef Tony, without ever losing the edge on a single knife. Truly, these are indeed “Magic” knives.

20090713_magic_bullet_infomercial_18On another channel some bedraggled Brit and a big-boobed blond—Mick and Mimi (left)—are hustling the “Magic Bullet.” Judging by the “OOooo’s” and “AHHhhh’s” of the bought audience, Jesus walking on water was no more a miracle than what this tiny food blender can do in “One…Two…Three” easy touches. Have an emergency? Need a seven-course meal for seven hungry lumberjacks who just happen to drop by at seven? Need all this food in seven minutes or less?  Well, for seven easy payments of $39.95 all your problems are solved.

On yet another channel, the “Magic Hair Club” pitchman promises to grow a mop of manly mane on anything, be it a bowling ball, a concrete block or even your own thick skull. You know the drill: Scowling, angry baldos in the “Before” photos; smiling hairy heroes in the “Afters.”

Switching to the next channel, dozens of sleek body builders are milling around a phony gym hustling the “Magic Belt.” Looking like something Buck Rogers might strap on before he zips off to the Planet Zar-Kon, this marvelous break-through in lard control promises to subtract the fat faster than you can add it. Just cinch the belt around your girth, turn on the Magic Thermo Techno Radar-Decombobulator, and you’re all set. It’s as easy as that! Now, no need to ever miss another meal because of all that time lost on those pesky exercise machines. With the new Magic Belt you can get right back to gorging the moment you bolt on the belt. But Wait! There’s More!  With the handy carrying case included in the offer, you can take your Magic Belt with you where ever you go—to the Dairy Queen, to the Fudge Factory, to Large Larry’s Eat-Til-You-Bust Buffet. Fat has finally met its match. But hurry . . . Supplies are limited!

Still not asleep, I switch the channel and behold the Futurama Magic Multi-Vac Home Cleaning System being demonstrated by a huckster and his shill. Pretty quick, I too am convinced and wonder if I should not call in my order for this bargain. After all, where else can one find a light, easy to operate vacuum cleaner that will pluck up all those bothersome ball bearings, nails and rusty railroad spikes laying around on my carpet, just as the demonstrators are showing?

AB_Circle_ProAnother channel and surprise! another marvel. The “Ab Circle Magic Pro System”(right) is perhaps the most curious-looking exercise/torture device I have ever seen. Dozens of humanoids, with perfect bods, are waving their butts in the air, back and forth, as they not only demonstrate this modern miracle, but give us a glimpse of what we all will look like in a day or two of sweat-free fun (from the big smiles frozen on their faces these folks are obviously having a great time dying by degrees).

Beyond doubt, the most shameless hustle of them all is “Jeff’s Short Cut.” What exactly is “Jeff’s Short Cut”? Well, that is never made quite clear but the point is: You need it . . . and you need it FAST! Seems “Jeff” has a magic book filled with magic secrets that guarantee instant wealth without working. That’s right . . . WITHOUT WORKING!

Got no money? No problem.

Got no credit? No problem.

Got no education? No problem.

Got no intelligence? Nooooooooo problem.

With Jeff’s short cut to instant wealth, you don’t need any of these trivial things. All you need is Jeff’s book and a strong desire to spend lots of money.

According to Jeff—an average-looking con—he came up with his magic idea one day while living like a mole in his sister’s basement. Of course Jeff was dead broke and despondent and his prayers to hqdefault (2)mammon were going no where. Suddenly, a beam of light burst through the ceiling and showered Jeff in its amazing grace. And now, out of the goodness of his heart, and like John the Baptist of old, Jeff roams TV Land and spreads his message of instant wealth. A pair of really ditzy blonds—one a Brit, natch—both with a full rack of big bombs, remind those of us with zero imagination:

Just think what YOU could do with all the money that you make from Jeff’s short cuts? You could pay your bills! You could own cars! You can take trips! You could have sex with us (not said, but implied)! 

Then, from around a pool crawling with beautiful people lounging and drinking their day away, up step the testimonialistas. None of these people led normal lives. No one had a home. No one had a job. No one could pass a drug test. Before Jeff’s Short Cut transformed their miserable lives from dumpster divers to instant millionaires, all were lost souls sleeping on cardboard down by the river.

“With Jeff’s Short Cut I made $7,000 the first day,” says one smiling short-cutter.

“I earned $300,000 in my first week,” offers another loser-turned-winner without blinking.

“In my first month,” grins another former shop-lifter, “I bought Fort Knox.”

The blond bombers are giddy at all this, but not surprised. Of course, not once is it revealed just how any of these folks acquired all that magic jack. Nor is it explained why so many bazillionaires would voluntarily show up to do a cheesy infomercial like this at four in the morning. But, by sending Jeff only $39.95, anyone can get the facts for themselves and race down the road to fabulous wealth.

Note: There may indeed be a short cut in Jeff’s future but this scam is so patently over the edge that Jeff’s quick trip may be straight up the river to the state pen.

On the next station, and the next, and the next, more Magic Ovens, Magic Ninja Blenders and other Magic Attic Fillers are being hustled for Not $1,000…not $500….not even $200. But yours for three easy payments of $39.95. And so on. See a thread here? No, not the big bombs on the babes or even the Brits—I mean the Magic, stupid! Everything is “Magic.” Now, if you believe in alien abductions, Elvis sightings and that US troops are fighting for your freedoms in the Middle East, then chances are you also believe in magic. If so, then what are you waiting for? But Hurry! . . . Supplies are limited!!

(continued tomorrow,  “But Wait! There’s More! Part 2”)

Murder Becomes Her


The title of this post has absolutely zero to do with the weighty matters below.  I just thought that the pretty young bride above, the one about to settle her “out-of-court divorce” from a cheating groom, was kinda compelling.  My own verdict? Two thumbs down on the rat. Any man that would cuck this babe deserves death.


The Lecherous Wretch

A Charlotte County deputy was patrolling Flatwoods Nature Park up the bay the other day at Punta Gorda.  Seems one Joe Ogden was taking the “nature” part of the park a bit too seriously.  While this loathsome piece of work was playing with his fiddle in the parking lot, advertising his availability to any and all, he spotted the Lust Patrol at about the same time the Lust Patrol spotted him.  Joe quickly tried to stash his trash and act just like any other normal park perv hanging around with his penis hanging out.  But alas, this nasty tub of chicken guts was too late.

Strolling up, the Carnal Cop did that which we are not paying him nearly enough to do and took Nature Joe away.  And, in a blink, of course, the judge did that which he and his ilk are notorious for doing, viz., he turned Joe loose.  Thus, within an hour of arrest, Joe Ogden was back out and at it again, doing what he does best—proudly exposing his 81-year-old not-so-private privates to a disgusted public.

Practical Jokes

Making others look like idiots is great fun.  And it’s a sport which has been around for quite a while.  Most folks love the old slip-on-the-banana-peal routine (last time I saw that one was when Kramer went on his butt and the canned laughter from the Seinfeld rerun went nutz—as it does for virtually everything else—sigh).  “Candid Camera” was popular in the 60’s at catching people being slow, simple, stupid, and/or senile. More recently, a cream pie in the kisser while self-important people are making serious on camera was the rage.  So, it’s only natural that the more unstable among us will push the envelope just a little, or in this case, a lot

Some aspiring artistic genius, 20-year-old Charlie Ross from upcoast at Bradenton, has been running around being stupid most of his life by playing practical jokes on folks, ala the “Jackass” program.  Charlie then posts his “work” on You Tube.

Recently, in the name of “artistic expression,” Ross just walks up to pretty girls and gives ‘em a lip smack hard on the honey hole.  Their reactions are posted on the Tube.  Now, Ross has graduated to more “serious” humanities studies by giving guys wedgies.  For those who don’t know: Wedgies are when someone grabs another by the back of his fruit of the looms then yanks up very hard so as to make the embarrassed victim feel like a complete douche bag.  It’s all okay, I suppose, if you are a struggling young artist like Charlie Ross; not so okay if you are the d-bag victim walking around with your arms sticking out like a penguin.  I’m sure Ross always picks on smallish nerd types since your average MMA muscular type, once he pried the wedgie loose from his crotch crack, would beat Ross’ artistic ass six ways from Sunday once he ran him down.

Cops did arrest this fool for his wedgie routine but not until he had posted his artist work on the Tube. Next up for Ross:  Maybe conking people on their coconuts with cue balls or tossing sulphuric acid down their pants or . . . oh, who knows?  The possibilities are endless for an up-and-coming creative serial killer like Charlie Ross.

Cops better keep an eye on this anything-for-attention “artist.”

Bad Samaritan

Local rocket scientist, 43-year-old Rene Glynn, found a smart phone in the restroom of a Walmart and instead of reporting it to “Lost and Found” she took it.  Now, Rene didn’t really need the expensive phone—she had already stolen a new one the week before so that she could continue making her drug deals in a timely and stylish manner.  Nope, instead Rene called the owner’s number and demanded $100 as her “finder’s fee” for returning the thing.  Okaaaaaay. . . .

gun-01At the same Walmart where this great criminal transaction would take place, the cops, of course, were waiting.  They took Rene away without incident, other than, of course, her professing her complete innocence in the matter, and that her rights were being violated, and that her human dignity was being trampled on, and no, she has never used drugs in her life and no, she has . . .  oh, whatever.

For her piece of brilliance, Glynn got two new raps added to her rod long rap sheet: grand theft and dealing in stolen property. Must have needed some quick dough for that fast fix and with only half her brain functioning it’s pretty clear to me that Rene just wasn’t using that other half much either.  Whatever, the thief now has ample time to reflect on her stupidity, courtesy of the county.


Meanwhile, a brain surgeon up in Michigan knocked off a McDonalds awhile back and he liked the service so much that he thought he might stop in again, this time not to rob but to suppa’ down.  That Big Mac attack proved expensive.  Yes, someone recognized this 40-year-old Mensa member. Yes, someone called 911.  Yes, the hungry stick-up man was arrested.  And yes, he is consuming cold calories again, courtesy of the county.

Fast cash, fast food, fast conviction, fast prison, fast fool . . . simple.

Canals and Coots

Seems this awful affinity, this murderous magnetism, this hypnotic hankerin’ that seniors possess which compels them to walk, creep or crawl near canals, and to their deaths, is not something new.  Awhile back a car was pulled from one of our local, long, muddy, murky, unnatural bodies of water (we call ‘em “canals”) where it had lain undiscovered for two decades.  Back in ‘93, Frances Hendrickson disappeared while driving her big blue Buick station wagon over the bay at Fat Point (we call it “Punta Gorda”).  Foul play was, of course, suspected back then but it now seems that the 64-year-old woman, like so many other age-challenged oldsters down here (we call ‘em geezers), just simply drove to her death on a bright, sunny day when only a few blocks from home.

Canals and old people—sorta sounds like the Bermuda Triangle and ships.  If you know the geezers here and if you understand the Sunshine State, it all makes sense.  Oldsters here hardly ever kick the can on their own.  By the time they reach 80 these cautious critters are pretty proficient at survival and dragging the whole mess out.  Geez almost never kill themselves.  They might confuse the gas pedal for the brake and bore holes through post office walls, they might back over and flatten slow dodgers in Walmart parking lots, they might squash like squirrels we cyclists on the roads . . . but kill themselves?  Ha!

And so, since coots gotta go somehow—it may seem cruel but canals are nature’s way of . . . rather, canals are unnature’s way of making room for the next generation of Florida fossils who will continue their age-old ritual of confusing gas pedals for brakes and boring holes through post office walls.

Walmart—”America’s One Stop Shocking Center”

a98200_public-punishment_4-walmartSam Walton really missed the boat.  If the old fool had really wanted to get rich and retire early he would have built a large theater above the entrances to all of his stores.  Each theater would seat several hundred people and two huge one-way glasses would face both the parking lot and the checkout counters.   These theaters are for those among us who want to gape open-mouthed at the freak show in the store, but are otherwise too polite to stare at the original article.  Tickets would be sold, popcorn and pop peddled and not only would America do its one-stop shopping at Walmart but America would get its one-stop entertainment out of the way at Walmart, as well.  On nine days out of ten such a show would be a better performance than anything that could possibly be playing at any movie theater anywhere. Bet me people like me and you and a boy named Sue would line up for tickets and laugh our guts out watching the sub-human menagerie that come and go at Walmart each day.

Ever been to a Walmart?  Of course you have, don’t lie.  Not only do you save some bucks at the mega-mart but there is the added bonus of seeing sights there that you never dreamed existed even on the old midway freak shows. Toothless, sunken-faced meth zombies, ballz-to-the-wallz tattoo lizards, head-studders and nose-piercers, 700-pound land whales on those poor little electric bulldozers that seem to be straining with every inch and make warning sounds when backing up like dump trucks make, hunchback ogres, hairy butt-cracks, anorexic skeletroids, these and other questionable life forms that would never think of patronizing a normal grocery or clothes store at the mall will walk, creep, crawl, creak, slip, slide, roll, waddle, wobble, stagger, stumble, lumber, and knuckle-drag right into Wally World as if they felt right at home . . . which, of course, they do.   Trust me: You will see sights at Walmart you have never ever seen before, not even in your worst nightmares.  They are all on display at Walmart, and it’s all free!


My first real intro to the Wondrous World of Walmart—or “Methmarts,” as we call them in Florida–came by accident.  Officer Good Body (my dominatrix) and I had spent an hour or so a while back loafing on one of our local beaches.

The folks from the mainland were out in full force that day to beat the heat on our island and even before we had locked our bikes we knew the place would be packed. T’was. People, people, people . . . sprawled on the sand, bobbing in the water, boozing on boats, even floating above in parasails—humanity was out in full force that day on the blue Gulf.  Whatever, the woman and I rolled out our quilt, peeled off our shirts, flipped off our flip-flops, then got right down to working on our melanoma. Funny.  After a bit, we both couldn’t help but notice that unlike 99% of America, this beach was literally bodulated by bouncing, beautiful bodies. Bikinis, boobed and bootied, fully filled out by lasses, young and not-so-young; swim trunks, hunked and bulging by tanned men who obviously did give-a-damn about their looks; t’was indeed pleasant to note.

But it was amidst this reverie that I wondered aloud to my wife where all the others were; where were the ones who peopled that other ninety-nine percent of America?  Alas, as we soon found out, most were at our local Walmart. Late that afternoon Officer GB had to pick up something and so. . . . Not sure I have ever seen a more “entertaining” sideshow anywhere this side of a carnival than this one that day in Englewood, Florida. I had been in some of Sam’s other stores around the nation but for some reason that spaghetti had never really stuck to my wall.

Once in the cavernous store, I stared in awe.  I whispered to my partner that it “looks like all the carnival workers in Florida are out today stocking up on Sudafed.”  She busted up. “Maybe a crack addict convention or a dirt bike rally would be closer to the mark,” she laughed. Whatever, they’uns wuz out in force that day and it wuz sumpin’ ta see, sho.

funny-walmart-meme-freaksAt least one bedraggled hag was clearly clad in a house robe; another person, a man, I think, was wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and an old army parka with the hood up (it was 85 degrees outside).  A kid, maybe ten, had a bright red Mohawk and was sporting punk rock regalia.  An enormous amorphous individual of dubious gender was taxing and maxing one of those electric lard movers; this half-ton monster was wearing a tank top and shorts and, well. . . .  As with this sight and many others, I actually had to look away; “disgusting” does not begin to describe the sight.  Anywho, if you want a look at some of these great All-Americans, just google “Walmart peeps & freaks.”

Now, it stands to reason that since Wally World tugs like a magnet on the—how should I say?—on the more modestly funded and the least mentally empowered among us, well, then it stands to reason that there will be more crimes committed here than in other stores.  And it also stands to reason that of those crimes committed, the average Walmart criminal will be on average—how should I say?—-will be pretty damned stupid, or about as sharp as a marble.  For example. . . .

Justin Jacobs was doing what he normally does, i.e., hanging around our Walmart, trying to turn a buck, hoping to get high, looking stupid, acting suspicious.  This 28-year-old part-time drug dealer and full-time jack wad was really nervous and needed something to get him back up there in that drug-induced oblivion where he normally spends most of his waking hours.

When jittery Justin saw some old coot in a wheel chair picking up an order at the pharmacy counter, he made his move.  After first asking the surprised gent if he could buy the pills—and receiving an adamant “Get the hell outta here!”—Jacobs resorted to the law of the jungle and decided to just take what he wanted.  Hmmm.  It would seem that in the “jungle” Justin occupies he is just a worm, bi-valve or slug.  Tugging back and forth, this manly specimen could not even out muscle an octo-cripple in a wheel chair.  After punching the victim several times in the puss, Justin decided that discretion was the better part of valor and that it was better to run away and live to steal another day and when the going gets tough then the . . . oh, hell, Justin just fled out the door . . . with a dozen security cameras rolling.

With a fat file of arrests—24—for such trifles as battery, burglary and bungled robberies, Justin the Jailbird is now in jail again, just a waitin’ for some sympathetic judge to release him for the 25th time so he can get that fix he so desperately needs.

Beating up a cripple in a wheel chair!  Now that’s pretty low, about as low as a man can go, about as low as a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.  Maybe next time out Justin can pilfer some silverware from a church and pawn it, or knock a four-year-old off her bike and sell it, or maybe he can find a grave to rob or. . . .

War on Drugs?  Hahahahahaha!!!!   Right!  Crack me up!  DEA don’t need to go down to Columbia or Mexico to lose that war—just come to Charlotte County, Florida.

Speaking of drugs. . . .

Seldom doth a week elapse lest one or more twenty-somethings are caught wheeling out one or more flat-screened TVs from our Meth-Mart.  Maybe it’s because their already walnut-sized brains are so totally sizzed that these zit-faced zombies don’t see a problem boosting these enormous things in broad daylight, in front of hundreds of shoppers, watched by more security cameras overhead than a casino has.  Yes, it may be the most expensive item in the store and may render the most swag from a fence, but. . . . Hey?  Hello?  Like, dude! . . . the flippin’ things are off-the-charts huge!  What on earth makes these idiots—three tried it just the other day—what makes them think they can just muscle these things into shopping carts then wheel them out to the car unnoticed?  Is it because the eighty-year-old Wal-Mart “geezer greeters” are no longer guarding the gates?  Is it because they think that they look like just your every-day normal drug-addicted Walmart customers?  Is it because they think no one is watching any of those thousand camera monitors?

Anyway, the three above Mensa members decided on bush bail when confronted by five hundred waiting cops, fifty barking K-9s and the entire Charlotte County Air Force whirling overhead.  Seems the thieves were even worse at fleeing than they were at stealing and they, of course, were rounded up in record time, breaking the old Guinness Book Record for “Quickest Walmart Foot-Chase Apprehension” by thirteen seconds.

On some occasions—depending on the amount of meth they just had—some try to boost two TV screens at once!  Yesterday, Sharika Shanika Smith was observed just a waddling out into the parking lot with not one but two “home theater systems” in her rattling cart.  I guess intellectual titans like Sharika Shanika figure that the stores are so big that no one would ever notice if just a few of “something” were wheeled out without paying.  Fact is: Walmart didn’t get big by letting people like Sharika steal from them.  Whatever, I hope the county keeps Ms. Smith and her silly name until she has learned her . . . oh, whatever . . . people like this are not smart enough to learn anything, much less learn complicated moral lessons like “I won’t steal no mo what ain’t mine.”

Come to think of it, since I seldom bother to even check on these crimes or the Billy Joe Methlabs and Bobbi Sue Boobjobs who commit them, perhaps they are the same whacked-out offenders who mindlessly recommit week after week after week after the same revolving door legal system turns them loose week after week after week.

Next time you are in a Walmart, if you want some free amusement, just stand in the well-named “home entertainment” section.  Go where the high end stuff is located.  Then, while you are waiting for furtive-looking, zit-faced candidates to show up, look around some corners real quick and see if you can spot the security lurking nearby.  Generally, these are lean, clean lads who look totally out of place in a store of semi-humanoidal life forms.  When you see two or more pill-poppers slowly wheeling out big screen TVs, two or more poppers who look like they might have a hard time rubbing four quarters together to buy a stick of beef jerky, much less enough dough for a $500 big screen, get that camera ready.

Note to Self: File the following under “Better Never Than Late.”

Has anyone else out there—and I am speaking to men only—has anyone else out there put on a pair of freshly laundered pants or shorts and found that they fit so perfectly that you either choose not to put on a belt or simply forget to?  Then, half an hour later, when they finally get stretched out, you find that nothing on earth short of a heavy duty wench and crane can keep these pants or shorts from falling down over your bare butt?  Well, such an event happened to me today at Walmart.  Yep, when I left home I thought, “Ha, no need for a belt me . . . these shorts fit perfect.”

But Lo!  As soon as I exited the car in the parking lot—BOING—I knew.  Instead of driving back six miles to get a belt, I determined to suck it up.  Even though it looked idiotic in the heat, I stuck my hands in my pockets and managed to keep the shorts up that way.

When almost into the store I was confronted by a gravitationally challenged woman, aka a morbidly obese blob.  The woman was out of breath.  She beseeched me to take her Courtesy Mobile Obesity Shopping Unit (electric bulldozer) back into the store for her.  What can one say?

a)  One can say “No!”

b) One can say, “You somehow managed to get in the store to fetch the bulldozer and be hauled around on it, now you can’t manage to take it back?”

c)  One can say, “Look lady, I can’t even keep my pants up. I’m the one that needs help here!”

d)  Or, one can say “sure,” which is what this Baldo Waldo said.

Whatever, without so much as a “thanks” from the puffing beluga I tried to drive the thing across the cross-walk and into the giant building.  Seems that the blob so stressed the little machine that the battery had run down.  And so, looking like even a bigger idiot than I already felt I was, there I sat while the scooter inched across the road going at about the same pace as a really fast snail might.  I could not dismount and simply pull the thing along for fear my shorts would fall to my ankles.  One can imagine the stopped cars waiting for me to finish the grueling marathon and the amount of laughter and cursing I generated.

“Look at that lazy piece of shit!  He’s no more disabled than I am.” 

“That bald fool should be ashamed of himself.  Where’s your pellet gun, Tyler?”


Fortunately, a big friendly guy saw my dilemma and along with his laughing wife he pulled me into the store.

And so, as I slipped around Walmart with one of those fuggin defective shopping carts that pulls hard left and makes a major malfunction noise like it has a flat tire, I tried holding my shorts up without anyone noticing. Mostly, I was successful; the slow pace of shopping for food allowed me to discreetly keep a hand on a belt loop and still push the noisy cart.

A bit later I ran into the same Samaritans who had helped me; it was on the cookie aisle where I had a hankerin’ for strawberry wafers.  They laughed out loud when I announced, “And here I am buying cookies!  Maybe there’s an electric scooter in my future too.”

It was the trudge back to the car, however, that was awful.  In addition to fighting the stupid shopping cart full of food across what seemed like a mile of blazing hot asphalt, the shorts acted as if they would fall down over my butt with every effing step.  Whatever, I must have looked right at home among the geeks, freaks, sneaks, cheats, carnies, big screen TV boosters, meth scab pickers, and hairy butt-cracks at Wally World, for none noticed, thank god.

Moral: If the aliens and sub-humans at Walmart start staring, then you probably best just go home and gas yourself.

Octo-Cide, or Jeepers Creepers, Geezers!

garmpaWay 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 down 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?


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 coconut, 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!


Another young demon, 61-year-old Edward Frederick Growlowitz 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.


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.

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 the men in white coats 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 next year than it has been in the past 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.

Thank Friday It’s God, or The Good, The Bad and The Beastly Ways To Go

Cartoon-3D-21For those of you who want to be remembered for something other than just surviving this life by living it safely, longley and dully, come to Florida—here, your chances of making history and being remembered for something other than living safely, longley and dully are infinitely greater than elsewhere; here, the odds of being remembered for dying ironically and oddly is at least ten times greater than elsewhere.

Cases in point. . . .

Just south of here, just south of Manasota Key, a lady was struck by a car and severely killed as she was trying to help, not a chicken, but a duck to cross the road.  At roughly the same time and the same place in Florida, a man was killed while attempting to avoid a ten-foot long large green log lumbering across the road (aka a humongous alligator).

Some time back an otter attacked a man a short distance from this island as the latter was taking a morning stroll.  As noted then, as noted now, the weird part of the story was not so much that an otter, that most fun-loving of creatures, would suddenly take a break from his busy schedule of frolicking in the estuary and being cute to go hunting humans, but that the victim of the attack was a 97-year-old man.  Ninety-seven!  One might imagine that at three years shy of the century mark this nonagenarian would hardly be able to move, much less get out on a pre-dawn jaunt, yet here he was.  A short time later, in the same place, we learned of yet another otter attack.  Since the MO was much the same as the earlier attack we must assume that a serial otter is at large.

Over by Miami, a man was pulling weeds at a local golf course, minding his own beeswax, maybe humming a little tune to himself as he worked in the golden sun.  Don’t know much about this gentleman.  He may have been a good father, or a bad father; might have been a faithful husband, or a sneaking cheat; maybe an asset to his community, or maybe a total drain on it. Whatever . . . . Bam!  A bolt from the blue, rather, a golf ball from the blue.  He was forty-something.  He wasn’t wearing a helmet.

No one said life was fair, but really?  How would you like to live a rich, full life, lots of awards and achievements, you’ve stayed out of jail, paid your onerous taxes on time, kept your fence up, your name is respected by friends and family, then wham!  You are brained by a golf ball, run over while escorting a duck across the road, or attacked and killed not by lions, tigers or bears, but by an otter, for god’s sake.  No matter what good you have done with your life up until that point—Nobel Prize, curing cancer, solving world hunger—the most lasting memory of your life will be the last event of your life: “Ralph? Oh yeah, wasn’t he the one killed by that otter?”

As seemingly the entire world knows by now, a year ago a Floridian was minding his own zzzzzzzz’s, sawing like a log, sleeping like a dog, in his own bedroom; next minute he is fighting for his life, screaming for his life, swimming for his life, as he was being sucked down and swallowed up by a big, black sinkhole.  Never did they find this man’s body; by now it is well on its way to China.

Meanwhile, up yonder in Lake County, 68-year-old Dick Banner was out the other afternoon just ‘joyin’ the weather on his Harley.  The day was a bit windy, but. . . . Maybe Dick was thinking about how nice it was to be retired and finally free of the factory after 40 years of wage-slavin’ up north.  Maybe Dick had just met some pole dancing skank at a “gentleman’s club” and was now insanely in love.  Maybe Dick and the human refrigerator he called his wife these past hundred years were planning a Caribbean cruise to Curacao where Mrs. Banner could eat 24/7.  Maybe there were a lot of things Dick was thinking about but the last thing he was thinking about was the thing that was about to happen. A plastic sign, a banner, naturally, advertising something, broke free from a pole and blew loose just as Dick was passing.  The sign flapped right across Dick’s windshield causing him to lose control.  Startled by the banner, Banner first crossed into the opposite lane with no damage, but then he over-corrected the other way and smashed headfirst into a brick wall.  For what it was worth, he was wearing a helmet.

The irony of the obvious is unnecessary for me to point out but I will nonetheless:  The banner was advertising the opening of a new Dick’s Sporting Goods store.

Good Ways To Die?

No one wants to go, but if one must. . . . How about exiting the stage like a true super hero, e.g., 1) rescuing every last child in a burning orphanage and just as you push the last tot to safety, you succumb to smoke. You might get a statue for that one. Another excellent way to go would be 2) just before the cops mistakenly pump you full of lead, you shoot and kill all three thugs that are raping a screaming woman. That just might get a new law passed in your name that makes aggravated rape a capital crime, as it should be. And so on.

Some examples of bad ways to die are: 1) The poor Brazilian man who was swallowed whole by the anaconda (can you guess what the topic of conversation was at that funeral?), or 2) the local motorcyclist who rocketed through a stop sign and smashed into a car. Not only did this old man kill himself and his female passenger, but he flew through the car’s window like a missile and killed the helpless driver. Now, taking innocents with you . . . that’s a REALLY wrong way to step off the stage. 3) Then there is/was the attempt by the drunken Maine retard this past Fourth of July to celebrate freedom and gain 15 seconds of immortality by having an enormous firework shot from the top of his empty head.  They don’t call ’em “Mainiacs” up there for nothing. And finally, 4) the “Here’s Your Sign Award” goes to that former soldier with no legs who seated himself on one of those death-dealing roller coasters in upstate New York. What in the name of God was he, or the equally idiotic ride attendants, thinking? The man had no legs! Once the safety bar was lowered down on what should have been his lap, there was nothing to hold him in the thing. Absolutely stupid . . . and horrible. Here is a guy who literally gets his butt blown off in war, but survives, only to be shot out like a cannonball from some stupid roller coaster. I’m sure the amusement park will be sued into another time zone over this incident but really, what were those young attendants to do? No doubt the vet’s friends and family put the hammer down on the kids to allow this ex-soldier onto the ride. “Come on, what’s it going to hurt? Fuck the rules! He’s a fuckin’ hero, for Christ’s sake. Let him on!”

My sympathy goes out to the damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t attendants since this they will carry forever.

Bad Way to Go, # 698

Kelly DeRego of nearby Punta Gorda was a part-time caretaker of some old gal.  Kelly was also a full-time thief.  Anyway, long-story short, Kelly the caretaker took care of the old lady alright; DeRego decided the other day she needed some quality time to herself and so, she “borrowed” her charge’s debit card, as well as her car keys, then stepped out for a few.  After racking up $600 on the card that afternoon, Kel was just a groovin’ down Harborview Road, druggin,’ drinkin,’ drivin,’ doin’ whatever her criminal mind had a mind to do.  Unfortunately, that mind was not entirely on the road and Kelly soon crashed head-on into another car.  And thus, tho DeRego may have come into this world as innocent as a new born lamb, as they say, she exited this big blue ball as guilty as sin—stealin,’ deceivin,’ lyin,’ druggin,’ drinkin,’ and wreckless drivin.’  Kelly is now on ice, 49 forever.

Dave v. God

Seems Dave Jimenez was really tore up about his wife’s cancer diagnosis, so much so that he needed something to pray to in hopes that a miracle might occur.  A plaster statue of the Virgin Mary crying tears of blood would have been nice but none was handy; a sizzling tortilla with the image of Christ’s face on it would be just jim-dandy too but the last one of those in Dave’s casa was eaten day before yesterday wrapped around some beans.  And so, Dave began praying, praying like a man possessed, to a six-hundred pound marble cross outside a Catholic church in Albany, New York.  Dave went at it hot and heavy, day and night, good weather and bad, sunrise, sunset .  . . sunrise, sunset. . . .

When all that hard praying seemed to pay dividends and his wife began to recover, the grateful Mexican—a 40-something “migrant” (that’s Jewish media speak for illegal alien)—decided to repay the kindness by wiping the grime and filth off that holy cross.  Alas, Dave must have been way too zealous in his scrubbing since the idol suddenly tumbled from its perch and crushed the scrubber’s leg to death.  The dead limb was later amputated.

So now, what is Senor Jimenez’s next move?  Why, Dave does what any other red-blooded new American might do—he sues the criminal church directly responsible for his lost leg, and he sues the criminal God indirectly responsible for his lost leg, sues them for a  very un-God-like $3 million—that’s what he do.  Gratitude?  When a free ride is on the line, gratitude is for gringo suckers.

Three million?  That’s quite a latino leg.  I reckon one of Dave’s arms would fetch maybe $2 mill. Hmmmmm. Two arms = $4M; two legs = $6M . . . Dave is already worth ten million, I allow, and that’s not even including his chest, his back, his butt, and, of course, his greedy head.

Dave was no dummy; he didn’t even bother to find a new cross and pray for another leg.  God might clear up someone’s cancer or he might un-addict some lard’s addiction to fudge brownies, but so far God has yet to regrow any new legs.

Stupid Genes Never Sleep


Some folks just can’t conceive that they were put on this earth simply to eat, sleep, drink, smoke, drug, consume, expel, belch, barf, blink, burp, gargle, gag, yawn, itch, twitch, bitch, shake, rattle, roll, twist, shout, scream, scratch, screw . . . then die quietly and unnoticed as if they had never been born at all.  For reasons known only to ourselves, I think we all want to be remembered for something significant after we pass, even if it’s only a line or two in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.  Unfortunately, the more unstable and desperate among us want to be remembered so badly that they are willing to do virtually anything, even disgusting “any things,” to get there. 

Enter one very revolting stunt monkey, one Ed Archbold.

Over on the wrong side of the Florida, down near the Third World Cannibal Capital of the Caribbean, Miami, 32-year-old Ed was celebrating another great feat for which he hoped to find himself immortalized forever.  Ed had just bolted down more than anyone else in one of those stuff-a-gut contests and he was about to walk away with first prize—a pet python.  What did Ed throw down to win such a wonderful and precious prize?  Hot Dogs?  Jalapenos?  Pickled Eggs? Pancakes?  Nope, nope, nope, and nope.  This marvelous man among men gobbled up no less than 30 worms, 30 roaches and 30 millipedes.  Ed had little time to exult or ponder posterity, however, for almost the moment he exited the building (a reptile store, fittingly), he dropped dead on the spot!  My first, second and final thought upon reading this is “GOOD!  There really IS a God after all!  And not just any old God he, but a just God with an gnarly sense of humor.”  Anyone who is so disgusting as to do something like Ed did is no longer fit to steal my oxygen.

Now, wanna guess what the topic of conversation was at Ed’s funeral?   Other than the good folks at Ripley’s, who could care a dime or an old prune pit about this chunk of walking waste matter?  Just dump his useless carcass in a canal and let the gators have him.

“Ed died doing what he loved most,” intoned the preacher, “gorging on things most of us would not even touch with a stick, much less swallow whole.  Ed died as he lived, a glutton.”

Good news?  That this toxic toad is not taking up any more space on this crowded planet. Bad news?  That the other contestants did not drop dead too.  I suppose that it would have been much more appropriate if instead of clocking out from a gastronomic attack, Ed had instead taken his grand prize home and was himself swallowed whole.  Nevertheless, fact is, and as my preceding scribbles prove, Ed achieved his much-sought goal of being remembered for something after he stepped off this mortal merry-go-round.  It’s not the way most of us would want to be remembered, but. . . . Let’s file this obscenity under “Repellant Ways to Go, #692” and move on to thoughts less disgusting.

Staying with winners and losers. . . .

Every so often I read of a lottery winner somewhere.  Let’s face it: “Lottery” is just another word for Stupid Tax.  If ever there was a way to gamble with absolutely no hope of ever winning, a lottery is it.  A loaded slot machine, a carnival ring toss or a 419 email from a nice man in Nigeria are fair and honest by comparison.  Oh yes, someone always manages to win the lottery, ‘tis true, and the lottery hustlers are quick to trot out those still stunned mugs before the cameras and remind Billy Joe Methlab and Bobbi Jean Boobjob that, “This could be YOU!  But hey, we can’t pay unless you play.”  But really?  Safe to say, I stand a better chance of becoming prime minister of Thailand than I do of winning the lottery.  One thing the lottery does give people, I admit, is hope.  “Ya jus’ never know,” the dull and the dim repeat each time they slap down their last sawbuck on tickets instead of buying baby food.  “Ya jus’ never know.”

Whatever.  Welfare giveth and the lottery taketh and ‘tis no concern of mine.  Of course, a Stupid Tax, in one form or another, has been fastened on our gullible brethren and sisterns since the dawn of time.  Back then it was called religion and all you had to do was give up everything you owned, including your children and your soul, and some middle-man, some god go-between, promised you everlasting life.  Back then, they also smiled and winked, “The Lord can’t pay if you don’t play.”  Hell is full of those who didn’t win that lottery either.

Up Panhandle way, up in the chilly realm of Florida that we tropic snobs consider no better than Ohio, a car hit an ambulance a while back that was racing to the hospital emergency room (Racing? Whoever saw an ambulance creeping to a hospital emergency room? Hospital emergency room? Whoever saw an ambulance racing to a hospital cafeteria?).

Anywho, the driver of the car, an individual named Rafael City . . . say again? Rafael City . . . age 21, and four or five others with him, were on their way (cough–clear throat—cough) “to church.” Senor City also insisted that he didn’t see the thirty or forty flashing lasers of the ambulance when he pulled right out in front of it. Every man jack in his car was slightly injured but, oddly, the injuredest person of them all, the poor devil in the ambulance–the same man who had a broken back, a broken pelvis, a broken jaw, a cracked skull, a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, four crushed vertebrae, three cracked ribs, two broken legs, one fractured arm . . . and a partridge in the pear tree—was not injured further (guess there was nothing further to injure).

Question: One might not see an ambulance coming . . . I suppose . . . I guess . . . I doubt it . . . I know he’s lying . . . but when, I repeat, WHEN was the last time you did not hear an ambulance coming? Generally, one might hear your average ambulance coming three counties over behind a mountain, through a tunnel and around a bend. I think both the video and audio components in Mr. City’s circuitry should be checked out thoroughly and a little drug testing might also be in the Senor’s future, as well.

But anyway, being the card-carrying cynic that I am, I wonder about the above character’s claim that he was on his way “to church” that Saturday night when the accident occurred. Such an old dodge brings to mind some of the ridiculous ploys I have seen on the TV program, Cops. I am always amazed at the almost child-like stupidity of some criminals. I’ve lost count how many times on this program a burglar or thief is busted and on the back bumper of his get-away truck is an American flag sticker, a yellow ribbon or some such patriotic bull whack. I’ve also lost count of how many drug busts were made on the program and how many of these cuffed space cadets were wearing a D.A.R.E t-shirt or a “Just Say No!” baseball cap. I remember at least one drunk mom behind the wheel wearing a MADD sweat shirt.

I guess the criminals’ line of reasoning goes something like this:

“Hey, like cops would never guess, you know, that we’re thieves or dope fiends or drunk drivers or what have you, if we, you know, like camouflage ourselves as like patriotic Americans or something, or maybe, you know, like advertise that we are, you know, like down on drugs and drunk driving or something.”

Note: I’ve been burglarized several times in my overly-long whirl on this big blue ball but the thieves who stand out were the ones who had an “If You Don’t Like My Driving You May Kiss My (picture of a mule’s keester)!” bumper sticker on the rear window of their beat-up truck. I got a glimpse of these guys and the only thing that really stuck out was that stupid bumper sticker, of which I duly reported to the deputy. These two were quickly caught. No one will ever confuse burglars with lottery hustlers.

Speaking of stupid. . . .

Some drunken buffoon tried taking a kitten into a Port Charlotte boob bar one night a piece back.   I suppose Robert “Bob” Lages thought that once inside the “gentleman’s establishment” he would be the hit of the party with his cute kitten and that there would be no end to the various “pussy” jokes.  Perhaps the 47-year-old booze bag also imagined that he might even get lucky later with one of the pole skanks who danced there.  Well, this mensa member tried not once or twice, but thrice, to enter the bar and was frog marched back out the door each and every time. So, what does a red-blooded ‘Merican do when his rights are being trampled and there are those (un-American bouncers) who would deny him his human dignity and his konstitushunal freedom to take a kitten into a bootie bar?  Why, a real red, white and blue ‘Merican would call 911, natch.

The boys in blue soon arrived but instead of kicking in the door and forcing the strip club to admit this poor, but patriotic, peon they called him a cab in hopes of getting rid of the sot.  Ha!  Not only did Bob refuse the taxi but so bruised was his inherent dignity that he called 911 again, this time to demand that more cops come to arrest the cops that had already come (I know it don’t make no sense but nothing else about this retard makes sense either).  Already pretty sore that Bob had abused the 911 system not once, but twice, miffed that he would spit on their Samaritan-like attempts to help him out with the cab, officers Clancy and Muldoon decided to take the drunken fool to the city holding tank.

When Bob refused to go quietly and began cussing and fighting the cops, either Clancy or Muldoon—I forget which—whipped out his Star Wars Sot Zapper and gave Bob’s stupid butt two remedial jolts of volts for his immediate consideration—one for his human rights bun, and one for his human dignity bun.  Brain?  Don’t Need No Stinkin’ Brain!

Finally, a note on the Hero Biz. . . .

Heroes, of course, have been around for quite awhile.  Ever since Giuseppe Luigi di Hero invented the famous sandwich back in 1491 and generously gave Christopher Columbus and his entire crew a three-month supply for their voyage, the name spread rapidly.  Not only were Columbus & Co. thereupon dubbed “Heroes” by the cheering crowds of Indians that lined the beaches to greet them in the New World (and with whom the white strangers had shared their remaining sandwiches with), but so too was anyone from that time forth who accomplished a great feat known as a “Hero Sandwich” (later shortened to simply a “Hero”).

Unfortunately for our modern world, with the onset of these nonstop “Freedom” wars (as in, “Fighting For Yours, Mine and Israel’s,” “Freedom Ain’t Free,” etc., etc.) waged by the U.S. military to cover for Israel’s numerous coups, regime changes and false flags around the globe, and with the suddenly and wildly military-minded Jewish media and movie industry now patriotically pitching in and pronouncing any and all who slip into a U.S. body bag to be a “hero,” the word has virtually become meaningless.  When an 18-year-old zit-faced Dr. Pepper sipping E-3 sitting in an air conditioned trailer in Bum Fuck Nevada can press a button and zap some stone-age goatherd praying on a rock seven thousand miles away and is honored as an All-American patriotic hero and is asked to carry the flag at the next women’s semi-pro soccer match in Reno, well then calling someone a hero starts to lose just a dab of its cachet.  Additionally, when an athlete with the IQ of a stump scores to win a game and is called a “hero” or when an entire 4th grade class at Orwell Elementary are proclaimed “heroes” because they successfully raised $500 to help feed poor Mexican “migrants” in the area, or when “Charley” the parrot is dubbed a hero after his squawking to escape his cage awakened a family in a burning double-wide, then somehow calling someone a hero who performs a truly heroic act loses lots of luster.

What does the above have to do with the below?  Almost nothing, so let’s move on and put these chickens to roost.

Way up on the Suwanee River north of Tampa, two men saw an eight-year-old making noises like an eight-year-old makes when drowning.  And so, when one would-be hero jumped in, the other would-be hero did the same.  Pretty damned quick, both would-be heroes started making noises like would-be heroes make when would-be heroes are drowning.  And so . . . yep, in jump two more would-be heroes.  Had this gone on much longer one might easily imagine a river full of drowning would-be heroes.  But somehow, in all that drowning, the eight-year-old managed to make it to shore.

Alas, although it seems that the original two would-be heroes did indeed bite the big one, it also seems that every other would-be hero did manage to escape this lovely, lazy river-of-no-return

Hmmm?  Maybe it’s not so much any magnetic allure that compels Florida geezers to drive into, creep into, crawl into, or fall into, canals, as experts (that’s me) had earlier surmised; maybe it’s not the canals that are the mystery down here in the Sunshine State; maybe it is Floridians in general, and water in general, and drowning in general, and the inability to swim in general, and drinking in general, and drugs in general, and senility in general, and stupid genes in general, and . . .  in general, who could make this crap up?

Geezer Karaoke, Pt. 2

stock-illustration-9380095-old-lady-with-walkerThe “Letters-to-the-Editor” in our local fish wrap are a treasure trove of illiteracy and ignorance each day and consequently they are a mine of unintended amusement and amazement. For most people, this is it—this is that proverbial fifteen minutes of fame; this is where they can strut their stuff, this is where they can see their name in print; this is where they can prove to the world what trenchant thinkers and witty writers they are. Some of the mangled logic of these people is priceless. These absurd attempts to seem serious and philosophical seem instead like some inane contest to see who can come off looking most oldest, most slowest and most stupidest. Let’s call it Senile Sinkholes, or Senior Soapboxes, or let’s call it what it is, Geezer Karaoke.

After prattling along for two nonsensical paragraphs about Obama and Hillary and prayer and communism and “the emperor who wore no clothes” and Benghazi and whatever, one upset fossilista, let’s call her Clara, gets to the crux of her argument (I guess):

As an elderly Christian, it is so sad to see our wonderful country become an immoral Communist country. And it makes me remember how no one could understand how Hitler was able to do what he did. But the ignorant people outnumbered the educated. They allowed him to remove the Holy Bible and all of their guns. Sound familiar? Dr. Ben Carson was like a “voice crying in the wilderness.” But, it’s going to take vigilance from all of us if we want God to bless America. 

Not sure what Ben Ghazi and Ben Carson “crying in the wilderness” have in common.  Not sure about “Communism” and “elderly Christians” either. But dragging poor Hitler into the fray has long since become standard stock for these simple-minded seniles like Clara. When the Clara’s of the world have no explanations for why the “wonderful world” they once knew has mysteriously gone to hell in a hand basket—whether it be from creeping communism or whether it be from a sewer backup down the block—might as well dump the load on Hitler.

For Clara’s info, tho I’m sure it is pointless to point it out to someone as far gone as she is:

Hitler did not ban guns.

Hitler did not ban the bible.

Hitler did not ban smoking.

Hitler did not ban drinking.

Hitler did not ban laughing.

Hitler did not ban thinking.

Hitler did not ban breathing.

What Hitler did ban, however—and I’m sure Clara will be equally irate to hear this—he DID ban free cheese . . . he DID ban bingo . . . he DID ban “early-bird specials”. . . he DID ban Lawrence Welk reruns . . . and Hitler, to his great credit, did indeed have a Final Solution for senile seniors who wrote incoherent “letters to the editor.”

Moral: When in doubt, blame it on Hitler. Everyone will agree and you’ll look way, way wiser than you really are.



If for some reason, you have the habit to gain a lot of weight, to put it bluntly, you are “obese.” You need to talk with your doctor. Weight-gaining affects many organs, including your heart. Many folks are into binge-eating. They enjoy eating and eat all day and everything. We need to be aware of what we eat. Carbs, fruits and veggies are good for you and they are tasty. You are what you eat.

Gertrude L. Smith

Deep Creek

Does anyone else wonder what impels people to write such stuff as the above? What is it that jogs their nogs, what trips their wire, what wakes them from their crypt-like slumber and suddenly shoots them forward as from a cannon into this compulsion, this uncontrollable urge to share their original insight and amazing wisdom with the rest of us poor slobs? Fancy, “You are what you eat!” How trenchent! I never thought of it like that before. Amazing.

Yet another meaningful contribution to our local dead-tree media:


I am extremely annoyed several times on a daily basis each and every time the phone rings. I use a walker and must get up from where I am sitting to answer the phone, which is several feet away. The caller doesn’t let the phone ring more than five times, so I miss the call. As a courtesy, it would be nice if the phone rang at least 10 times. Is the caller in such a rush or hurry? I would suggest that all who are reading this take heed.

Wilma R. Crutchfield


Will someone kindly buy this cheap old bag a voice mail or even one of those new-fangled cell phones, then teach her how to use them? Poor lady, forced to get up several times a day just to answer her phone. Poor thing, missing out on all those calls from Nigeria announcing she’s been given all those millions, plus all those cars they wanna give her so she can mow down mailboxes or bore through post office walls with.

Extremely annoyed?”

Ten times?”

Such a rush or hurry?”



Of course, in “Geezer Karaoke, Pt. 1”, I came down pretty hard on Dillweed, Roy and other geezers of the “Greatest Generation.” Being stupid is what these octo- and nonagenarians have always done best. They can’t help it. It’s generational. It’s genetic. Thinking never was their strong suit. Back during the “Good War” these members of the Greatest Generation never once asked a question, never once raised a murmur, never once sought an explanation as to why they were called upon to slaughter their brothers and sisters in Europe. Nope, back then real Americans like Dill and Roy never asked why, they just rolled up their sleeves and did it.

“My country right, My country wrong, My country even wronger,” was their can-do motto back then. “What? Me think?” was their get-it-done mantra.

If one understands the past then It makes sense why these people today go postal in “letters-to-the-ed.” It also makes sense why they rattle on and on about smells or crackers or comic strips or sugar-free donuts and never blink an eye at the news all around them pointing toward impending doom. They didn’t ask questions back in the Forties and nothing has changed since. So, is it any wonder then that when these aging, non-thinking relics now decide that they want to think and demand that we listen, and we don’t, that they bust a gasket? Sorry, guys, sorry gals, you had your chance back in 1941 and you blew it. Now, the legacy you left us is our daily living nightmare so please pardon us if we don’t get down on our knees and say “Thanks for all your sacrifice.” The most anyone of our current generation now can hope for is that the last one of you men and women of the “Greatest Generation” who fought the Good War and gave us such a wonderful world of freedom today, the most we can hope for is that the last man, jack and jill of you die tomorrow.


Old coots like those above, the cantankerous cane-waving geezer type, are so damned crazy that they still think they are somehow relevant in this world; that their opinions count; that we should listen. When someone tries to point out that just because someone manages to survive for a hundred years because they lived a timid, cautious, careful, and pointless life, or that the meaningless nonsense he is muttering now was the same meaningless nonsense he was muttering back when Cal Coolidge was running for pres, well then the oldster really gets feisty.

Below is a recent “letter-to-the-editor” in our local paper:

How About Some Respect For Women?

Guys, guys, guys! It appears that whatever restaurant one goes to, even the plush restaurants, that when the server comes to greet newcomers it’s always, “Hi guys! How are you guys today?”

Well, I am not a guy and I am sure that many of the customers are not guys either. This irks me to no end. Can the server see that I am not a guy? Can’t a server be a little polite and say, “hi folks,” instead? Why do the managers of the restaurants allow this? I have gotten to the point that I say to the server, “Are you talking only to my husband, as I am not a guy?”

The management of any restaurant should make their servers aware that “guys” should not be used to address mixed-sex couples. Just plain “folks” will do. This use is demeaning to females. We had the woman’s suffrage, and back in 1920 the right for women to vote was enacted. Well, I think now it is time for we women to get together once again and stop this “guys” bit and demand some respect from our servers in restaurants.

Adeline M. Radford


More wars than you can count, the U.S. Department of Torture soon to be a cabinet-level position, America a million bucks in debt (or maybe more), an economy that is the envy of any Third World pest hole, smiling con men and smiling con women running the government, crime right outside our bolted doors, Jewish vultures perched on every limb of our “culture”—all that is apparently small tacos compared to guys and gals calling gals “guys.”

Sometimes here at Planet Geezer, sometimes here in Darkest Florida, it seems as if we are in a stark raving mad loony-toon mental ward where sense is senseless and insanity is sane.  As per. . .


Now that the holidays are a mere memory, in old age I ponder a slight discrepancy in our custom of greetings. Why is it that we only wish people to be merry at Christmas time? As in, Merry Christmas! One week later, we wish them happy as in Happy New Year!  

And then there is Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Easter, Happy Valentine’s Day, Happy St. Patrick’s Day and a whole string of “happys” throughout the year. In many ways, merry is so much nicer than happy. Happy can sound somewhat blah. For instance, some of my Irish friends sure do make merry on St. Patrick’s Day. In that case, merry is way beyond happy. Merry has a certain lilt to it. It means to be cheery and jolly.

I know it is going to take a lot of work to change our way of doing things in the greeting department. But with a little effort we can bring more merriness into everyday life.

Have a Merry Day!

Roy L. Crankshaw

Punta Gorda

Clearly, some of these local geez have waaaaaaay too much time on their hands. As I opined in Part One, perhaps we should put folks like Roy back to work by forcing them to, say, shovel something heavy all day long, or force them to run in circles for five or six hours a day and sweat all that endless stupidity and senility out of them. Five will get you ten that old Roy’s original letter was about ten times the length of that above and some poor young editor had to “trim” this literary masterpiece down a bit, and do a damned good job of it too, just to keep old Roy on board and buying those tree limbs every day. Just madness! And horse apples!  And UFOs!  And peach preserves!

Another strong case for Geezer Gulags:


What in the world is going on? According to the obituaries in your paper nobody is dying anymore. They’re “passing away.” Where is “away”? Lordy! I have done my will, living will, health care surrogate, and all those other things we’re supposed to do to make it easier on our families when we die. Now I find out we’re not going to die, we’re going away somewhere! And what are we passing on the way there? And do we have to do anything on the way?

Doris E. Crotchfield

Hmmm.  I have an idea. When Doris kicks the can (hopefully, any day now) please, whoever is in charge, please do not “pass” her and her stupidity on to anyone anywhere. Just let Doris assume room temp, as per her wish, then plant her dumb ass quick as a cricket.

As if it ain’t bad enough to be bat shit blind, bat shit deaf, bat shit crazy, and older than petrified bat shit, Geezers up at one Tampa retirement community must now put a bit more spring in their creep when they go out doors to fetch the morning paper, the daily mail or when they feel compelled to stroll near an adjoining gator-infested canal. Seems a family of nesting red-shouldered hawks set up shop in a tree above the community and the old, slow and befuddled make perfect targets for these territorial raptors. The birds, on the endangered species list, are too fast for angry canes swung and feisty walkers flung and so the old folks just go out now with umbrellas up and swat at the swift birds. Mostly, it works. Still, any number of seniors have received slashes and gashes on their spotted knots by the swooping parents. Since the fledgling process can last a couple of months looks like lock down for the canal walkers and bingo crowd up at Bradenton.

I just don’t know what the world is coming to,” said a resident who asked to remain anonymous. “We seniors are prisoners in our own homes. It is not fair. It’s a fine way to treat the war generation. Just think about it. Back when I was a kid we would have just shot these pests.”

Hate to say it . . . but I will: “Back in the 1890’s when you were a child, Orville, this was all wilderness down here and the ancestors of those hawks didn’t need to dive bomb retired “Greatest Generation” humans creeping along canals ‘cause there were no retired “Greatest Generation” humans here, nor were there any canals for retired “Greatest Generation” humans to creep along. You and canals are the problem, Orville, not the hawks. That is ‘what the world is coming to,’ Orvie, viz., too many people, too few hawks.”

As mentioned, reading the daily is better than a free monkey show. One can almost see these nettlesome old nuisances pecking on their Royal typewriters, growing more and more furious with each typo and each white out.

It’s time to speak out. We old folks from the Depression and World War II generations are appalled. What used to be the sins in life are now considered ‘rights.’ The morals and viciousness in today’s society are worsening at a rapid pace. It’s time to speak out to our so-called leaders.            

Lillian Murray

Rotonda West

Ha! Glad the old bag got all that off her chest. I’m sure this rant-to-the-editor from a flimsy Florida fish wrap in a small, backswamp community will speed all the way up the chain of command to those in charge and that someone will get right to the bottom of old Lillian’s concern. And if that doesn’t work, then maybe if Lillian just keeps voting Republican for another hundred years all these problems will just go—POOF!—and disappear. Fact is, while Lillian and her “Depression and World War II generations” were fast asleep, the weasel got in the hen coop and stole the eggs. Lillian and most other Americans didn’t get it then—and I doubt if they even get it now—but this ain’t their country no mo. While they were snoring soundly, the First World that was once America was handed over with a pretty blue bow to the Third World. That’s the reality. What Lillian and other slow-thinking snail groaners—young and old—see now is not a war still being waged for the “morals” of the US but an occupation being hammered down and locked up by our worst enemies, i.e., God’s Chosen Culture Killers. We lost. They won. That is it. Lillian and her peers may as well either get cozy with the new reality, or hop the next train out of town, or better yet, just die.

It’s time to speak out. . . .” That’s funny . . . and strangely sad. Sorry, Lillian, you are a wee bit late on that one . . . a mere seventy-five years too late. Not sure what exactly it was that raised you from your coffin-like slumber but now that you gave us all a good jest, please just go back to sleep and trouble the world no more with your “It’s time to speak out. . . .”

Why “Dope” and “Fiend” Go Together

Funny-Mug-Shots-I-am-the-lawBrethren and Sisterns, today’s sermon is entitled:  Children Having Children, or “The Devil Made Me Do It.”

My friends, life is tough. No doubt about it.  To cope, we have all developed our own peculiar survival skills. Some folks place all their eggs in god’s basket and thereupon on bended knee and with throat bared they meekly accept whatever life metes out, as per “God’s will be done.”  Many others, those who refuse to merely float like a feather on the tempest, split their trust equally between a supreme being and themselves, ala “With God as my co-pilot.”  Maybe even more people, however, to deaden the dread and the awful certainty of their fate, have said “Skrew god—that sonofabitch ain’t never done nuthin’ for me and he ain’t gonna start now—and while we’re at it, fuck you too!”  These desperate souls, searching for an easy way off this mad merry-go-round, turn to some form of numbing narcotic, be it meth, crack, coke, smack, smooch, booze, tobacco, coffee, cola, chocolate, food, vomiting, body building, jogging, biking, shopping, hoarding, starving, stalking, serial killing, reality shows, slots, bingo, politics, porn, tattooes, TV, video games, sports, religion, or some other mind-killing addiction.

In theory, I have a laissez faire approach to all addictions—if you want to eat until you founder like a beached beluga, that’s your biz; if you want to starve until your ribs rattle, be my guest; if you want to hoard until you drown in your own filth, no prob there, either; if you want to scream for a sports team until your empty head falls off, go for it; if you want to smoke meth and zorch your brain with battery acid, what can I say?  All I ask is that you please don’t be bugging me about whatever it is you do and especially, do not tax, either literally or figuratively, myself or the world around me. That’s my approach in a perfect world.  In practice, however?  As we all know nothing’s perfect on this wobbling blue marble we call home.

As far as hard drugs, two snippets in the news succinctly size up why, alas, we humans can never legalize ‘em. One account comes from Jacksonville in this state and involves a five-year-old child. This terrified tot grabbed the wheel of the speeding car she was riding in and bravely steered the vehicle safely off the road. When cops arrived they found the child’s father sitting in the driver’s seat, zoned and staring at the ceiling. Dear old dad later admitted he was blitzed on Xanax and some other corrosive crap. A similar story comes from right here in my home county of Charlotte. Police found an automobile in a ditch, still running, tires turning, and a three-year-old in the back seat fastened in her carrier. The mother was passed out behind the wheel, totally whacked on a cocktail of booze and drugs. When finally roused, the woman explained that an argument with a family member had tripped her wire and . . . well, she just couldn’t help herself, poor dear.

The point is: I have no problem with people who want to flash fry their brains with whatever sizzling acid they can get their mitts on but I do object when their stupid, selfish behavior impacts others, as it did with the kids above.

Moral: Irresponsible imbeciles in our midst always ruin it for the rest of us.

But anyway, looking on the dopey side of dope. . . .

. . .  a suspicious character, Jim White, was spotted lurking in a high-burglary area of Grove City, just down the bay from us.  When questioned, Jim tried some amatuer counter-psychology by willingly, eagerly, repeatedly, even insistently, arguing for a pat down.  Supposing his gambit might work, poor Jim’s jaw went slack when the officer did indeed frisk him, then pulled some pills from a pants pockets.  Uh oh . . . Fallback Position, Plan B.

“Oh, wait,” protested White, “these aren’t my pants!”

Okaaaaay. . . .

. . . a bit further down the coast, at Naples, known addict, known thief, and suspected female, Vida Golac, was arrested for some sort of retardation and hauled into booking.  When a strip search turned up a stash of hash in the same hidey-hole where little addicts come from, Vida the Vagina explained that she had hidden the weed there “for friends.”

Okaaaaay. . . .

. . . a big bit further up the coast, up in old Ohio, other than screamin’ and dyin’, when Tyller Myers ran a stop sign it was his last illegal act—or, for that matter, his last act, period.  A big rig flattened Tyller’s pickup like a beer can, or, appropriately, it flattened the truck flat as a stop sign. When cops later sorted through the mess they found inside Myer’s truck three stolen stop signs.  File this one under “Incredibly Ironic Ways to Go.”

BTW—Filching metal for scrap has become a high yield, low risk way for fiends to fund their fun fests.  It also provides a fitting segue into. . . .

. . . early dark thirty awhile back two young astrophysics professors were conducting research by raiding our local airport to steal airplane parts for scrap. This was the second trip of the night for these criminal masterminds and their airport caper. Prior to this, these dopes had lifted metal from construction sites, from farms, even lamp posts from streets. Must be nice money since it seems all the rage among the underly privileged and overly stupid. But really, just suppose you are a cop in the quiet predawn hours and you see this truck ready to fall apart rattle by pulling a noisy trailer with airplane propellers, street lamps and tractor plows sticking out. The vehicle is driven by two long-haired idiots with baseball caps on backwards with one headlight and two taillights out. What do you think this cop says to himself when he sees such a sight?

“Hmmmm . . . beat-up pick-up . . . only vehicle on street . . . 3:30 AM . . . trailer filled with metal . . . wonder what’s up with that?  Aw heck, probably nothing.  Probably just two hard-working lads out early trying to get ahead in life by starting an honest day’s labor in the dark of dawn. I’ll ignore it.”

If these mensa members had stuck big red and yellow neon signs on their truck that blinked on and off and spelled out, “Stop Us!” . . . ”Arrest us!”. . . “We are thieves!”. . . “WE ARE CRIMINALS GUILTY AS SIN!” they could not have been any bigger targets for cops at that time of day.

“O’Malley, take these two metal chopping meth-heads away and melt down the keys to their cells!”

Moral: If it looks like a crook, acts like a crook, steals like a crook, and thinks stupidly like a crook, it just might be a . . . an astrophysicist moonlighting to get ahead in life.

Geezer in a Freezer

Up in the frozen Florida Panhandle (we Southies call it “Ohio”) cops found 80-year-old Ray Gsell in his own freezer frozen as hard as an anvil.  Seems that one weekend recently, the homeowner’s sweet, loving wife, 47-year-old Lynn, had gotten into an argument with Ray over some money that she needed to buy more rock. The woman was crashing hard from a crack high and she was wild to get back up there again.  When her cranky meal ticket refused to fork over for the hundredth time, his enraged bride and another woman, 27-year-old Dawn Ross, simply strangled Ray with an electrical cord and took the money.  After stuffing the stingy old fossil into the freezer, the crazed murderers promptly returned to smoking crack.  An anonymous tip sent cops to the address.

Thus, it would seem that this will prove a very expensive high for the lovely Widow Gsell and her associate, Ms. Ross.  Wonder if these two she-fiends thought they could simply freeze the old bird when he was in their way, then thaw him out again when they needed more cash?

And so, alas, seems every time the State of Florida rids itself of one murdering monster, two more customers take his place.

Fourth Time’s the Charm

Florida “huffer,” Pat Henderson, has finally gone to that great Sherman-Williams in the sky.  For those of you who have been living under a rock these past ten years or so, “huffing” is a term for breathing in aerosol paint vapor and other quick-acting poisons.  It has become the death-of-choice among the underly-intelligent and overly-stupid addictive personality crowd as a means to fry one’s brain in the cheapest and speediest manner possible.

Seems poor Pat just couldn’t be saved from himself.  A short time ago, he was arrested for huffing outside a Staples store.  A day later he was arrested for huffing outside a Target Store.  A few days after that he was arrested for huffing outside a Walmart.   Had this continued Pat would have certainly set some kind of record for “Most Huffing Arrests Outside Different, But Not Dissimilar, Major American Business Franchises.”

But alas, Pat Henderson is no more. His body was found a moldering, not in a grave, but in his car, a veritable methane gas bomb of decomposing guts and paint fumes.  No mention in the report of the business outside of which the body was discovered but my money is on either an Office Depot or a Circuit City.

Ironic Names Hall of Fame

Up the beach a bit at Venice, a local thief and stoner was riding his bike around hoping to some where, some way, some how, score some dope from some one.  Spotting an old lady creeping from a store, our biker boy saw dollar signs. Pedaling full tilt, it was a simple matter to jerk the purse loose and be gone in a flash.  Not so very long after, the culprit was seen sitting, for all the world to see, at a bus stop.  The thief was ID’ed, arrested, printed, mugged, jugged, and charged with “robbery by sudden snatching” (not to be confused with “robbery by slow snatching”).  Our criminal mastermind’s name?

Josh Stoner, 32, North Port, Florida (local thief and stone stupid stoner)

People like our Stoney above, they don’t lead lives of “quiet desperation,” as some writer once waxed rhetoric. Nope. They lead lives of “screaming, shrieking, howling, maniacal desperation.”  Does any child think, “Hey, when I grow up I want to rob churches!” or “When I get big, hmmmmm . . . Cowboy?  No.  Fireman?  No.  Cop?  No. Wife-beater?  Hell, yes!”  or “I want to be just like dad, a thief who was caught pilfering girl scout cookie money.”

Roll out one Sonny Abreu.   Sonny needed money ‘cause . . . ‘cause . . .  well, Sonny needed money ‘cause he had none.  Maybe Sonny needed dough to feed his kids (clear throat); maybe Sonny needed bread to pay bills (roll eyes, cough); maybe Sonny needed dead prez to help an orphan with her cancer treatment (clear throat, roll eyes, cough, hold sides, double up, fall on floor, turn purple, roll around laughing, get up, wipe tears from eyes, manage straight face again).  Or maybe, more likely, maybe Sonny needed scratch to buy a few more rocks of crack.

Anyway, up near Orlando, Sonny watched as a differently-abled person (aka a cripple in a wheel chair), with his little dog along for the ride, made a transaction at an ATM.  When the fellow was finished, our hero then simply strolled over, knocked both cripple and canine out of the chair, grabbed the payola, then made his getaway.  Sonny was too engaged running away and counting his cabbage to worry about pulling the victim out of the busy street where he lay helpless like a tortoise on his back.  The man was promptly run over and killed by a dump truck filled with boulders then—just to make sure—run over again by an 18-wheeler loaded with bricks and lead bars  (Ha, ha. . . . Just kidding . . . but it COULD have happened!).

I’m sure that when 24-year-old Sonny was a child he did not daydream about growing up to be a despicable drug addict who kicked little dogs and beat up cripples, but that is what he became.  Charged with attempted murder, robbery, abuse of a disabled adult, and animal cruelty, seems in one fell swoop Sonny now has it all.

Drugs are truly the Great Satan of our time.  If there were such a thing as a devil, and if ever he had an earthly manifestation, it is in the smoke of drugs and the self-consuming actions of addicts.

Anyway, ending on a, if not happier, a less somber note. . . .

Back on Thanksgiving Day, cops in nearby North Port were called to a disturbance at a residence.  Long story short: A whacked out 19-year old, one Vincenzo Niclos James Luisi, got wild on something then beat the holy hell out of his stupid girlfriend.  Holing up in the garage, the maniac was finally tackled when the police burst in.  Instead of just giving it up, however, Vinnie decided to fight.  And, since it was T-giving, why not have a little white meat?  Clamping his teeth on Clancey’s arm, the cannibal began to grind away.

Fortunately for the eatee, unfortunately for the eater, Clancey’s partner, O’Malley, pulled out his ray gun, carefully set the Attitude Adjustment dial to “Extreme,” then let Luisi have it.  And thus, as the jolts of justice raced through our human electrode, we have the stupid spectacle of this punk on junk doing the electric chicken dance on a garage floor on Turkey Day.  The po’ed cops could not be blamed one bit, could they, if they kept the juice flowing just a bit longer than normal tasing cases, say 20 or 30 minutes longer?  Gotta love it.  Cops need a little levity in their lives too.

“Luisi,” ran the newspaper account, “told police he was hiding because he was afraid to come out.”

???  Wanna run that by again: “Luisi told police he was hiding because he was afraid to come out.”

Hmmmm.  I guess I’ve never thought of it like that.  It does make sense . . . hiding . . . afraid . . . don’t want to come out . . . don’t want to be seen . . . hiding from cops . . . don’t want to be found . . . afraid . . . hiding. . . . It helps when you look at both sides of any situation carefully.

Sorry, my fellow Mensa Members, sorry for the extra dose of crass cynicism today but sometimes down here among the swamp savages in Darkest Florida I don’t think, I know, I’m losing what little bit is remaining up there in the old control room.