Fun With Dumb, Pt. 2


Some hapless, hopeless, homeless-sapien over in Miami, 49-year-old Richard Brandenburg, decided he would play gallant hero the other night and fetch some fair maiden’s lost car keys from a flooded down town storm drain.

“But forsooth,” sayeth Sir Richard, “I must first this half pint of rum guzzle down lest my right strong right arm become bone-chilled in yon swirling flood below.”  And what’s more, continueth Sir Dick, “A cigarette first I must smoketh lest my nerves become unsteady for the heroic feat I am about to perform.”

With that, our brave white knight, tattooed and drunk, dutifully dove down into the murky muck below fishing for his fair lady’s lost keys.

After a few minutes of groping in the mess, up popped Sir Dick, sans keys.  Never fear.  Another smoke, announced he, would stand his nerves in right good stead, and perhaps another stout swig of yon fiery rum would stay the chill in his limbs, if but some kind soul nearby would deign offer him some.  They dideth.  Although our shirtless knight clad only in tattooed armor claimed to have prior “experience in sewers,” this chivalric affair, this quest for the Holy Car Keys, was proving a tuff nut to crack.

At length, our cavalier screwed his courage up yet again and once more, into the foul, fetid, foam-flecked froth did he yet again goeth.  After a minute or so, however, once more Sir Dick’s head popped up for yet another rum and smoke breaketh.

At last, with the tears and entreaties from the lovely maiden urging him onward! Onward!! ONWARD!!! our noble knight now determined to do his duty or dieth in the attempt, and thereupon pitched he back into the froth again head firsteth.

This time, however, as the minutes ticked by, no Sir Richard.  More minutes, no Sir Dick.  More minutes, no Knight, no nothing.  Minutes. Nothing.  Minutes.  More no nothing.

Finally, some drunken sot in the crowd began to wonder aloud how anyone, knight or not, could hold his breath for a solid half hour and yet remain among the living.  This in turn awakened concern among the other drunken dolts.

“ZOUNDS!” they shouted in unison.  “We must this bold knight saveth!”

When Fire and EMT appeared on the scene they quickly followed the sewer to the first manhole cover down the street.  There, they flipped the lid, and Gramercy! there was our Sir Dick, limp as linguini, more dead than alive, more past than present, more drowned corpse than drunken clown, and so on.

And thus, while our boozed up hero never did recover the car keys, he himself was recovered by his rescuers and is now recovering in a local hospital.

Swamp savage, dumpster-diver, stump-grubber, rum-chugger, cig-sucker . . . add sewer-skimmer to Sir Richard’s credits of questionable talents.


Vaginas in the News

A Port Charlotte mother decided to make a day of it when she invited her teen daughter and friends along while she burglarized a home.  Seems the owner of the place had recently kicked the bucket and the mom reasoned that if she didn’t break in and steal everything, someone else would.  Adding some family quality time to the business operation was just icing on the cake because, after all, love and sharing are what mom’s are for, right?

Well dang it, after nosy neighbors spotted this hard working crew loading the loot into the back of a truck, sure enough cops showed up and rained on this fun-filled family parade. Turns out that this delectable damsel, this mom—as short and squat as she is sneaky and stupid—has a rap sheet as long as she is wide.  Certainly one of the most mis-named drug-addicted thieves anywhere, Enchantra Love Meade is anything but enchanting, loving or sexy.

Up at the “Railroad Death and Dismemberment Capital of Florida,” Lakeland, nothing new to report from the homeless-headless hobo world but little Chauntasia Gardiner up there is now five months old forever. No, the child did not die on train tracks as virtually everyone else up there seems to do.  Nope.  Chauntasia’s ma, Tavishia, or Tamisheika, or Takashima, or whatever, just let her starve to death.  Lame excuses were proffered about confusion in mixing baby formula or reading food instructions or whatever alibis pops into an empty head, but the fact is that the baby weighed less when it died than it did when it was born. Seems that the same vagina which squeezed out the child spent waaay more time trying to come up with a clever, original name for the baby than it did feeding it.  Pretty clear to this old city boy that the child is better off dead than being “raised” by something almost too ignorant to breathe much less make babies and keep them alive.


Kismet. Bob Bodenheimer was one of our lazy locals who wanted it both ways—when he went out on his bike to buy booze or smokes he wanted to reach his destination but he didn’t want to put out any effort to reach it.  Since a motorcycle would cost way more than Bob could afford, he put his mind to work.  Bingo!  Being something of a tinkerer, old Bob found or stole himself a cheap little motor, attached it to the chain, and shezzam!  he had himself a motor bike.

Problem.  Other than the stares and laughter of those on real motorcycles and those on real bikes, not to mention those in real cars and real trucks, Bob’s biggest issue was that his silly contraption was too slow for the road and too fast for the sidewalk.  This posed a challenge.

Solution.  Enter one 74-year-old modern mature motorist and his 85-year-old geezer passenger.  Together, the combined age of these two was about the same number of years as it took for the Roman Empire to rise and fall, but the cumulative eyesight of these two fossils, as well as their cumulative earshot, was still not enough to see or hear Bob puttering along like an idiot on his bike-a-cycle.  And so, Ebenezer and Methuselah simply ran over him.

Conclusion.  Alas, neither geez was hurt in the least, naturally, unfortunately; no surprise here.  But poor Bob was pretty used up and just about mortally killed.  Since Bob cracked his coconut on the concrete in the mishap, and since there is no mention of a helmet in the report, that means Bob was clearly wearing one.  It also means that the helmet didn’t matter a dime.

Lord, I had hoped that all the geezers had either fled Florida by now to continue their reign of terror up north or that those remaining here had all strolled along a serial canal and nature did the rest, but nope, nope and nope.