I've been saying it for years. It's not even a remotely new sentiment; I said it so much when I lived there that people who have read this blog since its beginning, back in 2004, got weary of hearing it, and that was one of the main reasons they were happy when I at last upped and moved the hell away from the Cradle of Naval Aviation, the City of Five to Seven Flags, the reddest inflamed part of the taint that holds the cock of Florida onto the contiguous USA. "Maybe now he'll shut up," they said, not really believing that I would ever let go of a bone this tasty and that I went to the trouble of hiding under the big elm out in the backyard.
Okay: the beach is alright sometimes. It can stay. But it's just sand at the place where the land meets the water, so don't romanticize it, okay? And some of the seafood places, they can maybe stay. It's really just the people, the structure, the local government, the weather and everything else that has to go. Particularly, in this case, a Reagan-nominated conservative federal judge (shown here illegally picking and eating wildflowers) with a wild hair making his bench-sitting uncomfortable, and who apparently thinks that Obama's healthcare bill is flat unconstitutional, like the American government getting in your face over the dinner table and forcing you to eat broccoli.
I'mna try to suck it up, though, since I have to go back there in a couple of weeks for what should be a lovely wedding, apparently the only reason I will cross the Florida state line at this point. All I'm saying is this: if someone had turned P'cola into a smoking crater back when I wanted to, we wouldn't have had this moron trying to inject himself into the process and talking about vegetables. And, the sand would all be smooth and melty glass from the firebombing. Pretty, no?