Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: hurricane irma

Notes From The Wayside

Alabam’ don’t give a damn.

And neither does Cupertino. Let no hurricane put its chocks in forward progress, no. The new Apple X-Gonna-Take-It-From-Ya featuring SUPEREYES technology was announced today: O, happy day, Enthusiasts. No headphone jack or TouchHump® tech for this one, just a proprietary IV stick that collects your DNA straight from your brachiocephalic and unlocks the new OS, which is laden with features you’ve never imagined, or wanted, or will ever use.

The emojis fucking move, man.

Apple promises that your DNA will remain secret right up until the second their lobbyists get Congress to make it legal to sell.

Don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.

And if you can’t trust Cinderella’s Tom Keifer, then who can you trust? I think that sentiment is in the Bible, too, but the Bible has absolutely no guitar solos, and is therefore untrustworthy. (There’s a horn player who can really blow in one of the stories, but fuck jazz.)

No electricity means no air conditioning and no refrigeration. The food has already rotted and soon the walls and carpeting will, too; it’s as if humans weren’t supposed to live here. We won’t soon, no matter if the power comes back on or not. The traffic lights are randomly working–two on and then one off and then three on and two off–and so I creep through the intersections while every shithead around me plays on Facebook and speeds past me.

Everything is not abnormal, though: the cops still have black kids handcuffed and sitting on the curb on the Main Drag. Nice of them to keep up appearances. I’m still getting calls offering to reduce the fees on my credit cards.

“Which card?” I ask.

“Whichever,” they respond.

I got a pocketful of quarters
And I’m heading to the arcade.

The shutters have been drawn back, mostly. There are several kinds:

  • Rolldowns, for the businesses.
  • Sliders for the rich folks that meet in the middle of the window and lock KAHCHUMP with just a flick of the wrist.
  • Aluminum slats that store in the bedroom closets of poor folks.

My mother has sliders. I have slats. She has power. I do not. I am sitting in a bar called Elmo’s There are white women in tube tops and black women in their daytime wigs. One of those new-fashioned jukeboxes that look like massive smart phones and cost a buck for two songs. No matter where you sit, you can watch ex-jocks discuss the Broncos’ win. Two Golden Tee machines with the trackballs that go SHWISH.

Pac-Man, too.

To my left is an art school girl with a tattoo of a rose on her thigh. It is half-colored in; she is saving up to finish it. She has a sketchbook and a bottle of Beck’s, and she is practicing drawing eyeballs. I am the only in the room wearing his baseball cap the proper way; everyone else has theirs on backwards.

Linkin Park? Avenged Sevenfold? Hoobastank? Jesus, are they playing Hoobastank? They are playing the music you would expect a bar in Florida to be playing at 3:45 in the afternoon. I have my earbuds halfway into my brain and 10/19/73 blaring.

When the waitress wipes down the table, I can see down her tank top. She brings me a Heineken and asks me if everything’s all right.

I take my earbuds out to be polite.

“Ehhhh,” I say.

She laughs as though I had told a joke.

I think about hitting on the art school girl. My week’s ruined, why not hers?

Treat me like a fool…

Florida Power & Light keeps texting me.

“Avoid downed power lines, especially the ones jerking around and spitting sparks.”

“Flood water is not potable.”

“Don’t run generators indoors.”

I’m beginning to think Florida Power & Light has a low opinion of my intelligence.

I do not sniff the coke,
I only smoke the sensemilla.

There may be no easier game than “Spot the coke dealer” in a Florida bar. He’s chewing on a swizzle stick and has his hat on backwards and looks like Justin Timberlake.

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette.

You can still smoke in bars in Florida because of course you can still smoke in bars in Florida. This is the kind of place where the waitress brings you your drinks with a butt dangling from their mouth.

Gabba gabba
We accept you
We accept you
One of us.

I have turned my hat around backwards, ordered chicken wings, pre-ordered my iPhone X-Gonne-Take-It-From-Ya, removed my trousers and put on shorts, tongue-kissed the downed power lines. I am Florida Man, yes I am, and me and the gators are gonna figure out this four-way stop sign and blast Nickelback until the jewels fall out of our assholes.

I am assuming alligators have assholes.

Hurricane Irma Rumor Control

With the approach of Hurricane Irma, we are reminded again: no matter how bad nature is, people are worse. Lies and misinformation–yes, Enthusiasts, the dreaded fake news–have become so rampant that FEMA has found it necessary to issue a press release affirming or denying the rumors going around South Florida.

But, in case you don’t want to click on a government website for fear of getting deported, TotD has summarized the findings for you.


There are reports that Hurricane Irma will be granting super-powers to anyone standing directly in its path. This rumor is FALSE.

Hurricanes are not mutated spiders, nor secret corporate programs, nor radioactive waste. While there are many ways to acquire abilities far beyond the normal reckoning of mere mortals, hurricanes are not one.


Hurricane Irma has NOT dropped a guest verse on the new Beyoncé record; in fact, FEMA has confirmed with several music industry insiders that Beyoncé will not be releasing any new music until at least summer of 2018. This rumor is FALSE.


An article circulating online that states no pets will be allowed in shelters is FALSE. Emergency shelters are required by law to accommodate pets and service animals.

However, as this is Florida we’re dealing with, let’s make one thing clear: PETS. Normal human pets. Dogs, cats, birds. Properly caged lizards. You WILL NOT be permitted to bring in your alligator, ostrich, or the lion you bought from the drug dealer down the street. Similarly, sex gimps are NOT classified as pets under the law.


As Mr. Limbaugh was claiming that Hurricane Irma was a hoax several days ago and just flew out on his private plane this morning, he is a figurative sack of shit. As his opiate addiction has likely left him incapable of voiding his muffin-filled intestines, he is a literal sack of shit. This rumor is TRUE.


We have been receiving calls about fraudulent FBI agents knocking on doors in South Florida.

Several things about this one:

  1. FBI does NOT stand for Female Body Inspector, regardless of what the supposed agent’s tee-shirt says.
  2. If FBI did stand for Female Body Inspector, than it would still be a government agency and therefore the agents wouldn’t be wearing a tee-shirt.
  3. Let alone the flip-flops and mesh shorts.


This rumor is TRUE. There are going to be draculas all over the fucking place. Something about hurricanes attracts them; no one knows why. DO NOT INVITE THEM INTO YOUR HOME. Just show them your female body and shut the door.

Don’t Worry ‘Bout Me, No

Fillmore South is under Lake Okeechobee. The inset with Highway 27 colored in purple? I’m under there. So safe, apparently, that the state of Florida didn’t even see fit to include me on their emergency map. If you can’t trust the state of Florida…

My home is neither manufactured nor mobile; it was built and does not move even a tiny little bit. They build with concrete down here, now, and the roofs are strapped to frame. Construction companies rarely cut corners…

The shutters are metal, and I’ll put them up tomorrow. I never fuck up manual labor…

There is water–a closet’s full, and the bathtub will be, too–and meat in the freezer. Propane to cook it with. Cans of tuna and stringbeans in the pantry. Fans and batteries and chargers for the devices. There is gas in the car. Cash in hand. I’m sure I’ve forgotten nothing…

What could possibly go–


Yeah, probably not.

No more probablies anywhere around here, buddy.

Hurricane Supply Checklist


  • 6.35 drams per kilogram per person per fortnight, 4/5ths that if the person is abnormally short or just not thirsty.
  • Gallon a day for asshole-cleaning.
  • Gallon a day for pets, unless they are living cactuses.


  • Stop.
  • Preparate and listen.
  • Irma’s back and she’ll mast up your mizzen.
  • Word to your mother.


  • 14 years worth of canned food.
  • At least a case of Magic Shell.
  • Shitload of chutney.
  • Ten boxes of dry cereal, but not Rice Krispies because no one needs that “Snap, crackle, and pop” bullshit when your roof’s caving in.
  • Powdered soup.
  • Milk dumplings.
  • “Steak.”
  • Sunflower seeds. (Minor league baseball teams only.)
  • Long pig.
  • Six (6) erotic cakes.
  • Avocado toast, if you’re a wasteful Millennial.


  • If at least two bedrooms in your home aren’t completely filled with D batteries, you’re gonna fucking die.
  • Flashlight.
  • Fleshlight.
  • Candles. (Jesus candles are preferable.)
  • Melee weaponry.
  • Ranged weaponry.
  • Solar-powered nightlight.
  • Tarps, unless you are sheltering at a Phish concert.
  • Duct tape.
  • Duck tape.
  • At least twelve (12) op-eds from regretful Trump voters.
  • Fire extinguisher.
  • Fire distinguisher. (“Yup, that’s a fire. Very easy to distinguish. The heat and the crackling noises give it away.”)
  • Allen wrenches in case the hurricane drops an Ikea on you.
  • Work gloves.
  • Opera gloves.
  • G. Love and Special Sauce.
  • Rope.
  • Soap.
  • Dope.
  • As much toilet paper as you think you’ll need, times two.

Irma God

“Oh, hi there!”

Ah, fuck.

“Language, young man. My gosh, look at you! Such a skinny minny. Let me fix you something.”

That’s okay.

“It’s no bother. How’s your brother? His leg work yet?”

Irma, please stop acting like a Midwestern mom.

“They named me Irma, I’m gonna act like an Irma. You want Jello?”

What color?


Okay, fine.

“Cool beans. We’re gonna have so much fun on my little visit.”

You don’t have to come.

“Oh, I want to. Can’t wait. Been on the Facebook all week about the trip. I think I might do a little redecorating while I’m there.”

Isn’t there anywhere else you’d rather go?

“Than Florida? Where could be better? That’s America’s Vacationland!”

Dammit. Well, if you must come to this swampdick of a state, could you visit Disney? Or the Keys? Anything 200 miles to the left or right of me, please?

“Oh, nooo. There’s only one thing in Florida I want to see.”

Don’t say–

“Mar-A-Lago, the Winter White House.”


“Is that close to you?”

Nah. Not that close. There’s almost two whole towns in between me and it.

“Oh, that’s super! I could stop by.”

Call first.

“You’ll hear me coming.”


“You have a good day now!”


%d bloggers like this: