The Sandspur

Issue date: 10/28/05 Section: Opinions

Media Credit: Issac Stolzenbach

I thought after the certain depression that would ensue after the utter letdown of "Hurricane Wilma," I would try to take a note from my mentor, The King of Fun, and write something entertaining and relaxing for a change.

In Memorial: one year ago this week, my attorney, Bryan Smathers, earned his title by forcing me to go to the hospital after wrecking my Ducati (some random f**ktard auto-driver assisted in grinding my face, hand and knee into the pavement). Due to certain "statute of limitations" clauses, I must remit the full details at this time, but all must know he is to blame for any demented writing I do (all writing actually) like the excrement seen here, to wit:

An image of the Night Before Hurricane Wilma: I sat in a rotating chair. Kicking my foot with slow repetitive motion to take in blinks from the five televisions surrounding me. Tired from the anxiety and anticipation that we "might have another Charley" on our hands, I rubbed coffee grounds into my pupils to keep awake. Shaking my head towards the floor to get the extra grounds out of my eyes, I noticed the field of piss-filled Trucker Bombs around my seat. When was the last time I got away from these damn televisions, anyway?

Jackass twenty-four hour broadcast reporters-surely behind the camera rubbing a mixture of meth, crack, and Folgers into every orifice-grab the token redneck with three teeth in his head to describe the early morning events, "Maaannn . . . Eyez on the cellar-phone wit my sister [slaish couzin] dem tranceformers wenna poppin' then I seed it out the conna mu eye. It wud like a freight train . . . justa, 'whhessessswWWHoowwwWEeZzzzeweEEeehhhHHhhhhEeeewww' and I seed this big black wall'a cloud just'a dancin' 'round rite on top da building!" The man's body language made it known that he had alcohol poisoning from a weeklong hurricane party; he wanted the I.V. they promised him for getting in front of the camera. Desperate times in Central Florida.

The camera flashes back to a drenched reporter, rubbing her nose nervously, and embellishing in the destruction. Her head tosses in sync with the inflection in her voice. "This man was just describing the brief moment before the second of three tornadoes hit Brevard County this morning," her arm begins twitching out of control in a muscle spasm that makes her look as though she's trying to gnaw off her own arm, "another tornado touched down just north of here! The woman sleeping on the second floor of her home was saved by her mattress falling on top of her!" She snorted a bit and then I panned to the next television.

It's the "good" governor, Jeb Bush. "We are all working diligently to restore power to the 2.4 million people without service. We have people on standby all over the state, and as soon as it gets safer, they will begin recovery operations. I know that happy customers make for happy citizens . . . this is a governor's major concern." I threw a freshly filled Gatorade bottle at the screen, which popped and splashed urine on his face, "You evil bastard!" I picked up my phone and called Tallahassee, "Let me speak to the governor!" The recording kept barking back at me to punch numbers, but I would do no such thing, I needed my threats heard now, so I let them fly.

"First, your major concern during a potential disaster should be the SAFETY of your citizens, not whether or not they have entertainment. Second, you better get a grip on your monkey-headed brother if you want any shot at the White House there Slick. And you'd better take note because I'll be there on the campaign trail. We're not screwing around this time.

"We're running with the type of people in Washington who will jerk you up by the pants and shoot you full of angel dust and toss you onto the Democrat's campaign bus; then beat you about the face, feet and genitals with a whiffleball bat after cutting off the tips of your thumbs. Then they'll stuff your swollen bits into a meat grinder where they'll spray the newly created man-sausage with Mace; not for further pain & suffering, but for effect alone. So you better get on the phone to monkeyboy, got it?!"

Right at that moment, the power went out, so I returned to my book, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's Better Than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie (1995).

Good ol' Jeb really knew where to hit me for my idle threats. It suddenly dawned on me that they must have the place bugged, so I called back and thanked Jeb (seriously) for taking a stand with education earlier this year, and vetoing the "Academic Bill of Rights," which would limit a professor's power in creating curriculum and in the classroom. So thanks for taking care of education. See ya' on the bus in '08, Bubba.

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