Today's Moment of Lucidity

I guess the clouds have parted a little. Today I managed to find a couple of new alligator stories. But it's a national holiday, so what are the odds that there will be new ones tomorrow? Journalists will spend the day eating soy burgers and waving their little umbrella drinks at each other and whining about how they miss Bill Clinton and they wish they were in France. They won't be writing alligator stories. I may have to hop in the car, head west, and find some of my own. But with this kind of notice, it will be impossible to find a midget to brush down with Koogle and tie to a mangrove tree. Especially if I take time to pull the usual permits.

First story: the lady who was eaten by the alligator a month or so ago turns out to have been drunk and probably really high. She was so drunk, the alligator blew a .20.

No, not really, but she came in at three times the legal threshold, and she had eaten approximately a pound of Xanax. If this had been a young man, the following words would be springing into my mind: "fraternity hazing."

I think the message here is, if you're going to pass out in Florida, try to do it indoors. Like I do. The worst thing that can happen to me is a fierce mauling by a hungry parrot.

The encouraging thing about this story is that it suggests there is hope an alligator will one day eat my sister. Unless things have changed, she's usually bombed on OxyContin, and she likes to walk her Maltese in public parks. To a gator, she's like a heavy lunch complete with an appetizer.

Second story: a ten-foot alligator was caught in an Alabama pond. At first I got all excited about this, thinking, "Another alligator thousands of miles from where alligators normally live! Think of the stupid things the local officials will say!"

Then the coffee started working and I remembered that Alabama is in the southeastern United States.

Some uptight family in a place called Pike County bitched because the gator was in its private pond, and a "professional trapper" came to get it.

I love how they use the phrase "professional trapper" all the time, like they're implying these guys know what they're doing. In reality, we all know they're a bunch of snaggle-toothed beer-bellies who show up with duct tape, Coors Light, and baling twine. And then the bystanders watch and listen while they say professional-trapper stuff. "I told you not to wear them golf shoes, Jerry Bob." "Use both hands, Billy Earl. Set your beer down if you have to"

Here's something weird. "The family requested not to be identified." That's Southerners for you. They're not sure WHY they should be ashamed of having an alligator, but they are shunning coverage until they find out. Whatever else we know about these people, we know they have money. They have a pond big enough to hold an alligator, and they are embarrassed by something completely trivial. Only affluent Southerners get embarrassed over crap like this. It is impossible to embarrass white trash, which is one reason decent Southerners hate them so much.

The amazing thing about this story is, the authorities didn't say anything egregiously stupid. They must have day jobs in the private sector. No pure government employee could make sense at a time like this. I'll quote Sergeant Jerry Jinright, Pike County area supervisor for the Alabama Department of Conservation.

Jinright advised any residents who encounter an alligator on their property to stay away from it and call the authorities quickly.

“Just call the local game warden immediately and we'll come get rid of it,” Jinright said.

This guy must have had a real job at some point. Note the contrast between him and Florida bureaucrat Willie Puz, whose gator policy was summarized thusly back in June: call the gator police "if people feel an alligator is a public safety threat, for example, if an alligator is in your garage, under your car, on your porch, in your swimming pool or if it approaches or snaps at people."

I.e., "Don't drag me away from my seventh doughnut until you see a body."

Here's more: "Jinright said that in recent days, six alligators ranging from 10 to 12 feet in length have been caught in the Eufaula area." I glean two things from that. First of all, Alabama doesn't play games with annoying gators. Being a gator in a playground in Alabama is like being a felony-murder defendant in George Bush's Texas. Get ready to fry. Literally. Second, if you think you might be even remotely appetizing, stay the hell away from Eufaula, Alabama.

Tallahassee has a gator story. This is the most exciting thing that has happened there since Jeb Bush cut the ribbon at the town's first Starbuck's, which went out of business a month later, when people realized they had no incentive to remain alert in Tallahassee. A cop saw a partially mashed gator in the road and called another cop to come get it. The story refers to the gator as "a nuisance." I would have described it more accurately as "road debris."

I'm sure I've swerved around things more dangerous than gators here in Miami and gone on my merry way. Like old Cubans in Honda Civics. Ancient Jews who knew Moses personally, in cars of sizes inversely proportional to their average height of four feet, three inches. Having seen so many of these folks, I have to wonder if cheesecake stunts your growth.

If an alligator in the road is so dangerous it has to be removed by police, why aren't they also rounding up elderly drivers? I'd face a dozen alligators before I'd sit on a bus bench in Boca Raton with my eyes closed. The other day I saw a Crown Vic with a row of twenty tiny stickers on the fender that looked like bus-benches.

Is it even legal to sell a car to a ninety-year-old man who can't see over the dashboard? Are these people driving by Braille, or what? I think Lincoln-Mercury could make a killing down here by selling a Marquis equipped with a periscope.

What if we do this: let's have a video-game developer create a driving simulator that can be projected on the inside of a windshield. Old people get in, they think they drove to the store and held up the line while they emptied their tabbed and cross-referenced file of two-cent coupons, they get out, and they take a nap.

When I inevitably go to hell, I know I'll spend it in line at Walgreen's on a Sunday night, behind coupon ninjas who shop with carts, and idiot women who buy chewing gum with personal checks.

Okay, that's your Fourth of July gator roundup. Enjoy your burgers.