Welcome to Floriduuuh

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy living in Florida, but we seem to be a magnet for idiots. Just look at our record. It hasn’t been good.

Remember the “bear tunnels” I wrote about, the ones built under busy thoroughfares to keep the bears from crossing the roads (roads built across paths that bears had been roaming for eons) and getting hit?

Of course the bears, being the creatures of habit that they are, ignore the tunnels (and the signs strategically pointing them out) built for them and continue to cross interstates and turnpikes, occasionally getting killed. Yet the tunnels continue to be built . . . with our tax dollars! Who was it that said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting to get a different result?

And let’s not forget the state senator who, just a couple of years ago, tried to pass a law making it criminal for restaurants to run out of toilet paper. Yes, he spent tax payer money to draw up and try to pass a law making it criminal for eating establishments to run out of pooper scooper. Fortunately, the proposal didn’t get any traction and was never seriously considered. Hmmm, got to be a metaphor in there somewhere, don’t you think?

Anyway, it makes one wonder what the name would be of a department charged with enforcing such a law, the Poop Patrol? I don’t even want to know what the punishment would be for violating the law.

Now who can forget the presidential election of 2000, when our fair state held up the election of a new president because people who seemed to have had no problems punching bingo cards had difficulty punching election ballots? I’m surprised the term hanging-chad isn’t in the dictionary as a new word—when teaching school, I had a Chad or two I would’ve loved to have hung, but that’s another story for another time.

Want more proof that I Florida attracts dummies? Look at what some genius did when tropical storm Fay swung across, through, up, down, etc., our lovely state. Some of you might’ve seen a video clip of this on the news or online.

In Fort Lauderdale, a young man in his mid-twenties decided that tropical storm winds would be ideal conditions for windsurfing. So when Fay whipped on by, he was at the beach ready and waiting for her.

Fortunately for us (I have to admit, when I saw this on TV I literally rolled off my bed from laughter; hey, when guys witness something painful happen to other guys, short of death of course, we go into hysterics, practically wetting our pants.), a news crew was setting up to report on the storm just as this knucklehead went flying through the air. It was all caught on tape.

Well, this windsurfer dude was whipped up into the air about 20 feet or more, flying at a very fast rate of speed, when all of a sudden the wind slammed him face first into the sand. The wind whipped him up into the air about 20 or more feet again, and at a fast rate of speed sent him sailing several yards . . . right into the side of a building.

The man was rushed to the hospital where he was reported to be in critical condition. His mother later said that he was doing better, had some cracked vertebra and swelling of the brain. He couldn’t remember the incident at all. Momma should show him a video of it to discourage him from entertaining any more bright ideas (update: brilliant windsurfer man was interviewed the other day by the media and says he’d do it again. He'd just stop a little earlier—-yeah, like when the wind smashed you face first into the beach, before slamming you into a building?! Stupie).

As a final bit of proof that our fair state is a magnet for idiots, I offer you what the aforementioned news crew saw while finishing the setup of their equipment, right after this incident took place . . . more people on the beach attempting to surf the winds of tropical storm Fay!

So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury as you consider these five separate incidents as proof that as a whole the population of Florida is at least one clown short of a circus, keep one more thing in mind; I live here.

Have you read any of my posts? I rest my case.

Hey, Hey, Hey, Here Comes Fay

Well, ‘tis the season—hurricane season that is. And the first storm, Fay (she’s still a tropical storm but soon to be a hurricane) is only hours away from hitting our fair state.

So as you can imagine, this will be a very short post as we prepare for her effects on our area of the state, and I believe sweetie and I about have everything ready: bottled water, batteries for flashlights and radio, non-perishable food items, vehicles fueled, a little cash on hand, etc. Now it’s just sit and wait for Fay’s arrival.

People often ask, “How can you live in an area that is prone to hurricanes?”

Hey, there’s earthquakes, fires, mudslides in California and various other places in the U.S., avalanches in the Rockies, tornados in the mid-west, etc. I figure pick your poison.

Besides, a hurricane party now and again doesn’t hurt—chips and dip, cookies soda, sandwiches, games, etc, all while you keep an eye on the television reports of the storm, until the power goes out of course.

A lot of people don’t realize too that with hurricanes it’s not just the wind and rain. Hurricanes spawn tornados too. Lovely addition to an already nerve racking experience, don’t you think?

Also, it’s interesting (and a little eerie) to see everybody scurrying around town for supplies, and seeing rows upon rows of houses boarded up in anticipation of the storm. I once saw a man boarding up the windows of his mobile home! Now there’s a lesson in futility if ever there was one. They’re called mobile for a reason! His house will be blown away but by golly his windows will be intact.

It’s a bit haunting also to walk into a supermarket for something you forgot to buy only to find the isles empty of people and the shelves empty of supplies. It’s sort of a surreal experience.

But now I hear the winds picking up outside, rain is soon to follow, and I need to secure the pontoons to my mobile, um, manufactured home. Hey, with an outboard motor attached to it as well, we’ll have us a regular ole redneck party yacht.

I think before the next hurricane approaches, I’ll look for a two-story mobile home-- turn it into one of those gambling cruise yachts. Now that’s an idea!

Not My Fault

Ever gone through a period of time when accidents happened to you that weren’t your fault? I went through one of those periods awhile back, and because of it, for a while, family and friends acted weird every time I got behind the steering wheel of a car.

In fact, it got so bad that any time it was suggested that I do the driving they’d all break into a sweat, shake like a diabetic coming off a sugar high, and start reciting the Lord’s Prayer, while firmly grasping a rosary . . . and some of them were atheist!

They said it was because I hadn’t been doing too well avoiding accidents, and though I kept telling them that, no matter what the police said, the wrecks weren’t my fault I was never able to calm their fears.

Now, the first wreck happened while driving across a bridge in Branson, Missouri. I was driving along in my truck when the tape I was listening to (yes, this was back in “olden times” when we listened to cassette tapes in our vehicles) ended. After the tape was ejected from the deck, I decided to put it back in the cassette storage box, where it belonged.

So, reaching over to the passenger side of my pick-up to get hold of the box, I momentarily lost sight of the road (Translation: I had to reach so far across the truck for the cassette holder that my head dipped below the dashboard).

Now, it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds to sight the cassette box, reach for it, grip that sucker, and bring it closer to me, but that’s all the time it took.

BAM! I rear ended a soda truck.

Of course, the truck I hit wasn’t even scratched. Mine, on the other hand, had over $2,000.00 worth of damage.

Why wasn’t this accident my fault you ask? Well, as I told the investigating officer, the accident was an act of God. No, really.

You see, I’m genetically impaired: my arms are too short for fetching tape holders clear across my automobile. With longer arms I would have been able to reach that confounded case, while at the same time keep my head high enough to see out of the windshield. I rest my case.

The second accident during that period of bad luck wasn’t my fault either. It was the fault of my mamma and middle son.

Middle son and I were out running errands. As we pulled up to a stop light at a busy intersection, middle son and I were carrying on a conversation. Well (and this is where my mamma’s part in all of this comes into play), mamma taught me to always look people in the eye while conversing with them, and that’s exactly what I was doing, looking middle son right in the eye. . .as I drove right through the red light in said intersection.

BAM! We were T-boned by a van traveling at about 50mph.

“I wondered what you were doing, running that red light and all,” said middle son, as we commenced to get out of our now inoperable truck.

“If you saw I was about to run the light, why didn’t you say something?” I asked.

"Because,” he answered, “you don’t like to be told how to drive. So, when I saw the van coming and realized you weren’t going to stop I closed my eyes.”

He sure picked a fine time to start caring about things that bug me.

Anyway, when the police officer asked me what happened, I told him the accident wasn’t my fault. I mean, if mamma hadn’t been so persistent in teaching me proper etiquette and if middle son wouldn’t have so tight-lipped about me running the stop light (not to mention closing his eyes when he saw the van approaching), there wouldn’t have been a wreck--Mr. policeman didn’t see it that way.

Ooooh but I had another good reason the wreck wasn’t my fault. You see, since my head was turned toward middle son just before the wreck, you could say the son in my eyes.

Slob Olympics II

Ahhhhh, the Summer Olympic Games start this week. For many of us, the games provide an exciting diversion from our otherwise dreary, uneventful lives.

But as much as I enjoy them, I'd rather see an Olympic tournament the average person could not only relate to but could participate in, something along the lines of the Slob Olympics. That would be an Olympics I could really excel in, might even bring home the gold as they say.

So, let the games begin!

One of the first contests to be held at the Slob Olympics will be the Undergarment Marathon, a competition inspired by men (and some women) around the world, who hate doing laundry and often wear the same dirty clothing for days, if not weeks at a time.

The contestants competing in the Slob Olympic version of this game have just one goal: wear one set of underwear longer than their opponents--bonus points will be given for wearing the one set of under-drawers the duration of the Games.

If a tie should occur there would, of course, be a simple tie breaker--if one’s underwear is crusty enough to stand on its own, that’s your winner.

Now, if more than one pair of undies can stand on its own then the 2nd tie breaker will be the sniff test; the underpants with the most rotten smell takes home the gold.

Another popular game to be played at the Slob Games will be the Flat Surface Fandango. This game is similar to the home version.

The object of this event is, in the time allotted, to pile as much stuff as possible (papers, pens, pencils, crayons, scissors, books, check stubs, hats, paper clips, etc) on an end table without any of it falling to the floor. Points will be deducted if that happens. Of course, he who builds the highest pile wins. It’ll be a pretty straightforward game but will be fun to watch, don’t you think?

A competition new to the Games this year will be the Dreaded Toilet Paper Limbo. There will be several stages and scoring components to this particular contest. Here’s how it will work.

Contestants will be given a whole of bottle of castor oil to drink. Anybody who’s ever had the “remedy” knows just how wonderful it tastes. So, contestants gain points not only for the speed at which they chug-a-lug this awful stuff down, but also for the faces and sounds they make while doing it. Obviously, the most grotesque face and sound a contestant makes the more points earned.

The next stage of this game will begin when the castor oil actually kicks in. As the pressure and gurgling builds in the stomachs of each contestant, and they begin to bloat like a bovine loose in an alfalfa field, points will be given for the length of time each can hold out from making a mad dash to the bathroom. That mad dash will also be timed and points given accordingly.

Once the contestants reach their respective commodes a surprise awaits them—an empty toilet paper roll. And thus the 3rd stage of the Dreaded Toilet Paper Limbo begins. The keys for scoring points in this stage will be ingenuity and creativity.

Typical house-hold bathroom items will be scattered about each room. Contestants will be free to use any or all items in the room to rescue themselves from their situation. The most original and creative use of these items will earn the most points.

Needless to say, the contestant with the most experience of being stranded on the commode with an empty toilet paper roll, and no one around to help, will have a huge advantage over the others.

Another exciting contest will be the Over-Looking-A-Much-Needed-Object game. This will be an exciting contest of teams consisting of athletes and their mothers.

Each athlete will be given a container of miscellaneous items, items similar to the articles used in the Flat Surface Fandango, to scatter about the house. After scattering the contents, the athletes will then holler to their mothers ("Maaaaaauuum, have you seen my notebook? Or, "Mother, what did YOU do with my socks?") for help in finding one of said items.

Once that helpless, pathetic holler is made, the mother of the athlete will have 45 seconds to locate the particular item her son or daughter can't find. Since the contestants' moms have been in training all of their children's lives, and since most of the items that are lost are actually in plain sight, most mothers will finish their task before the allotted time runs out.

It goes without saying the mother with the fastest time in finding the lost object will win the most points. But points will also be given for the best holler: woeful tone of hopelessness, projection, quality of whining, originality of one's holler, etcetera. So there will be opportunity to make up points in one section of the contest if one scored low in the other part.

The final example of the type of games that will be played in the Slob Olympics is the Greasy Grime Cook Off. This is a simple contest consisting of a portable electric grill set on a kitchen counter and an infinite amount of raw, non-lean hamburger.

The object for each contestant will be to build as much grease on the kitchen counter as possible by frying hamburger patties on the open grill. The thicker the grease buildup the more points a contestant will receive.

A grease fire, of course, earns bonus points. Bonus points (and free medical treatment) will also be given to any contestant who tries to squelch said grease fire with water. Burns will be awarded points according to their severity.

So, there you have it, a few examples of the games that will be played in the Slob Olympics. And just in case my dream of these games comes true, I'd better start practicing for the event I most excel in, The Bathtub Bravado. I'll leave it up to your imaginations as to what that will involve.