Trick Or Treating In Sarasota; It's.........Different

Because of the "mature" demographics of Sarasota, Halloween is celebrated a little differently.

Differently, as in (if you ARE a trick-or-treater):

• Even in your costume, everybody knows who you are because you forgot to take your name tag off your walker,


• Trick or treating starts at 6:00 PM and lasts until 6:15 PM,


• You get out of breath just walking up the sidewalk,


• You pass on any houses with a step up to the door,


• Someone drops a candy bar in your sack and you lose your balance,


• Someone says "Great Scrooge mask" and you aren't wearing a mask,


• When the door opens, you say "Trick or..............Trick or...........ahhh, forget it",


• You get lost and you've only gone next door,


• You knock on the door of your own house and get mad when no one answers,


• Your buy your costume in a larger size to fit over your Depends,


• You wonder why they don't make high-fiber candy,


• You tell everybody your costume is Hopalong Cassidy and nobody knows who that is,


• You think dressing up like an Eskimo would be a great costume until you have heat stroke,


• Your costume gets soaked with your drool,


• You faintly remember the good old days when your kids would do all the hard work of trick or treating and you just stole their candy, telling them they would thank you later because candy was bad for them.

Or, differently, as in (if you ARE NOT the trick-or-treater):

You have a smug sense of satisfaction when no kids come to your door on Halloween because:

• You've worked hard to cement your reputation as the meanest man in your gated community,


• You're glad there are no kids living in your gated community,


• Your constant harassment of your homeowner's association has resulted in their banning of trick or treating in your gated community,


• Standing at your front door cradling a shotgun (which you are entitled to do by the 2nd Amendment of the Constitution of these United States of America, by God) intimidates any would-be trick-or-treaters in your gated community,


• Your fight with your homeowner's association to keep your three pit bulls has paid off, even though the covenants clearly state "No Pets" in your gated community,


• Your ex-wife's restraining order against you precludes her from bringing your grandchildren over to trick or treat at your house in your gated community,


• You faintly remember the good old days when your kids would do all the hard work of trick or treating and you just stole their candy, telling them they would thank you later because candy was bad for them.

"You little punks! I never went around begging for candy when I was your age. I worked in the steel mills when I was 12 so I could buy my own damn candy."

Yes, Virginia, There Is A Great Pumpkin--AND IT'S RIGHT BEHIND YOU!!

Recently, I received this heartwarming note from little 8-year old Virginia Plumnelly of Poucher's Corner, FLA:


Dear Mr. One-Eyed,

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Great Pumpkin. Papa says, 'If you see it in on the internet, it's so.' Please tell me the truth; is there a Great Pumpkin?

Your little friend,

Virginia


Ms. Virginia Plumnelly
c/o Pete 'N Bonnie's Mobile Home Park
Double-Wide #4
Poucher's Corner, FLA

Dear VIRGINIA,

Your little friends are all on drugs. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age and by listening to their socialism-spewing pinko teachers. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, VIRGINIA, whether they be men's or children's, are little. Except for Rush Limbaugh's; there is nothing about Rush Limbaugh that's little. At least, nothing we want to talk about until you're a little older. In this great universe of ours that was created by our Judeo-Christian American God, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world as presented by Fox News, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge according to Glenn Beck.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Great Pumpkin. It exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion and tax shelters exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world of retail commerce if there were no Great Pumpkin. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance, no 180-proof pumpkin-spiced rum to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight and cheating on our income taxes. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished, like a filthy, slimy cockroach stomped on by a million angry feet.

Not believe in the Great Pumpkin! You might as well not believe in fairies! (Not that there's anything wrong with fairies.....) You might get your papa to hire illegal aliens to watch in all the pumpkin patches on Halloween to catch the Great Pumpkin, but even if they did not see the Great Pumpkin rising up out of the field, what would that prove? Nobody sees the Great Pumpkin if they're sober, but that is no sign that there is no Great Pumpkin. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? (Again, I'd like to reiterate that there is nothing wrong with practicing an alternative lifest--DANCING ON MY LAWN?? GET YOUR FAIRY ASSES THE HELL OFF MY LAWN RIGHT NOW OR I'M CALLIN' THE COPS!! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I HAVE TO PAY THOSE DAMN MEXICANS EVERY MONTH TO TAKE CARE OF MY LAWN??) Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there, much like the question: "If a fairy dances on your lawn and nobody sees it, do they leave footprints on your freshly-manicured slice of green heaven?" Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world unless you were around in the '60s.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside and then sue the manufacturer for damages when your baby brother chokes on the pieces of broken rattle, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the misguided Commie-courting Democrats that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance and the Republican Party, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else more real and abiding than the Grand Old Party!

No Great Pumpkin! Thank Linus! Thank Charles Shultz! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now when we're all DEAD, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood, but never taking away the pain and disappointment of getting apples or raisins in your trick-or-treat bag instead of a Snickers.


On a side note, VIRGINIA, there is NO Santa Claus. It's your parents who work day after day, week after week, slaving at a job they loathe just to pay the mortgage so you don't have to live in a cardboard box, pay the car payments so they can drive your sorry self to soccer and piano lessons and gymnastics, even though you are a hopeless, tone-deaf klutz and pay for the food you eat like some swarm of locusts rising up out of Hell to consume everything in its path, who buy you those over-hyped and over-priced Christmas presents that you just have to have, only to find out that they aren't so cool after all and never worked the way they did on TV, so they got shoved underneath your bed, where they will stay until you go off to college and your folks have to rent out your room just to pay your tuition and the renter turns out to be an axe murderer who tries to hide the body of his latest victim under the bed and finds your discarded toys, which greatly disturbs him because of your thoughtlessness, so he hitchhikes to your college, finds your dorm, hacks your roommate to death and IS, AT THIS VERY MOMENT, WAITING IN YOUR ROOM TO KILL YOU!!!!

Don't bother me again, you little brat......

Bombs Away On Longboat Key!

The Army Corps of Engineers have been placing half-page ads in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune recently asking locals who have any knowledge or evidence of ordnance, unexploded or otherwise, on Longboat Key to please inform them forthwith of same.

Longboat Key, popular tourist destination here on the Suncoast IF you own or rent a condo, since public beach access for the poor, huddled masses is limited to an unmarked, well-camouflaged path fringed with poison ivy that winds its way to the Gulf, sandwiched in between two large and decidedly unfriendly concrete behemoth condominium complexes. You know you've found the right spot by all the 'No Parking' signs and the idling tow truck nearby.

Back in the dark days of WWII, Longboat Key was just another relatively-uninhabited barrier island; so uninhabited, in fact, the US Army used the waters just offshore for artillery and bombing practice. Thank God the realtors finally got there and saved the island for all that Yankee money to be spent on it!

So, anyway, the Army has finally decided to start looking for any ordance that may have been left laying around on the beach or under some condo's kiddie pool.

What, only 60 years it took them to look for this stuff? I don't get it, what's the rush?

The locals who would have been old enough to remember any of this era are now well into their 80s. Luckily for the Army, that's about 90% of the population of Longboat Key.

Residents believe that the government's new-found interest in finding the lost bombs, artillery shells and K-rations (which history tells us will be much better preserved than the other military hardware), was prompted by the recent discovery of a 150-lb. bomb by two local residents, Beckley Gassaway and Kimball Mabscott.

The Army will not be able to gain much insight from the two boys, as, unfortunately, just after this photo was snapped, the boys dropped their prize. Authorities found their remains on the beach at Longboat Key.

And Siesta Key.

And Anna Maria.

Ellenton, near the Interstate.

South Bradenton.

Punta Gorda.

The Emotional Consequences Of Falling In Love With A Married Woman: A Confession

I can't believe this has happened to me.

I've been married to a wonderful woman for close to 19 years, but, at a wedding we both attended a few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to dance with a gorgeous recently-married young woman and realized that I am hopelessly head-over-heels in love with her.

I even told her so.

To my utter amazement, she said she loved me, too.


It started out so innocuously. I've known this girl for some time now and first met her, innocently enough, through my wife. Through the years, I've watched her mature into a very special woman; smart, self-assured, funny and blue eyes that branded her initials on my heart forever.

Now, I could feel my wife's eyes burning a hole in the back of my head watching the two of us dance, but it didn't matter. I almost think that everybody at the reception was watching us, but, for as long as I held her in my arms this night, we would shut out the rest of the world and our universe narrowed to become just the two of us.

I remember the first time I danced with her, appropriately at another wedding we both attended years ago. She didn't want to, but I coaxed her into it. Back then, she was just a shy girl with glasses; this time, she is a stunning beauty and I am putty in her hands as we sway to the music in the gentle evening breeze.

For that first dance together, she stood on my feet.

What makes this dance so special was that, about an hour ago, I had escorted her down the aisle and given her over to the man who was to be her new husband.

I am the father of this beautiful bride.

Technically, I am her step-father, but she's called me "Dad" ever since she was 5, when I married her mother.

We've been through the blending of families, births, deaths, birthday parties, weddings, vacations, Sat. afternoon roller-skating, zoo trips, 6th-grade choral concerts, walks in the woods, girlfriends, the slamming of doors, a keychain collection, slumber parties, homework I didn't know how to do, first dates, learning to drive, boy-band concerts, boyfriends, Christmases, moving to FLA, first jobs, baseball games, the boyfriend and now, her very own wedding.

I didn't think I would get so emotional about all of this. Sure, I got a little misty when the first notes of the Wedding March sounded our cue to start down the aisle, but I recovered and completed our solemn walk and made the handoff to the waiting groom without incident, successfully acquitting my father-of-the-bride duties at the ceremony.

But when the DJ began playing Little Miss Magic by Jimmy Buffett after calling the two of us to the dance floor, I knew I was in for it. The song, not a classic by any stretch of the imagination, was special to me because I remember singing it to her and her younger sister when they were just wee little girls. Try as I might to think about batting averages or yards-per-carry, I felt tears burn my cheeks as I held her close, this newly-married woman. She said she picked the song because it reminded her of me.

Of "us," actually.

Constantly amazed by the blades of the fan on the ceiling
The clever little glances she gives me can't help but be appealing
She loves to ride into town with the top down
Feel that warm breeze on her gentle skin
She is my next of kin

I see a little more of me everyday
I catch a little more moustache turning gray
Your mother is the only other woman for me
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?

Sometimes I catch her dreamin' and wonder where that little mind meanders
Is she strollin' along the shore or cruisin' oer the broad savannah
I know someday she'll learn to make up her own rhymes
Someday shes gonna learn how to fly
Oh, that I won't deny

I catch a little more dialogue comin my way
I see those big (blue) eyes just start to lookin' astray
Your mother's still the only other woman for me
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?

Yes, she loves to ride into town with the top down
Feel that warm breeze on her gentle skin
She is my next of kin

Constantly amazed by the blades of the fan on the ceiling
Those clever little looks she gives just cant help but be appealing
I know someday she'll learn to make up her own rhymes
One day shes gonna learn how to fly
That I won't deny

I see a little more of me everyday
I feel a little more moustache turning gray
Your mother's still the only other woman for me
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?
Little miss magic, just can't wait to see

It's raining, it's pouring
Your old man is snoring

Through my tears, I could see her mother sobbing, holding the bride's younger sister, also sobbing. Later, I found out that my wife was going to suggest this very same song for this special dance, but did not want to infringe on the God-given right of the bride to select her own songs.

That's why I love her so--she's just like her mother!

At some point during the evening, her "real" dad, her biological father, shook my hand and thanked me for "taking over for him and raising his daughters" when he and my wife got divorced and he faded in and out of their lives.


In retrospect, I should have thanked him for allowing me the opportunity.

Sarasota CSI Cracks "Knife In Sandwich" Case; Community Breathes Sigh Of Relief

A team of highly-trained investigators from the Sarasota Police Department, working relentlessly around the clock to solve the biggest mystery to hit this cosmopolitan city of big dreamers, bigger schemers and the other half of the population which is unemployed, announced today that they are close to making an arrest in the notorious "Switchblade Sandwich" case.

Utilizing state-of-the-art forensic techniques, including DNA profiling, computer-assisted crime reconstruction, metallurgical spectro-chromatic analysis and an intense grilling of colorful waterfront character, "Bayfront Bob," itinerant panhandler and well-respected police stoolie, detectives were able to piece together the shadowy circumstances surrounding this puzzling whodunit.

Police allege that the baker of the bun, sandwich shop worker, Lentini ("Razor Lips") Caltanissetta (photo below), who had just been released from the Florida State Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane, which is located in an undisclosed location deep in the snake-infested swamps of the Everglades, all but admitted to this heinous act.

According to the official police transcript, Caltanissetta told authorities "I wasn't paying no attention to what I was doing, was all. I learned how to bake in the joint and we used to bake stuff in our bread all the time, just for laughs, you know. Shivs, razors, hacksaws--I even baked a 14" pipe wrench in a sourdough baguette once for a guy in Cellblock C for a pack of smokes, you know. Things ain't easy in the joint unless you got friends."

"I guess I was just kinda daydreaming the other day and the knife just kinda ended up in the crusty ciabotta I was making that day. Old habits die hard is all, you know. How's come you guys are making such a big deal outta this? It's not like anybody took a bite out of it and cut off their tonsils or something. Maybe the lady can sell my sandwich on eBay or something, maybe make a few bucks for herself, you know."

Detectives currently consider Mr. Caltanissetta a 'person of interest' and wish to interview him further to determine if he is eligible for the SPD's $400 waiver-signing program. He was reportedly last seen attempting to hitchhike on southbound I-75 near the Fruitville Road interchange, where his was picked up by a white mini-bus carrying senior citizens from the Happyvale Retirement Home.

Please call the Sarasota Police if you have information regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Caltanissetta.

Or the missing driver and eight residents of the Happyvale Retirement Home.

North Port Harvest Fair Fireworks Cancelled Due To Accident

The City of North Port's annual Harvest Festival fireworks display has been cancelled due to an untimely accident during a test shot by the pyrotechnic company that was to mount the aerial display.

Phalba "Short Fuse" Quinif, a convicted arsonist and long-time employee of the Shoot-Em Up Fireworks Co., was testing their signature"Barrel of Fire" firework when something went terribly awry. Only the cat-like reflexes and professionalism saved Quinif's life, as the "Barrel of Fire" exploded in a massive fireball, sending flaming shards of paper high into the air and onto the roof of North Port City Hall, which, unfortunately burned to the ground as the city's fire apparatus was unable to exit the fire station located next door due to the department's Chuck-A-Luck booth being set up directly in front of the garage doors.

Witnesses said that the paper that went flying in every direction as a result of the explosion appeared to be some sort of technical paper. An unidentified spokes-shooter for the fireworks company confirmed that, typically, they collect all the safety manuals that they receive from the firework manufacturers and use them for wadding for the "Barrel of Fire" display.

"As a result of this unfortunate turn of events," he said, "we may re-examine that practice."

Soupy Sales Takes His Final Pie, Toxicology Results Indicate Banana Cream

Beloved entertainer and patron saint of pie lovers everywhere, Soupy Sales, died this past week in a New York City medical facility. Mr. Sales was 83. He is survived by his loyal and faithful companion, White Fang, and was predeceased by his other co-stars, Black Tooth and Pookie. Pookie had left the show in 1987 due to an uncontrolled cocaine addiction and the two never reunited before Pookie's death in 1994 from an overdose.

Sales had been in ill health recently and authorities have suspected foul play. When Sales first began experiencing health problems, police initially drew correlations between this case and the 2006 poisoning of Col. Alexander Litvinenko, a former KGB agent in London. Litvinenko was deliberately contaminated with radioactive polonium-210 by person or persons unknown and the symptoms of both men were remarkably similar.

Adding to the incidental evidence was the revelation that another children's television icon, Fred Rogers, worked with Mr. Sales in a secret branch of the American CIA following their stints in Special Ops during the Vietnam War and used their entertainment connections to travel the world in relative freedom. Just before Rogers' death in early 2003, it was learned that Litvinenko had passed information to Sales and Rogers regarding a secret recipe for-------------banana cream pie.