Friday, April 18, 2014

Food For Thought, or Fun With Fat

With the rise of Morbid Obesity--not to be confused with Horrid Obesity and “Oh My God!” Obesity--it stands to reason that the fatish fetish for diets will continue unabated far into our fat future.  And so, is it any wonder that the weight loss mendacity is one of the few American growth industries (pun ever-so-intended) and a booming billion dollar biz where hope is sold like lottery tickets . . . and with about the same odds of winning . . . and losing (pun still intended). 

Long ago, TV hucksters figured out that when it comes to weight loss, 99 out of 100 weak-willed American lards will opt for the easy way out every flippin time.  Instead of just willing the tonnage off by 1) Surprise!  Hello? Anybody home?--not eating, and 2) Hello, again? HELLO?—exercising, most fatsos naturally favor the painless route and try to buy their way to health, happiness and lots of hot hammer sex. 

Most painless of all, of course, are the so-called special diet plans, or “systems,” as they are grandly dubbed.  These ads are always promoted, of course, by svelte success stories like Marie Osmond and former athletes, like Dan Marino (upon retirement, Dan and other ex-jocks continue to bolt down chow like they are still in spring training).  Basically, these come-ons easily convince the helpless, hopeless, will-less mopes among us that they can actually realize the age-old dream of “having their cake and eating it too;" that they can eat “normally” (i.e., gorge) and still lose weight.  Gourmet meals, delivered to the “system” subscriber’s door each week--seemingly so much food that they are able to glut down three to six times a day and still drop pounds like casino hags drop quarters in slots--are understandably very popular now.   

Of course, the above “systems” would indeed be “special” if it were true.  Now, the same people who believe you can eat like a hog and still shed pounds are the same delusional people who believe in things like honest American elections, that U.S. troops in the Middle East are fighting for their freedoms, that if enough of us wear pink at sporting events the medical establishment will find a cure for breast cancer, that Bill “did not have sex with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky,” that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, that  American politics are more honest than the politics of the Democratic People’s Cannibal Republic of the Congo, that American politicians care more for America than they do Israel, that if you keep reading this article it will somehow make you more intelligent, and so on. . . .

The ever popular exercise machines are another fun, fun way that tortured souls imagine they can magically escape their loathsome vessels.  After watching a few minutes of these work-out commercials small wonder that some folks think that they can just jump on a certain magic machine and, without work, sweat or misery, the wonder device will mold their grotesque bodies into shapely shapes similar to the smiling, sweat-less handsome hunks pumping, pulling, pedaling, and above all, posturing, in the commercials.  Alas, how many times have you been in a friend’s basement, garage or large warehouse and it is literally a tangle of black handle bars, nylon straps, plastic pedals, rubber grips, tracks, seats, treadmills, pulleys, belts, and other such stuff used on dust-gathering exercise contraptions?  In fairness, some of these expensive things--devilish devices that look like relics from the Spanish Inquisition—will work as advertised.  Left out of the commercials utterly, however, are the weeks, months, and yes, years, of blood, sweat, toil, tears, wrinkles, hair loss, deafness, blindness, cancer, strokes, and the almost certain death that go hand-in-hand with these contraptions if you hope for real results.

Last night I saw a commercial for one of the newer and cheaper ways to fool folks into believing you are something you are not.  It’s the “Insta Slim.”  In a word, this manly magic shirt is designed to hold in all those pounds of ugly flab and make a slobbish gut appear as flat as a pizza box in a parking lot.  Much like sweeping dirt under a rug, the Insta Slim never claims to get rid of the mess, just claims to hide it.

So, throw down twenty or thirty bucks, slip into this magical wife-beater shirt, and WHAM, you look like a new wife-beater.  Really, this shirt in four different flavors, is just a high-toned man’s belly girdle, pure and simple.  Getting the damned thing on must be tuff enough but getting it off has just gotta be pure hell.  After wearing this skin-tight constriction prison for an hour or more, one has to believe that the shirt has almost become fused into the skin and cutting one’s way out with a knife or can opener must be about the only way one can escape it. 

Whatever, like any hard-driving TV con, the Insta Slim has plenty of Thrilling Testimonials (aka "Lies Scared Stockholders and Paid Shills Tell"):

Roy C. Nile of Florida:  “I lost 25 lbs. on my stomach with the Insta Slim.”

The All-Seeing Eye Sez: “If you look hard enough, Roy, I think you’ll find all that missing mess stuffed up under your rib cage.”

Arthur Forgery of Chicago:  “Since using the Insta Slim I took 10” off my belly.  It’s been a year now and hey, my girlfriend still doesn’t know my secret!”

The All-Seeing Eye Sez:  “Art, you lying lard, if your girl doesn’t really know you are wearing that shirt of armor then that means you two definitely have not been “intimate” for at least a year.”

Gaylord D. Seever of Georgia—“My sex life has increased tenfold since slipping on the Insta Slim.”

The All-Seeing Eye Sez:  Another paid liar.  By the time Gaylord manages to pry himself clear of his body armor that boozed up broad beside him will be fast asleep and snoring like a drunken sailor.

At the same time that the Insta Slim pitch was in full scam mode, another channel revealed dozens of sleek body builders milling around in a phony gym and hustling something called 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 or snack because of all that time lost on those pesky exercise machines. With the new Magic Belt you can get right back to packing it in the moment you bolt it on. 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 Stuff-N-Bust Buffet. Fat has finally met its match.  But hurry . . . Supplies are limited!  (Batteries not included)

Thought: Why do Americans eat until they gain so much that they lose, for all intents and purposes, their gender? Why do they consume vast quantities of everything within reach to the point where they stop being an identifiable man or woman, or even a recognizable human, and more resemble some amorphous larva-like organism, inactive, inert, not really dead, not really alive, just some shapeless thing whose entire existence is devoted to food and rumors of food?  Is it something so simple as one half of the American population was born with a modicum of will power and the other half was born without a mote of it and hence their resistance to all the sugar, sodium and carbs washing around them is non-existent? I don’t think so. I don’t think so. After all, look at the epidemic of anorexia we are also witnessing side-by-side with obesity. Were these human sticks born with too much will power? Or are these living skeletoids no better than the obese in that they are bereft of the will power necessary to resist starving themselves to death while the gluttons are lacking the restraint necessary to keep from stuffing themselves to death?

I personally find anorexics almost as repulsive as their opposites. Both groups are extremely sick, spiritually sick, people. Both groups are the obvious symptoms, the outward manifestations of a morally sick society. In both groups, it’s not so much that they can’t stop eating or they can’t stop starving so much as there is no really good reason to stop the eating or stop the starving. In a society where there is no hope, no future, no purpose, no aim, no plan, no point of even getting out of bed in the morning, much less looking ahead a whole week, why bother? Just as with the dope epidemic and the modern mania of frying one’s brain to a cinder, suicide by over-eating or suicide by under-eating seems a better way out of this misery than continuing to fight each day for nothing. Why not eat the toxic fast food, no questions asked, until you cannot move except with the aid of a small electric bulldozer, or why not starve one’s self to the point that people on the sidewalk quickly look away in horror when you appear wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts? Why not? What hope, what future does this so-called society offer its people? Is there any fun or future living in a nation that threatens to make state sponsored torture—TORTURE—a cabinet level position?  Could there be even a scintilla of pride or honor in any nation that attacks and kills defenseless people as eagerly and with as little conscience as a pack of wolves would attack and tear apart a group of spring lambs?  How about our new life in the American spyocracy?  How about the soulless slaughter of our unborn?   How about the killing of animals in the most sadistic way imaginable after raising them in the most criminal ways possible, then eating them up and shitting them out without a thought? . . . Kiddie porn? . . . The eco-rape of our natural world? . . . White guilt hammered home day after day by the hate-filled Jewish media and “entertainment” industry? . . . Nuclear annihilation hanging over our heads from the moment we were born? These ugly realities and plenty more do not lend themselves to a healthy, happy society.

I realize the above is a very simplistic and quick scratch at the problem, but I think my main point is made. Why would not a criminal abomination, such as the U.S. has become, why would it not have deadly epidemics like obesity, anorexia, drug addiction, serial killing, hoarderism, paranoia, mass psychosis, and other killer diseases of the mind when its very existence, its very way of doing business, is the cause of it? We are very much like the tormented lab rats who are force-fed poison and develop tumors and schizoid behavior merely so a few human ghouls in white can sadistically study them and later pronounce grandly that lab rats develop tumors and schizoid behavior because they ate poison.

But anyway, I do go on.  Sorry for the rant.  Don’t know what came over me.  Quite unlike me.   Maybe something a bit lighter to leave on?

How about “On the Road to McCovery”?  When a Florida judge sentenced George McCovery to jail for driving while suspended, she made the 345-pound land whale a deal: For every pound the tub shed while in custody, the court would subtract a day from his sentence. Now really? Is this is, or is this ain’t, a hands-on correctional carrot any offender can sink his teeth into? And thus, after sticking to a largely veggie diet, at the end of twenty days the prisoner had shorn 25 pounds from his lard-like load. The result: Nearly one month was whacked from George’s sentence.

McCovery? Sounds like a half-way house funded by McDonalds, Inc., where the obese who live on a diet of pop and Big Macs can come and lose lots of McPounds.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Notes from Darkest Florida, or “My Life Among the Swamp Savages”

Now, I’m certainly not the first to notice the phenomena, I’m sure, but it does bear repeating: Florida is a human zoo. Them what can’t make it elsewhere in the Upper 49 find their way to Florida.  Yes, just as sludge settles to the bottom of a car’s oil pan, so too does homo sapien sludge sink to the bottom of America’s oil pan, Florida. 

For whatever reason—be it drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, or maybe even drugs--better to be an addicted loser and warm rather than be an addicted loser and cold, or so the line of reasoning must run.  Only this hypothesis explains why Florida has so many drug-addicted criminals and uni-browed knuckle-draggers that nobody else wants.  

Take Greg Bruni, for example.  Down the bay the other day, down the bay Ft. Myers way, 21-year-old Greg went balls-to-the-walls nutz when he stumbled upon some really amazing dope.  Shedding the fussy fetters of civilization--his clothes--this Tarzan wanna-be ran crazy mad through one of those ever-so-staid-and-near-dead retirement communities that are so numerous around these parts.  Scaling a drain pipe up to the roof of one house, Greg began to jump about wildly on the fire-hot shingles screaming like a naked head-hunter doing a New Guinea fertility dance.

Down below, under the roof in question, the startled home owner and his wife who had been cleaning their carpet ran out to see who or what was being butchered over head.  Imagine their reaction when they looked up and saw a stark naked man leaping off the roof right at them.  Landing hard on the home-owner, Bruni dashed straight into the home itself, followed closely by the arm-waving husband and his screaming wife.  Once inside, our wild Ape Man ripped the enormous big screen TV (6’ tall) off the wall and broke it to bits.  Spotting the carpet shampooer, the maniac emptied the contents all over the place then commenced eating the filth.

By this time, the terrified wife had returned from the bedroom with a pistol and began blazing away at the intruder.  Far from being worried by all the shooting and attention he was receiving, Greg must have become, in fact, aroused.  Grabbing his Johnson, Greg began furiously flogging his log until he had spread a million potential little Gregs all over the once-clean rug.  Finished, this flipped-out fiend then ran into another room and began throwing articles of clothing every which way.  Bruni then raced about the home defecating on the floor; here a defecate, there a defecate, everywhere a defecate; like an animal marking its territory. 

By this time, the homeowner--no doubt thinking that the world as he knew it was coming to an end—finally located his shotgun.  With his wife, Annie Oakley, running around waving the six-shooter, the husband could not get a clean shot at the naked defecator.  Before he could unload on the wretch—who continued to do some unloading himself on the rugs, in the hallways, on the furniture--the cops came and quickly gave Greg’s naked butt some angry volts of vengeance.

Greg Bruni was charged with two counts of criminal mischief, battery, burglary, trespassing, resisting arrest, indecent exposure, failure to handle his dope in a mature manner, speaking in tongues, jerkin’ his gherkin in public, and second degree shittin’ without a license.
I have seen a picture of this mad dog miscreant.  Honestly, Greg looks a bit like Wally Cleaver of Beave It To Leaver fame.  I suppose when he isn’t druggin’, runnin’, jumpin’, screamin’, yellin', nudin’, jackin’, and spummin’ on the rug, Greg’s probably a pretty decent guy.  Of course, I could say the same thing about a lot of people.

Whatever, just another sunny day in South Florida—yawn--reminds me of “just another moony night” in South Florida recently. 

Just across moonlight bay from this island I call home, over at an Englewood pub, a bunch of biker booze bags were holding high carnival the other night by loudly celebrating one thing or another--perhaps they were boisterous because of a new break-through in genetic research, perhaps they were rowdy because of some great  advance in rocket science, or perhaps they were throwing down because Nate “Hammerhead” Sharkey was recently paroled and released from prison. Whatever the cause, after several hours of such high-minded revelry one of their number drunkenly announced that he was “so outta here.” Now, since this individual, aptly named Bryan “Boozin” Boozan, was in no condition to stand upright and blink at the same time, much less drive a big Harley on dark streets, the idiot’s pals snatched his keys and refused to give ‘em up. In theory, right move; in practice, wrong reaction.

For some reason, the subject of this well-intended altruism took umbrage not with his friends, but with the poor pub which had served him only too well. In a wild rage, the blotto biker unleashed a one-man demolition derby upon the contents of the establishment. Chairs, tables and pool cues were broken against the bar and reduced to match sticks; beer bottles, glass mugs and pool balls were hurled into mirrors, windows and whisky bottles. When the brave bar maid unwisely tried to micro-manage the situation, she was smote by a flying beer bottle for her efforts. By the time the blue lights finally arrived, Boozan the Barbarian had pretty much destroyed the saloon single-handedly.

Somehow in the pandemonium, Boozan managed to recover his keys and made a wobbly getaway. When the cops ran him down after a one-mile chase they found our drunken jack hole arguing with some poor rudder in a driveway. Nearby lay the wrecked motorcycle. Boozed-up Boozan (sorry, just couldn’t resist one more) was cuffed, charged with a year’s worth of offenses and carted off to the county hots ‘n cots.

As for the good Samaritans?  Well, so much for trying to help a friend!  A demolished biker bar, an injured biker bar bar maid, a biker’s bike now a hunka-junk, and a jugged biker buddy with a laundry list of woes— could it have been any worse had they just let the damn fool leave? 

Drunk?  Check!  Stupid?  Check!  Loser?  Check!  Criminal? (if he wasn’t before he sure is now) Check!  Bryan Boozan has got it all.

For retarded accounts like the above, one need not stalk all over Florida—one need look no further than their own home town.  Thus, let’s linger longer in little Englewood. 

Paul Peter Roskowski was pretty po’ed at his neighbor’s Jack Russell (nervous little dog now in vogue), or so it would seem.  Perplexingly, just exactly why the 76-year-old crank was irate is not known.  Since the little dog was kept inside the lanai (screened porch) I surmise the poor porch pooch was bored as hell and, since a canine can’t read a book, play video games, surf porn, or watch the tube, this little mutt exercised one of the few freedoms left to him, viz., he barked.  Perhaps he barked at anything and everything--barked at the mailman, barked at teens on skateboards, barked at silly-looking power-walking fat women who waddled by, barked at grumpy old Paul Peter every time he came outside to water his palms . . . bark, bark, bark.

Whatever, one day pissed-off Pete snapped.  Picking up a brick, walking over to his neighbor’s lanai, entering said neighbor's lanai, the furious fossil flattened the dog’s skull as flat as . . . as flat as . . . as flat as a “nigger baby’s head under a saw log,” as they once so indelicately used to say.

Poor man.  Roskowski was charged with whatever these courts charge someone with who murders animals—a dollar and a day--then admonished by His Honor to go and sin no more.  Must admit, I dislike barking dogs too.  But hey, perhaps Paul Peter as well as the owner of the dog should have been forced to stand in their respective lanais 24/7 for a month or more until they too howled at the moon and began to bark at fat women waddling and mailmen mailing.  You got a problem with that?

At nearby Punta Gorda, another local loony-toon, one Greg Boyd, had had it with the heat and stress and the Celtics losing in four during the NBA playoffs and . . . and local teens who tore up the street in their cars and called him names.

“I’ll blow your mother fuckin’ heads off!” yelled the temples-throbbing eye-twitching paranoiac as the kids supposedly sped by.

Finally, when the teens raced by again, Mad Dog Boyd reached for his sub machine gun.  Since he could not locate the gat, he grabbed a machete instead, then tracked down the kids at the local high school parking lot.

“I’ll cut your mother fuckin’ heads off!” the wild-eyed nut sack threatened the trembling, terrified, and by now totally traumatized teens. 

Blow off?  Cut off?  Hack off?  Burn off?  Dissolve off?  Pinch off?  Chew off?  Had this gone on much longer no telling how many more ways Greg was going to detach the teens’ mother fuckin’ heads from their mother fuckin’ bodies.  But alas, all good things must come to an end.   

After cops arrived at the school they conferred for some time among themselves before it was agreed that Boyd needed a few minutes of remedial tasing, just to calm him down a bit.  And, after that amusing little electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg became much more “compliant” (which is to say, after that amusing little electric chicken-dance on the asphalt in which half the school rushed out to see, Greg became much more nearly dead). Boyd was thereupon escorted without further incident to an air conditioned 6 by 9 where his murderous mania might mellow out somewhat.

It’s tough enough when our home-grown idiots, like the two Gregs and Bryan above act up, but when the other half of the population (illegal aliens) get involved it becomes absurd.  . . . Just across the bay from Punta, over Port Charlotte way, Rodolfo Alberto Burbano Lopez-Gonzalez Montez-Sanchez Jimenez-Martinez Rodrigu. . . ?!?!. . . Hmmmmm.. . . Just across the bay Rudy was having trouble with his septic tank.  Since poor Rudy lacked the pesos to call in the pros, he decided to just pump his waste straight into the storm drain just like he did back in whatever rat hole country he came from.  Nice.  Fortunately, an alert neighbor saw this and reported it, but. . . .  Imagine what Florida would be like if we all tried to save a few bucks by doing what Rudy tried to do.  Guess the Sunshine State would smell a bit like Mexico, Guatemala, Panama, or whatever shit hole nation Rudy comes from.  Moral: You can take Third Worlders outta the Third World, but ya can’t take the Third World outta Third Worlders.

And speaking of “When Third Worlds Collide. . . .“

Forty-four-year-old illegal, Adon Newsome, was biking from somewhere in Bradenton to somewhere in Bradenton waaaay early dark thirty one Sunday morn.  Adon was crossing over the Manatee River on the Desoto Bridge.  At the same time, thirty-five-year-old illegal, Gustavo Ramirez Benetez Domingo Rodrigu . . . Hmmmm. . . . At the same time, Gus was driving his car from somewhere in Bradenton to somewhere in Bradenton.  Gus was also crossing over the Manatee River on the Desoto Bridge.  Seems Gus did not see Adon or perhaps Adon did not see Gus.  Maybe neither saw neither.  Whatever, never bring a bike to a car fight.  Adon was launched from his bike like a cruise missile and sent headlong right into the black river below.

Gus continued across the river and when he found a translator he reported the incident to the local hospital located just off the bridge.  But Lord!  Bad enough to be smote by a two-ton chunk of metal and momentum and knocked senseless into a wide river.  Being hit by a car, falling fifty feet, and drowning may have been the least of Adon’s problems, however, for there are more things in that river that can kill a person than you can shake a snake at.  In the final analysis, even a hospital a few hundred yards away meant nothing.  Clearly, Adon Newsome’s stay on earth was over . . . emphatically over.

Although Adon’s quest for the American Dream was cut all too short, poor fellow, there was nothing short about the Jamaican’s rap sheet.  Thus, even though the ten or twelve other illegal aliens who composed his family nosily wailed as the cameras rolled, local cops were happy to clear the books on yet another poor “migrant” searching for a better life.

Under the “Florida--Who could make this crap up?” category. . . .Up at Tampa the other day, a mentally disabled man at a care center was accused of filching money from staff members. In an attempt to make the crazy fellow talk, as well as to inflict some good old-time medieval punishment on him, a young staff member staked out the culprit on an ant hill. Actually, the victim was forced to merely stand on an ant hill. Now, take it from me, being forced to endure repeated fire ant stings would be more than sufficient for most folks to quickly lose their minds. Fortunately, since the victim had no mind to lose in the first place he was no worse for wear and is now safely back to his old ways, stealing the staff’s money. When one witness stepped up and corroborated the above story to police, he too was threatened by the accused with the dreaded fire ant torture. That’s quite a “care” center they've got up there in Tampa.

At times it seems that we effin’ Floridators can’t get any more bloodier, any more stupider, any more crazier.  Some murderous moran--yes, I know it’s spelled wrong but this is just a murderous moran sorta story—some murderous moran across Charlotte Harbor from us decided he’d had enough and he weren’t agonna take nuttin’ from nobody no mo.  Ken Baily Roop (uh, oh . . . Lee Harvey Oswald . . . John Wilkes Booth . . . John Wayne Gacy . . . there’s one of those murderous middle names again) Ken` decided that he was the law west of Fort Myers and today this pistol-packin’ paranoid was down as down can be on trespassers (yesterday it was pelicans pooping on his boat). 

Seems when our Wyatt Roop returned home from the gun range, he spotted a strange truck in his driveway and a strange man nearby walking strangely.  When the strange stranger replied that he was selling steaks and lobsters door-to-door, Ken thought to himself, “Yeah, right . . . likely story . . . If I’ve heard that ‘steak and lobster’ routine once I’ve heard it a thousand times . . . you’re going down, bucko!”  Roop pulled out his pistol and shot the dude in the belly.  Seeing that the trespassing liar was still alive, our Dirty Harry ushered the victim right off this spinning blue ball with a bullet to the brain, “for effect.”

When a neighbor rushed over to see what all the hub-bub was about, he was startled to hear Roop yelling, “I’ll kill everybody and shoot everybody.”  This neighbor, a former fireman, described Ken as dirty and disheveled and as mad as a rabid Rottweiler.

“When he came out of the garage, he looked totally deranged to me,” the neighbor remarked. “He looked like he was off the deep end.”

Asked by the arresting cop why he killed the man, Roop said that he had posted his property against trespassing, and added, “I am not going to give him the chance to do something to me. I was in fear.” 

Guess Ken was “in fear” of being brained by a frozen steak for, fact is, implausible as it may have sounded, the deceased was indeed trying to hustle lobsters and steaks door-to-door.  Suppose I will file this minor affair under “Another Way a Suck Economy Can Kill You Stiff” since my “America Gone Stark Raving Mad” file is full.

Friday, April 04, 2014

Sunshine State Senile Survey

Save for hurricanes and such, the weather here is almost always to-die-for.  Thus, when a South Floridian crows about "great weather," that translates: "There is no place on earth to match this glory!"  

Such, then, is precisely what we are experiencing now.  "Died and gone to heaven" is the first cliche that pops into my block to describe our island weather.  Alas, move over Daytona.  Next week are the international speed boat races and an estimated 50K will line our beaches daily to take in the noisy event.  We will actually need tickets to get on and off our island.  Hence, Michelle and Michael will row the boat ashore and spend as much time off old Manasota as possible; there, elsewhere, anywhere, we will enjoy yet more of this magnificent weather.


Geezer Karaoke

Almost always—nay, ALWAYS always—our local dead tree media gives waaaaay too much space to the cranks and crazies who feel compelled to ventilate, those who must get something "off their chests.”  These “Rants to the Editor” are the first time that many of these rancorous old birds have gotten their literary feet wet in public, so to speak.  Alas, most should have not gone near the water.

Almost always--nay, ALWAYS always--these first-timers try to sound far more intelligent than they really are.  From the looks of the letters, most writers spend more time checking the dictionary for the most massive multi-syllable words they can find rather than actually trying to nail a point.  For these literary giants, first order of business is to sound high-toned and brainy and not disgrace the good name of Norton, Kramden, Abbott, or Costello.  Example:

It is imperious that all of us to focus our cerebral attentiveness toward the esteemed and profligate city council who has ensconced a prerogative that our truculent authorities and elected American jurisprudence may proffer in proper venues or a panoply in court and who propose to suborn the duly elected cream of mushroom soup. . . .

Clearly, from the effort thrown into the above, the writer imagines that newspapers still matter; that not only are millions across the state avidly reading this profound essay from a hick fish wrap in a sleepy seaside nook of South Florida, but so too are the head honchos up in Tallahassee, maybe even the big boys inside the Beltway.  Fact is, print media today is about as relevant as smoke signals and the idiot above will be lucky if twenty people, including his family and friends, can perambulate and postulate through such utter pontificating prudery and split pea soup.

Other ranters get pissed at some little item they read in the paper and feel “compelled” to respond.

Harvey J. Swartz: “It takes a lot to get me riled, but. . . . “   

The All-Seeing Eye Sez:  “No it doesn’t, Harv.  You get ‘riled’ at virtually everything that doesn’t meet your standard of decency and dullness.”

Morris Blumberg: “I feel it my duty to respond on behalf of all those. . . .” 

The All-Seeing Eye Sez:  “Your ‘duty’, Moe?  Who appointed you Indian lookout and moral Boy Scout for our lives?  And ‘all those’?  You mean on behalf of yourself and your wife, Flo, don’t you, Moe?”  

Wilbur C. Bumstead:  “Everyone in this country has the right to express their own opinions, but. . . . “

The All-Seeing Eye Sez:  “Well, not really.  Anyone who expresses an idea that differs from Wilbur’s is no better than an un-American Muslim-loving tub of pond scum who probably opposes the good old fashioned American method of torturing our enemies to death at Gitmo and at the three hundred other American owned and Jewish operated torture pens around the globe.”

Others get just a bit carried away with their anger.  Except for taking it out on their wives and the furniture, venting in the newspapers is the best they can do.  Here are a few random rants that have hit Florida papers in the last few weeks:

1) I have never written to the paper before but I feel compelled to. . . .

2) I want to register a complaint about. . . .

3) I am disgusted by those who blame this great country for. . . .

4) I hate it when some people urinate on. . . .

5) God knows my heart, but sometimes I want to phisicly hurt those who. . . . 

6) I hope all them that voted for that peece of garbige die horribel deaths. . . .

7) I want to poke the Eyeballs out of them Who thinck they can. . . .

8) I want to dekapatates . . . deecopiated . . . De Cappatate . . . I want to cut off the hed of evryone who. . . .

9) I will sloly Kill and eat the Hart and livver of all them what don’t agree with. . . .

More wars than you can count . . . state-sponsored torture . . . an out-of-control government spying on our every move . . . World War Three looming. . . . But anyway, what’s really on the minds of Gulf Coast Geezers.  Here’s a compilation of Groans to the Editor that I sampled over the span of a month or more.

Several crotchety coots are griping to the editor about Medicare, social security and how we owe so much to the “Greatest Generation” for saving the world from “evil,” something about how they fought for our freedoms and how we should crawl around in the dirt to fittingly show how much we worship these god-like saviors.  Hmmm. . . . that sounds vaguely familiar.  Another bitch bucket is growling about an overgrown lot next door with poison oak and other noxious weeds that the city refuses to do squat about.  According to the old lady, the weeds are really raising hell with her step-father--a gent who must be at least 150 years-old, if not more--and who has contracted a dozen life-threatening contagions from this odious lot of death next door, including a right smart case of staph infection.  At least one letter seems from a truly demented fellow who may have just slipped over that line which separates sense from senility.  Writes this crazy chap:

Recently, I have noticed a growing interest in smells.  I mean the effort to make everywhere we go smell nice.  Many companies want our homes to smell like fresh linen, springtime, gardens, lilies, roses, lilacs, the country, farms, meadows, laundry drying in the sun, clouds, fluffy feathers, and apple pie in the oven.  Oh, and, of course, lavender.

Then, after rambling on and on about bar soap, laundry soap, dish soap, candles, and bath salts for what seems like ten thousand words, old Merle somehow manages to wrap things up.

In the future, personal attraction might be based merely on smell.  Say a woman is attracted to a man because he smells like open meadows and he is attracted to her because she smells like pillow cases on a clothesline in the sun.  Boing!  Love at first smell.  Ain’t smell grand?

Something tells me that Merle’s wife, Bertha May, put the old fool up to this by telling  him what a great writer and wit he is and what a wonderful subject “smells” would be for the newspaper.  Also, as a former editor myself, I’m betting that the original letter was three or four times longer than the published version and that the “lucky” newspaper editor had to deftly trim this “masterpiece” down to keep this subscriber on board and happy.  And so, jammed in there between a paper full of murders, rapes, incest, animal cruelty, beatings, pit bull attacks, child abuse, and drugs, there is Merle and his smells.

No sooner does Merle take his bow and retire when another Will Rogers wanna-be steps up.  Yep, this is what happens when pretty damned dull men retire and have zippo to do.  Most, fortunately, turn to fishing and drinking.  Some, misfortunately, some turn to the arts and pretty quick—say, in an hour or so—most fancy themselves “artists.”  Be it wood carving, painting, or, god forbid, writing, many crazy old coots buy the BS their wives and addled friends are selling.   Tell me that the senile old loon following does not have too much time on his hands. . . .


One of the simple joys of old age is a good cracker.  Yes, a good cracker!  Good news that we live in a time of the perfection of the cracker.  Don’t believe me?  Just take a stroll down the cracker aisle at the supermarket.  Go slow.  And look.  You will be amazed at the assortment and the quality of the crackers calling for your attention.

Sometime ago, I decided on my favorite type of cracker.  I like a crunchy, wheaty cracker.  It has a strong woven texture that made me feel healthy when I crunched into it.  It also happily welcomed a glob of peanut butter.  And then there were the cheeses.

I was not alone in choosing this cracker.  The baker noticed its popularity because it soon became available with different ingredients.  In quick succession, they made my favorites with tomato and basil, then rice, red bean, red pepper, sweet potato and roasted sweet onion.  They got carried away. They cracked up over crackers!  Tried several but none was really as good as the original.

Now in the midst of this new abundance and varieties of richness, I am left with one major problem.  I can’t find the original, simple plain cracker!  Crunch?

Roy C. Nile
Punta Gorda

Damn!  DAMN!  Roy ain’t just batz; he is unbearably, amazingly, boringly batz.  He reminds me of some other poor idiots I have known running on about other such arresting subjects that I am already just too bored to recall.  One man—a windy retired salesman I once knew--who, when the political conversation over wine lagged for a few seconds, out of the blue in chirped he with, “You know, one of the things I like is a pencil . . . a good lead pencil!

Nuclear annihilation looming, drones watching us, drones killing us, freedom circling the toilet bowl, anger, hatred, torture, war, War, WAR . . . and yet, here we have old Roy rambling on all day about his favorite cracker, like some idiot gibbering by the roadside.  

Do not people like Roy have waaaaay too much time on their hands?  Should we not find them jobs to keep them busy?  Would it not be beneficial to all concerned—especially to the trees who provide the paper on which such insipid stupidity is printed--if we forced upon these folks some taxing labor, some labor like slaving all day in a salt mine somewhere deep in the earth or some labor like loading large logs all night in a lumber mill, day, night, day, night, day, night, sun up, sun down, up, down, up, down, up, down, until we sweat all this crazy senility out of them?  Wouldn’t it be better to work these bores so hard in some geezer gulag system that they will be too tired to worry about becoming “artists” and too tuckered to plague us with such nonsense about crackers or smells or peach preserves or whatever their crazy thought process can conjure?

Back a year or so ago when some idiot or some group of idiots tried to ring down a boycott on a national chicken chain when they refused to support gay marriage, gay divorce, gay tag-team wrestling, gay ventriloquists, or gay something-or-rather, this item appeared in our local fish wrap. . . .  


Why is it that there were more people standing in line to buy a savory deluxe chicken sandwich at the Chick-fil-A in Port Charlotte than there are at the Memorial Day services at Laishley Park? I get it, to support the biblical definition of marriage between a man and a woman. The Bible also states that slavery was acceptable and wealth was not. Will anyone be joining me as I protest for slavery and against wealth? 

Elbert C. Crotchett
Cape Fear

Elbert may “get it” but I sure as hell don’t. I think what old Bert is trying to say is, “I am a patriotic fudge packer that gets all riled and rankled when others vote with their bellies to protest same-same sex among nipple-knockers and pole-smokers but after only eighty years I am still too timid, too sheepish to step out of this closet just yet, so I write coded and confusing letters to the ed instead.”

Moving right along. . . . Now that local elections are mercifully over, and now that many senile seniors—alas--have somehow managed to find their way south to the Sunshine State again, the “Rants to the Editor” have revved up to their natural level of retarded reading. Every day letters like the following become more common:


Many thanks to the folks who put together the car show at the Charlotte Sun.  The huge display of vehicles was excellent.  Keep it up.

On the dark or negative side was after being invited into the lounge area for coffee and doughnuts, only doughnuts with frosting and/or covered with sugar were on hand.  Plain doughnuts would be a great item for the many diabetics who attend the show and also purchase your paper.  Doughnuts are made first without any covering, so why not order in some?  Any chance for the next time?

Also thanks to the volunteers who were on hand for anyone wanting to get checked for diabetes.

Robert A.Churl
Port Charlotte

Clearly, Bob has diabetes on the brain.  Good god, Bob, if you find free sinkers covered with frosting and sugar so “dark and negative” guess you must lead a pretty lonely life under that rock; guess you must find virtually everything else in this scary world very “sinister and evil,” including Snickers, popcorn balls and marshmallows.

Bob, you loser, you lard, you whiny worm, you simple-minded moron, HELLO?  They are free, Bob, FREE doughnuts . . . free as the wind!  If your monomania about diabetes and sugar-loaded freebies is so dire, then Bob why not break down and buy sugar-free doughnuts (if there is such a silly thing) or better yet, why not make some sugar-free doughnuts on your own hook?  Too expensive, you say?  Too hard to make, you say?  Ain’t got time, you say?  Thought so.   Check!  Check!  and Check!

My advice, Bob, is just avoid altogether doughnuts and such and you might just avoid diabetes too.  And quit your damned whining, fool.  You, my boy, are just the type of curmudgeon who can put the quietus on nice events like the above when the organizers say to themselves, “Oh, to hell with this stupid noise.  I'm so outta here.  It’s nothing but headaches with people like Bob bitching and complaining about every little thing every step of the way!”

Meanwhile, as the twin Jewish ogres in Tel Aviv and Washington, along with their more-than-willing allies--US media, US neocons, US Christian bible-beating-screws-loose nut jobs, to name a few--as they continue their madness and inch the world closer and closer to the nuclear precipice, the crazy geezers of Planet Florida seem preoccupied with other highly important matters.   As the following indicates, Sunshine State seniles have much bigger fish to fry than fretting over such frilly, frothy, far-out subjects such as freedom, slavery or the possibility of mere world-ending confrontations. 


Please stop hiding the comics.  Every day they are in a different spot and a challenge for us older folks to find.  Thursday is the worst.  You sports jocks keep the sports news out in front, even on the front above the headlines.  Please give us a break and don’t make us search for the funnies.  We remember “Jigs and Maggie” and “Li’l Abner” and other long gone strips, but some of the current cartoons are humorous and give us our daily smiles.  Thank you.

Dilbert  R. Dillweed
Port Charlotte

Must be a difficult struggle each morning at dawn as Dilbert wrestles through the 20 or 30 "challenging" newspaper pages filled with foreclosures, minority crime, illegal aliens, American decline, American collapse—must be tough each morn hunting up his beloved comics. 

Hmmmmm.  Seems like a painless out; just go for an extended visit to Dilbert’s funny paper LaLa Land of fog and madness and eat peach preserves all night and read “Jigs and Maggie” and chat with Dilbert all the live-long day until the last remaining particles of my brain are GONE . . . Gone . . . Gone . . . Gone.….  ( POOF! )