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Wednesday October 18, 2006

Steve beats up on Dania Beach. Pretty funny.

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Thursday April 27, 2006

Kiss my ass

How’s that for a catchy headline??

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Monday February 27, 2006

Do you serve dogs here?

Contributed by Steve Klotz

Two measures before the Florida Leg (SB 1172 and HB 333) would allow dogs access to outdoor dining venues. Insofar as this measure strikes me as insane—I’m on my second dog, now, and keeping the drooling brute out of my face is a daily challenge, especially at meal time—I call my contact Ralph at the League for Canine Rights And Protection (“L-CRAP”) for something positive to write about it.

“People love their dogs,” says Ralph, simply. “They enjoy walking them, treating them like family, and taking them places. Outdoor dining is fun and sociable, just the sort of thing dog owners like doing with their dogs.”

Dogs smell like ass. They lick their crotches (so would I, if I could, but not out on the sidewalk). They put their noses in piles of shit. They drool. They carry fleas. They hump and foam on the closest object. Who wouldn’t want them close up and personal while they’re eating?

“Look, that’s what it means to be a dog. But they don’t do that all the time, and they don’t do that while they’re seated quietly by the table.”

They growl at people. They get underfoot. They bark. They whine. They get goofy when they see other dogs. Food drops, they lunge at it, barf it up, then re-eat it. Great floor show, bound to enhance one’s dining experience.

Ralph goes, “If I’m your dog I shit in your bed daily,” and hangs up.

Okay. I lose. People are gonna get their damn dogs at the restaurant, fine. But we need rules. First, they need to be leashed and kept on the floor at all times—the dogs AND the owners. No feeding the dogs: it’s disgusting to see and hear. The only thing worse is little kids, something else I’m rabidly against: in fact, I’d rather have the dogs. At least you can have them euthanized without a whole lot of paperwork.

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Friday February 24, 2006

Wipe out

Contributed by Steve Klotz

Crow told investigators that he and Matthews were arguing about the lack of toilet paper in Matthews’ bathroom. That led to Matthews grabbing a rifle and Crow arming himself with the handle of a sledgehammer, according to the Sheriff’s Office.

Crow knocked the gun out of Matthews’ hands and hit him eight times in the head with the sledgehammer’s handle, the Sheriff’s Office said.

Detectives said Crow then found a claw hammer and hit Matthews two more times in the head. He tossed the sledgehammer handle behind Matthews’ home and threw the other hammer into the woods, the Sheriff’s Office said.— South Florida Sun-Sentinel

The 2-man synod took place in the thriving cultural crossroads of Ocklawaha, Florida—right up there nearby Altoona, Weirsdale, and Fort McCoy—and the learned participants were gentlemen in their middle 50’s.

“Y’all cain’t imagine how upset people can git over toilet paper in these-here parts,” commented one neighbor, who gave only the name “Mr. Whipple.” “Lotsa ole-timers jest resent even thinkin’ about it. They been usin’ corncobs like their daddies and grandaddies afore ‘em, and to hell with anybody else!”

Bail has been denied for Crow, currently held in an abandoned outhouse behind the Sheriff’s office.

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Tuesday February 21, 2006

Oklahoma Marlins?

Contributed by Steve Klotz

What comes to mind when you hear the words, “Oklahoma City?”

Is it the horrific bombing of the Alfred Murrah building? That was ten years ago. Certainly a vibrant metropolis in the nation’s heartland has had something of note since then, right?

Do you think, Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein’s musical? Then you’re old and/or gay. You and your surrey with the fringe on top.

How about, It’s the latest candidate for new home of the Florida Marlins Baseball Franchise? Yeah! Now you’re cooking with corn husks.

Okie City, population 520,000, was founded in 1889. At one time, Oklahoma was known as “Indian Territory:” essentially an informal concentration camp to accommodate banished Native Americans whose land was taken for white settlement. Even that didn’t last, though, and in 1906 Oklahoma became a state, Indian Territory became a non-entity, and the city fathers declared their interest in attracting major league baseball.

The present Florida Marlins roster, composed mostly of Triple-A youngsters and journeymen second-stringers, contains no Native Americans, so we assume no sensitive “tracing the trail of tears” issues will arise. There is a real problem with the name, though. The closest marlins to Oklahoma swim in the Gulf of Mexico. How about the “Okie Dokies?” They’d like that.

David Samson, the Marlins’ stature-challenged president, doesn’t see anything odd, ironic, or idiotic about relocating a major league franchise to a third-tier American city where cow-tipping is the weekend sport of choice. “The long and short of it,” he told the press (to background snickers), “is we’ll go to the community that support us.” He’s also negotiating with the City of Hialeah for a stadium. Imagine opening day ceremonies: a city commissioner plants a bomb under the bullpen cart.

Then again, following the owners’ off-season vivisection of the Marlins, a baseball game in an Okie City barnyard wouldn’t have as much tumbleweed blowing through the stands as Dolphins Stadium will this season.

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Thursday February 2, 2006

One hour Martinizing


[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

Once in a great while your elected officials say something honest and sincere. When they do, it stands out like a swollen gland, usually for the level of vapidity it reveals.

In today’s Miami Hurled you can read about Florida Senators Martinez and Nelson jointly proposing a bill to protect Florida’s coastlines from oil and gas drilling interests. It’s so popular, Republicans worry it might help Democrat Bill Nelson get re-elected. But never fear:

Martinez downplayed suggestions that Nelson’s political future could play a role…… “At some time we’ve got to just work in the public interest,’’ Martinez said. “If that means working with Senator Nelson, so be it.”

Got that? Martinez admits that there actually are moments—rare, perhaps, but detectable—when against his every instinct, he simply finds “serving the public interest” inevitable, his only alternative, as distasteful as it is. In a squalid career grubbing money from special interests, pulling faces at cameras, boning voters in back-room deals, and strutting his power at Washington cocktail parties, there are still those isolated situations when, well dammit, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

I can see his handlers cringing over this one. “Holy shit, Mel, the hell you say that for? You’re supposed to say, ‘In matters as essential as protecting Florida citizens and ensuring the integrity of our irreplaceable environment, I call on all members of the Senate from both sides of the aisle to support this legislation.’ You make it look like politics is the last thing on your mind! Act like a dignified fucking statesman, can’t you?”

Remember, it’s not just Mighty Mel we’re talking about, it’s every mother’s son of ‘em. Treasure this hour of truth and light, and keep an eye out for more. They’re infrequent as Haley’s comet, but not nearly as dependable.

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Saturday January 28, 2006

Dog-on-Boar-ring

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

The Art and Culture Center of Hollywood opened its performing arts season Friday night at the Hollywood Central Performing Arts Center (HCPAC) with an astonishing dance company, Koresh, of Philadelphia. Members of the audience exited raving, some vowing to return this evening (Saturday) to see it again.

Tickets won’t be a problem. Half the seats in the auditorium (capacity: 500) were empty, a fact almost as astonishing as the performance. “Anywhere else but here you’d pay at least $50, stand in line, and sit in a packed house,” one seasoned patron noted. “What do people in South Florida do for cultural entertainment that’s better than this?”

Glad you asked. Turns out they’re heading out to the Seminole reservation to watch a little dog-on-boar action.

It’s pretty basic. Known (cleverly) as a “hog-dog fight,” a pit bull terrier or bulldog is tossed into a rectangular, 25- by 25-foot outdoor ring for a one-minute match. The object is to see how fast the dog can catch a terrified pig as it runs squealing for its life. The dog clamps its jaws on the pig’s snout, ears, or balls. Then “trainers” pry the animals apart with a metal bar. Surviving pigs are returned to the ring to fight again. If the pig collapses, they leave it for tomorrow’s breakfast bacon.

Great fun, yes? No wonder tumbleweed blows through Broward’s galleries, theaters, and concert halls on weekends. With football dominating Saturday and Sunday afternoons, you can’t expect citizens to whet their bloodthirsty cravings contemplating a pack of prancing poofsters, right? Watching dogs chew live pigs to death sets the proper mood.

Yeehaw.

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Tuesday January 17, 2006

Gone clubbin'

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

It’s not that hard to understand, is it? It’s only when something lurid and reprehensible like this happens that homeless people get humanized. Otherwise, they’re nuisances at best, disposable rubbish at worst; bad for the neighborhood, dangerous, potential criminals. They stink like shit, they pis their pants, they’re covered in vermin. Some are burned-out druggies, others are stumble-down drunks, and some are just fuckin’ Pluto. Losers. Parasites. I hear this every day, don’t you?

Unlike dumb, ugly critters like Muscovy Ducks, they’re not even covered by environmental protection or animal cruelty laws.

So what’s to inhibit a pack of kids, inevitably picking up on all of this, from having a little fun? Who’s gonna care? Looked at this way, they’re doing the rest of us a favor, like cleaning out a pigeon’s nest in someone’s crawl space. The real surprise is it doesn’t happen more often.

I’ll leave the hand wringing and the moralizing to those who do it best (see your local newspaper: they’re just warming up), just as most of us (including myself) leave the hard work of human services to The Salvation Army, Broward Outreach Center, Camillus House, Miami Rescue Mission, etc. If you don’t want to get your hands dirty helping out, maybe just send a check. And I don’t mean the newspapers.

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Monday January 16, 2006

Weenies and meanies

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

Sunday’s Miami Hurled carried commentary by Clark Hoyt, Knight-Ridder’s Washington editor, regarding the Senate Republican Conference’s characterization a K-R story analyzing Judge Samuel Alito’s record. “Neither objective nor accurate,” is one neat summary. “Illiterate” a funnier one.

Hoyt’s approach is to sketch the parameters of the controversy, stating K-R’s position, best summarized by one paragraph: “Our job is to be neither with them nor against them. It’s to find out the facts, as best we can, and to report them as fully, fairly and accurately as we can”. He invites readers to examine the article for themselves, and provides a website to review other commentary.

Nice, neat, fair, measured, balanced, and professional, yes? Also, corporate, bland, bloodless, obsequious, testosterone-free, and dull.

This precisely exhibits the problem with contemporary mainstream journalism, and any more it’s the rule, not the exception. If he’s proud of the piece and has confidence in his correspondents, then K-R’s top dog needs to come out with six-guns blazing. He needs to tell the Senate Republican Conference and its hired stooges to go to hell and die. He should flame their asses purple, deride the frauds and mountebanks out there blowing smoke, defy them to refute his findings, and defend his position as a soothsayer; all the while exposing their prejudiced agenda. He needs to call a spade a spade, not act spayed (yeah, I know).

But most of all, he needs to do this with lucid, compelling, and inspired prose that rivets readers’ attention, not only to his argument here, but to the entire issue that gave rise to it. This is the journalist’s real job: keeping contemporary audiences informed and entertained with the words he writes and the thoughts they provoke.

But not only won’t you won’t find that in the Miami Hurled, you’ll be hard-pressed to find it anywhere else in MSM. And we’re all the poorer for it.

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Thursday January 12, 2006

Squeezed out

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

There’s no evidence supporting the theory the citrus canker
eradication program was finally yanked because of Critical Miami and other hyeniform screaming from south Florida consumers. No, as noted previously, this had everything to do with growers themselves finally getting boned.

But with the plug finally pulled on arboreal assassinations, the mood in Tallahassee is wistful, not sad.

“We got better’n ten good years outta this,” declares Secretary of Agriculture Charles Bronson (no relation to the deceased chisel-faced actor). “And collected $36 Million in USDA funds this year alone. ‘Tween us at state and the feds, we spread over $500 Million around. That’s damn good work!”

“And the only ones real pissed off are those rat bastards down
south,” gloats Snarla, his admin assistant. “Every time we squeezed their nuts, the rest of the state sent fruit baskets and thank-yous!”

“A real triumph for the Governor,” says Bronson, gleefully. “Shame to give up the gravy train—all told we were gonna pour about $1.5 Billion of public funds into friendly pockets over the next cuppla years—but we did plenty. We made our people happy, and screwed the rest. And if that ain’t that what a government’s for, I don’t know why the Christ we have one.”

Officially, the state blames the last two years of hurricanes for blowing canker spores all over hell and creation. Prostitutes masquerading as researchers still spew the weird science supporting the destruction of any healthy tree within a 1900-foot radius of an infected one, but say the disease is now too widespread. This is known as “fabricating plausible deniability.”

Residents whose trees were destroyed shouldn’t anticipate finding replacements any time soon: it will be at least two years
before new trees can be planted, and an edible crop takes
another five. “Keep your can openers handy,” advises Bronson,
happily. “And make sure you bring lots of money when you shop for Florida citrus products!”

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Monday January 9, 2006

Head for Sure

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

Reliable sources have reported body parts turning up in some unorthodox locations throughout the region, the most unnerving of which is the floating head in Jupiter inlet. Turns out that this sort of thing goes on often enough that the state has an entire department established to investigate these incidents and coordinate with local law enforcement and environmental authorities. So I dutifully place a call, and get the usual “off the record don’t quote me” official to dish.

For background, I ask him a little about the department itself.

“Bureau of Parts and Wrecks really got going in the 30’s,” he says. “Before that, we mostly pulled bodies outta the water after boating accidents. But back when South Florida was teeming with racketeers murdering one another, body parts were found all over the place, and somebody needed to put them together just to keep track of who was dead or alive.”

That doesn’t happen any more?

“Oh, it still happens, but people are a lot more thorough these days. What with technology like wood chippers, explosives, etc., there ain’t a whole lot left over. And with paved roads all the way through the Everglades, it’s easy take a nice ride out, dump your prey, and let nature take over in a matter of hours.”

So what’s with the head floating in Jupiter Inlet?

“You mean Bob? We’re pretty sure there wasn’t any foul play with that one. No evident trauma at all. Maybe just an unfortunate boat person got ate by a shark and had his head horked up.”

Charming. Guess you got a lot of grisly tales to tell.

“Nah, not so bad. Mostly hands with the fingerprints burned off, occasional femur, bone chips in backyard gardens, ears. We got a whole freezer unit fulla ears. We call it the cornfield. Heh-heh-heh.”

Yeah, heh-heh-heh. When he offers to show me around if I ever get up that way, I beg off. I also skip lunch.

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Friday December 30, 2005

Gotcha last!

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

In what may be Broward’s first incident of Florida’s new Stand Your Ground and Shoot to Kill ordinance, a Pompano Beach man was shot and killed (how about that?) following an argument with neighbors. All three parties to the shooting sport hefty criminal records including gun possession, and the neighborhood itself is considered violent. Reportedly this was the terminal chapter in a long-lasting family feud. You can read the gory details here and here so I don’t need to restate them.

Besides, they’re likely wrong.

“You media assholes are gonna turn this into a big fart-stink about my neighborhood,” one angry resident told us. “Y’all gonna start makin’ noises soundin’ like this street ain’t safe for families.”

What—a fatal gun battle on the front lawn? What could be bad for kids about that?

“Wasn’t no shoot-out. Was a rehearsal.”

A rehearsal for what? Bringing back Gunsmoke episodes?

“New Year’s Eve, is what! They was just firing into the air like you do on New Year’s Eve, and, well, one of ‘em missed.”

Actually, one of them didn’t miss.

“Whatever. But that’s all it was, people havin’ fun and an unfortunate accident. So get off our ass.”

End of interview. Gotta love this job.

Shooting firearms into the air at midnight on New Year’s Eve is high up on the Intelligent Cultural Practice List, right behind female circumcision and taking your own daughter’s virginity. I prefer to think that this was an all-out planned homicide, or at least a genuine argument ending is bloodshed. That’s the American Effin’ Way, dammit, and this is Effin’ America. Happy New Year, citizens!

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Tuesday December 27, 2005

Cold Pussy

[Contributed by Steve Klotz]

The next person who tells me how refreshing this weather is gets a punch in the mouth. Here’s a friendly, seasonal suggestion: If you like it cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra, get the hell back to Canada. I-95 is a 2-way street. Take this icy bitter shit with you and drop it in some ‘Nuck’s Christmas stocking.

It was ‘way too cold for Guido last night, so she off she goes to bed early to huddle under the cranked-to-the-max electric blanket, covered by a thick comforter. Her evil pride of felines sprawl majestically over her, hogging the heat; one up on her head, one between her knees, a particularly foul critter reclined on my side of the bed. The beast glares at me venomously, daring me to uproot its furry ass. Ha! I subtly distract it with a well-aimed kick to the anus, and he’s airborne, howling like hell’s harpies. He’s back in minutes to climb on my chest, a ploy to make me think he’s forgiving and affectionate when in fact, at 17 pounds, he’s trying to suffocate me.

This kind of crap doesn’t go on when the nighttime temperature in my house stays up in the 90s where it belongs. Without air
conditioning, you can’t buy a glimpse of a cat in the bedroom:
they’re hugging the terrazzo floor, sucking for oxygen like de-bowled guppies. Good kitty! Lie down! Roll over! Gasp for breath!

And I’m babysitting blogmeister Alesh’s kitten, too, while our hero gallivants around Prague. So far Sophie has destroyed 2
lampshades, 3 plants rooting in tall wine bottles, and the dog’s starboard nostril. Cold weather energizes animals, the poor dumb brutes. That’s why humans are on top of the food chain. We’re smarter . . .

. . . except for all you short-pantsed and sandaled smile buttons
with your insipid, “Dontcha just love this break in the weather hyuk-hyuk-urk-urk-ooga-ooga?” small talk. No, fuckweed, I don’t. I may be a bloody orchid, but I’m more evolved than you, alright? Give me heat, give me humidity, give me sunshine that melts asphalt. That’s what south Florida is for, dammit. I sure didn’t move here for the culture, educational opportunities, or friendly people. Or the hyperactive cats.

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