When my parents retired, they moved down to sunny Florida, like the rest of their ilk. If you've ever seen an episode of Seinfeld dealing with the retirement community that Jerry's parents live in, you've essentially met my folks, and visited them in their Florida home.
Which is more than I usually do. In the 12-or-so years they've been there, I've visited them... um... probably between 3 and 5 times. So that would be four. Four times. Let's just say four times.
It's not that I don't like visiting my folks. They're perfectly lovely people who are always quite nice to me, with the joy and the love and the thing.
And they feed me like I'm on my way to the electric chair.
But I don't get down to Florida much, mostly because... well... it's fuckin' Florida! The place just kinda gives me the willies. It's the kind of place where a 37 year old school teacher will be arrested for having sex with a 13-year-old boy in her class, who also happens to be her nephew.
But then, every once in a while, something happens in Florida that almost makes me want to go there more often. Like this.
I don't know what's funnier, the crime or the poor victim's name. Now, I'm not usually one to make fun of someone for something like his family name. Obviously, the guy had very little to do with it (unless you believe, as some do, that the soul chooses the earthly circumstances it will be born into shortly before birth). But I'm making an exception in this case because, well, just because.