Muddy Waters

My Google Mercenaries paid me a nasty visit this week. They said that their numbers reflected a strong negative vibe from my last string of posts. People hate politics, they claimed, especially people in the Southwest. What happened to the power-boats, the jokes about Gary Busey and the sly insights about the movements of deadly rapid Panthers?

Plus they told me of a small group of radical feminists that were none to pleased with my portrayal of them. I tried to explain my theory on the modern state of said group, but to no avail. These men are number crunchers, cruel highly-armed readers of the pulse who have no time for theorem and speculation. They want results, or at the very least violence.

"Tell more jokes", they said.

"About what? People need to know about the struggle in the Democratic Party and Duncan Hunter's sadistic plans to implant egg-rolls with Bibles", I said.

"No, the people want jokes."

"But they'll be offensive."

"As long as the jokes aren't offensive to feminists".

"But I don't know any jokes that aren't offensive to feminists".

At this one of the Mercenaries grinned and reached deep into his heavy silk vest. He was surrounded by two other ominous figures, both in dark Siberian suits and yellow-python slacks. They we're barely blinking.

"Take this", the lead Mercenary said. And he handed me a piece of folded parchment paper. "It's a joke only told late at night on the History Channel, and those in the higher parts of the Google Oligarchy are pleased with it".

With this (and my promise to be less political) they left me unharmed. I spent the rest of the night guzzling warm margarita mix and scanning the horizon for snipers.

The note read: Why do women wear make-up and perfume? Because they're ugly and they smell like shit.

Indeed. And my past weekend was not in the least political. I spent it drinking on a dock while masterfully hunting sting-rays and fending off bottle rockets. The mass of calcium and iron inserted into my gums weeks ago has healed to a level where this debauchery is now possible. And probable.

My friend drunkenly crossed the Indian River on a kayak in the middle of the night. Originally, it looked as if I would be the one to attempt the journey, but Tim offered to try it for money. And a bet, as compared to a simple stunt, is never a contest. He made it in approximately four hours (there and back), with only a cell phone light to guide his way. By the time he'd made it to shore I was one of only three people awake at the end of the dock shooting dry clear rum and soy sauce.

Since the shoreline looks basically all the same at night (unless you know what you're shooting for, or you're not hammered), Tim was having a tough time locating us. I was communicating with him via cell phone and it seemed clear that insanity had begun to set in. His shirt was wrapped around his head and he was screaming about blue-winged vultures. We ended up locating him with crane calls and the occasional yell of Bring Me Peter Pan! This managed to not only wake every other house along the shore, but also guide him safely to our booze-filled dock.

He brought with him treasures from the mainland.

And so was the weekend. This is what happens when you're not reading the New York Times and filling your veins with the junk of our Democracy.