Thursday, November 11, 2010

Having failed miserably

Having failed miserably in his quixotic quest to make Miami a better place the Weazel had no choice but to abandon his only refuge in the city. It was a shame, for as hovels go it was really quite nice. Here is the entrance to the hobbit hole.

The plan had been to create a lovely pool for impoverished inner city residents so that they might learn how to swim. Many species of primates are very poor swimmers so broad rivers have isolated populations on either side which has in turn lead to speciation.


Tropical river


Geographical isolation leads to inbreeding depression and a lack of civic zeal. Despite our knowledge of the ecological importance of habitat connectivity and modern infrastructural advances such as bridges across the Miami river gaps remain between breeding populations. Thus it is highly unusual for a habitue of Hialeah to mate with a primate from Pinecrest, or for an inhabitant from Overtown to cross over the Arthur Godfrey causeway to mate with a metrosexual from Miami Beach.

How can democracy exist without broad consensus? Thus, the larger goal was to bring civilization to the dark heart of Miami.

But what would make me think that a place reared by Republicans (in the anal sense) could somehow be civilized? Is Rubio not ascendant? The entire plan collapsed due to bureaucratic ineptitude, so that was the end of that along with my bank account.

It was time to quit dreaming and to get on with the program, so I tried to join the hordes of homeless under the I-95 overpass but all the spaces were full of registered sex offenders who could find no other place sufficiently distant from a church or school.

Then I thought of Jimbo's where the sand flies welcome all and sundry even during the day and where the nights are a living hell. There I met an old fisherman named Jamaican Paul who was well practiced in the arts of degeneracy.

He and the other homeless who live at Jimbo's are quite literally starving. They begged me for food but I had none. They would have eaten the bait shrimp but there weren't any ever since the government turned off the electricity and the shrimp all rotted. Jimbo still wouldn't leave so they burned his trailer. The gubmint agents were dismayed that he escaped with only minor injuries because the deal is that he can squat on the spoil bank until he dies, and at 89 he shows no sign of dying.

Once Jimbo is gone the ongoing art experiment will finally end, bulldozers will eradicate every trace, and the planners will design a "nice family friendly place that everyone can enjoy".

It occurred to me that if I were to practice some sort of perversion then I might become eligible for space underneath the interstate so I looked around for a nice all American family to molest.

The mother fought furiously to defend her child, so I had no choice but to bludgeon them all with a sledgehammer.

I thought this wanton act of senseless violence would endear me to the other homeless, but unlike the poor perverts beneath the interstate the outcasts at Jimbo's have a curious sense of morality not unlike those in prison who often violate the civil rights of innocent child molesters.

To my dismay, instead of giving me the last of their stale potato chips they turned on me like an Al Qaeda sleeper cell who discovered a dirty Jew in their midst.

After a summary trial I was sentenced to die by decapitation.

It would have been the end, but Allah's mercy be upon me there was no electricity for the carving knife!

I thought I was saved but then they decided to hang me instead.

As they left me hanging I could hear them muttering about the sand flies and urging each other to finish me off so that they could crawl into their holes in the mud bank for the night then plug up the entrances to keep out the vermin.

I don't know how much time passed, but I awoke to discover that the rope had broken and I had somehow survived. Crabs and raccoons had gathered around waiting for my final twitch, eager to devour my flesh before the gulls came at daylight, so I ripped the rope from my throat and fled blindly into the night.

When dawn finally came I was lost and alone in a vast pine savannah that extended featureless in all directions.

I walked for many miles until I was ready to drop, then reached a secluded cove and there was captured by a band of pirates who took me to their hidden lair in New Port Royal.

Unlike the others they didn't care if I was a pervert provided that I could party!

Everyone was there, even Michael Jackson!

The pirates were engaged in white slavery, a form of negotiable booty of which I fully approved.

Despite their harem of hot white honeys the pirates personally preferred the old ways, which is to say "Take your turn over the barrel Matey!" So it was that the pole dancers were toothless old homo hags.

Toothlessness is a great virtue aboard ship and will get you extra cigarettes.

Here they are dividing up the meager loot like baboons scavenging for grubs in the leaf litter.

Someone slipped something into my drink and I began to have strange visions of amorous octopi slipping their slimy tentacles into the private parts of Mermaids, searching for the urogenital orifice that so many sailors have sought in vain!

I shudder to think of the offspring! Perhaps they will look something like this?

Eventually I escaped and made my way home to live in destitution but the visions are still with me, chicks with dicks, toothless pole dancers, and the ghastly offspring of cephalopods and sirenids.

Momma told me not to come. Perhaps I should have listened and gone to school and gotten a job instead, found a chubby wife and had a happy life, but now it is much much too late and I have no choice but to live out my fate.

The Woeful Weazel


  1. That's a great shot of Tom and Ms Fishnet scrabbling for money in the streets. The real story is even better than the storyline.

  2. Miz Fishnet was fun!

  3. But not as much fun as I might have wished!