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Last night, I had a lovely home-cooked dinner with Mike and Patty Jo Tolbert, at their home on Stock Island. A la Patty roast pork, scalloped potatoes, collard greens, and cornbread. Wonderful fun telling stories, too, and being with people who know how to speak English correctly, as in, nothing politically correct and lots of colorful words the school board’s tight-ass Puritan censor uses as an excuse to block just about everything I post at the goodmorning websites. Cussin’ is just dang good for my soul.
Anyway, I told Mike and Patty Jo of having recently met a fellow from Nantucket, who lives on a boat at Garrison Bite when he comes down to Key West to hang out. On Nantucket he has two businesses, which sort of feed each other. Home inspection, for real estate and mortgage companies, and pest control.
He said there are three kinds of termites in Key West, subterranean, flying and an imported kind, much larger and far more destructive than the native termites.
He said there are two kinds of rats in Key West, tree rats and the bigger rats living on the ground.
I said I’d had a trailer on Little Torch Key, where there were lots of wild woods rats, and I had to go to the animal shelter and get a mouser cat to keep the rats out of the trailer. And when I had to sell my place, I gave the cat to a friend on Cudjoe Key, who said after the cat came to her home, she didn’t see any more rats around there.
I said there are people in Key West, who get rabid about getting rid of all the wild chickens – the Conch Republic’s national bird. I said the wild chicken haters have no clue what would happen to Key West, if it got rid of all those wild chickens, which eat any and every thing that creeps, crawls, hops or flies, which they can catch in their beak. Baby rats, mice, roaches, grubs, scorpions, centipedes, small lizards, small snakes. Get rid of the wild chickens and Key West will be overrun with those varmints. The fellow laughed, said, Key West pest control companies will make a lot more money than they are making now.
He said there used to be about 2,000 big, strong feral cats on Nantucket, which kept the local varmints there in check. Then some do-gooder old ladies got the notion to help those poor, big, strong feral cats, and they set out cat-feeding stations, with 100-pounds of cat food in them, and the poor, big, strong feral cats started liking that cat food a lot, and they kept coming to the feeders and the do-gooder old ladies had the cats trapped and brought in an neutered and then released back into the wild. Today, there are about 200 old, fat, good for nothing feral cats, and Nantucket is run over by varmints and his and other pest control companies are loving it.
It slipped my mind to tell the fellow from Nantucket about a spectacular young retired exotic-dancer lady friend of Mike and Patty Tolbert, who once graced a young man way below her social status and intelligence, by marrying him and giving him a new car to drive around. Then, she found out he was cheating on her and, not being terribly thrilled, she went looking for him in her new pickup truck. By and by, she spotted her car, with him in it, at a North Roosevelt Blvd shopping center parking lot. Accordingly, she made a beeline to ram him.
Momentarily graced with second sight, the dirty, low-down, rotten, no-good, cheating scoundrel looked around and saw what was about to befall him, and he jumped out of his wife’s car and ran for cover about the time she ramed her pickup truck into her car, pretty much rendering her car disabled, if not dead. The pickup fared a bit better, being bigger, and it was doing the moving and had the force with it, when it t-boned the car.
The now more brilliant than anyone could possibly have imagined dirty, rotten, low-down no-good, cheating, scoundrel whipped out his cell phone, dialed 911, and reported his wife was trying to kill him with her pickup truck. So when the law shows up, believing they are on a mission of good will and mercy, the alleged attempted murderess is happy to see them, and just as happy to answer all their questions, some of which details you read above, and furthermore including:
She rammed her own car with her own pickup truck – yeah, here are the titles and registrations for both vehicles, proving she owns the. The law, now confronted with a case of first and novel persuasion, bats not even one eye, and tells the soon to be ex-husband that they don’t see how they can arrest his wife for ramming her own pickup truck into own her car, if her soon to be ex-husband was not in her car when she rammed it with her pickup truck.
That’s the kind of stories I hear when I’m around Mike and Patty Jo Tolbert. People who know how to speak English correctly.
We also had some conversation last night about home protection. Guns. Wouldn’t be a fun idea to try to break into their trailer, if you didn’t want to end up looking like red Swiss cheese.
I said, back in the day, when I had guns, my favorite home protection was my Ithica 12-guage pump shotgun, with a 24″ barrel, which I used to hunt doves and quail, and sometime ducks. I said that’s the sweetest pump shotgun I ever touched. I kept four #3 buckshot shells in the magazine, nothing in the chamber, because I wanted to make sure, at 20 feet, I hit what I was shooting at, which I might not hit with a pistol. With #3 buckshot, and a wide spread, I couldn’t miss. I kept the shotgun leaning against the wall in my bedroom. We had a burglar alarm, too, I figured anybody stupid enough to break into our home would know pronto what that terrible sound was, when I slid the pump action and uploaded a live round. The living fear of God would be suddenly instilled into that now turning around and hightailing it reformed burglar.
Mike said he preferred the Mossberg shotgun for close work, but he was mighty fond of his .45 Glock, too. Patty Jo laid low.
Once upon a time Mike told me, that back when he and Patty Jo lived in New Orleans and Mike was being threatened with terminal harm by thugs on a side street, said thugs not having yet observed Patty Jo lurking nearby, were cured of their lack of observation when she slid the action on her AK-47 and fired a round into the ground -Patty Jo might not even weigh 90 pounds. The now suddendly born-again repentant thugs high-tailed it, giving thanks to God on High they weren’t blown to tiny red pieces of meat headed to somewhere else instead.
We also discussed last night the nature of the many neighborhood cats which hang out around Mike and Patty Jo’s place, to sashay into the trailer and help themselves to whatever morsels lying about might please a cat’s taste buds. I said that’s what cat burglars do.
One of the cats, with six or seven toes, did not escape from the Hemingway House in Key West, which, when the Hemingways lived there, had no six-toed, or any cats, contrary to modern hype designed to snag tourists into the Hemingway House, after paying the sucker-born-every-minute entry fee. The front feet of that extra-toed cat at the Tolbert’s place were dang wide enough cause me to say, “I bet that cat can slap the living shit out of just about anything she wants to slap the living shit out of.” Reverence and amens from Mike and Patty Jo.
Which just naturally caused me to mention, not entirely in passing, their young friend who had slapped the living shit out of her ex-husband with her pickup truck.
Can you imagine having such fun conversations at Key West art gallery openings, Bottlecap fundraisers, Camille’s campaign victory parties, city commission meetings, church socials, health food restaurants, wine tastings, 12-step recovery groups, heath food restaurants, candidate forums, or even during commercial breaks in Jack Flats Sports Bar?
If you are wondering what got into me, besides the devil, to tell you about all of that fun stuff, you can give Jerry Weinstock, M.D., Psychiatry, some of the credit. After reading yesterday’s romp at the now troubled www.goodmorningkeywest.com, Jerry emailed :
Sloan; on a day like today we may get more benefit from leaving the world of commerce and politics behind and using our freed up brainpower to focus on personal intimate and philosophical matters. We only live until the next horrific diagnosis—-stay well —cheers Jerry
I replied (somehow thinking I was replying to Mike and Patty Jo Tolbert’s dinner invitation):
It is —tastes good
( just devised some new fishing lures )
best regards!! Jerry
As for fishing lures, this new photo of the subject hatched on Facebook during the past few days:
Yesterday, I skimmed someand read the rest of Terminal Freeze, a novel by Lincoln Child, which I found in the Key West library.
Although the global warming unexpected release from a melting glacier immortal monster from hell story seemed to me, at least, a bit beyond any fantastical thing I might dream up, or have dreamed up for me, I felt the treatment of the Eskimo shaman was very well done. I wondered how the author pulled that off, and since the jacket copy shows he has a website, www.lincolnchild.com, I will try to find an email address and ask him.
In the old days, every tribe had a shaman, and each shaman had an apprentice in training, who would replace the shaman. The shaman stood between the tribe and the spirit realms, and was the tribe’s healer and counselor. After religions hatched, shamans in “civilized” societies became less in use, and, I suppose, were treated as heretics, angels of the devil, etc. Shamans still exist, however. They still live with one foot on this world, and one foot in the spirit realms. And they still see, hear, feel and engage forces, vibrations and spirit entities, which affect their tribe.
In the wee hours this morning, I sent an email to my father’s lawyer and widow, asking for an advance against my next inheritance. Around 8 a.m. today, www.goodmorningkeywest.com, which I’ve mostly been using to publish what the angels running me give to me to engage and report, was showing a maleware infection. While that was annoying, I can’t say was really surprised, given the spirit forces involved in what I wrote in that email. Nor was I surprised when, later this morning, the maleware infection seemed to be gone. Time will tell.