YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO SHUT THE BEACHES DOWN!

It's the hottest rumor going around Pensacola  and Perdido Key since Gene Valentino wanted to start up a combination bingo parlor - full naked body massage - strip club - rub and tug - on the grounds where the Sports Tavern now stands. The sneaky fucker almost pulled it off. It had broken ground before the rest of the County even heard about it.

The Coconut Telegraph is hotter than the gates of hell with the info that the Commissar of Perdido Key was summoned to the main chambers deep down in the bowels of the Escambia County Supply Closet - it's like the war room where President Obama watched Bin Laden get smoked only without any of the cool factor...including the occupants. 

The message was clear. The Mayor and the other Commissioners were contemplating shutting the beaches down for the 4th of July! 

The fucking pandemic has hit Florida and Escambia County with a vengeance! It's reported that there are only nine ICU beds left in the area.

floridacovidaction.com

(The only reliable site for COVID-19 numbers in Florida. It's run by the lady who was fired by DeSantis when she refused to cook the books.)

Residents of Perdido Key were alerted to the fact that Commissar had been summoned by the fact that a Sheriff's office prowler - rarely seen on the Key so it attracted a lot of attention - drove to the Commissar's estate and escorted him with lights a flashing to the underground lair.

He was sweating with rage when he barged into the chambers. "Bullshit will those beaches close! All the tourists who were going to the beaches down south that are now closed will be heading up here! This will be the biggest 4th of July in Escambia Country history! And you can take it from me, the Commissar of Perdido Key. I tell it like I see it and I shoot from the hip!"

"You stupid sons of bitches leave it to me! I've got the reins on this crazy stallion! And I'm riding her home."

A lowly Commissioner meekly raised his hand. "Commissar, isn't a stallion a m..."

"Shut up, heathen! I'm in charge of this goddamn ship now!"

"First I must send a message to my people."

"Then I have to find the right man to run the operation." 

"My pull with the Religious Right will help with getting the social distancing message out at no cost to us. They can post this bullshit on all their message boards. Let's them know were concerned about them."

"My ties with the military will help shitloads. People get all patriotic and shit when the 4th of July rolls around. We'll billboard these son of a bitches all over town."

"Somebody get some kind of music promoter on the horn. Rap, Bap, Rock, whatever the kids call it these days. We'll put on a concert!"

"Fireworks up the ass!"

"I've got social distancing plan and signs being designed by some top notch interns for the beaches and other areas around town."

"What the hell is with the kangaroos, Commissar?"

"We have kangaroos bouncing their asses all over Perdido Key! It was part of my Master Environmental Plan to "Aussie Up Perdido Key". Jesus Christ! Don't you remember anything."

"But some of the local people don't want the tourists coming here and spreading the virus."

"To hell with them," the Commissioner spat on the floor.

"We'll harass them."

(Message posted from the first beach opening which was retreaded by the Commissar.)

"We'll encourage snitching."

"I'll have their asses arrested if I have to."

"We have a chance to attract the highest quality, biggest spending group of tourists in decades."

"We're going to have one hell of a 4th you chickenshit bastards!

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MAHALO

FITI

WILL COVID-19 SHUT DOWN THE GREAT TRUMP "FREEDOM" BOAT PARADE ON JULY/5/2020

Three sheets to the wind or just plain shitfaced would be the way to describe my condition when I wandered into the the Lost Key Beach Club to have lunch with the Captain at precisely "1200 hours, shitbird," as the Captain had barked into the phone yesterday morning.

I had been partying with Winnebago Wallace and instead of a "beer and a joint" goodbye it had turned into two cases of brew and half an ounce of Cambodian Red. I was still blotto and passed out when Wally fired up the Winnebago and told me to get my ass out of his RV - he had rubber to burn and miles to go.

I had staggered out of his RV and walked up to my condo and immediately started hitting the hair of the dog that bit me. Grey Goose screwdrivers and black Afghan Hash. I was well into my third drink when the Captain had rang and ordered me to lunch. Slamming down the screwdriver - I shit, showered, and shaved and headed for the "Club" as the Captain referred to it. 

The Captain was in his usual attire...pink Nike golf shirt, tan shorts, loafers with no socks, and his noggin was topped off with a jaunty Captain's hat. He's so tan that his skin looks like an old leather shoe left out in the Florida sun for a year or so.

I sat down and ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a double screwdriver...hoping to hell that I wouldn't regurgitate the sandwich. I had just enough time to light a smoke and take a pull off my Russian potato whiskey when the Captain started in.

"Boy, you look like shit!"

"Thanks, Captain." I don't know if he was really a Navy Captain, Merchant Marine, or what - because he never told me. But he had major pull in the Florida Panhandle and visited NAS Pensacola and Corry Station frequently when the government held certain kinds of "seminars. He was some kind of government spook. I just left it at that.

He definitely knew who I was though the minute I driven onto the Key from Mexico. Within days he had sat down next to me at the Jellyfish while I was pulling a cork and had warned me to watch myself and that there was a good chance that I might bump into someone who I had dealings with years ago.

He had slammed his shot of Jack and walked out the door without another word. Then surprisingly, within a month I was a frequent invite to have lunch at the Club or go deep sea fishing on his boat he kept moored down at Harbor Marina. I think he missed the life and enjoyed my stories of running security for the Cartel biker gang before things got real ugly.

And he often called when he had some info to pass on.

"Who were you drinking with?"

"Winnebago Wallace. He's heading for Wyoming to escape the virus."

He snorted. "That fucking vagabond? I certainly hoped you deloused yourself before you headed over."

Gulping down the screwdriver, I signaled for an encore.

He leaned over the table and whispered even though there wasn't hardly a soul in the place.

"I went to Cheetah's last night. Got a lap dance and she was so goddamn hot I shot my wad in my pants."

"You invited me here to tell me about that?"

"Sure! You wouldn't believe how hot she was. But I had something else to let you in on. You know that little blog you've been writing? Well I was at this meeting and I overheard that the Commissar of Perdido Key wants to find out who you are."

"The Commissar can go shit in his hat for all I care."

"Never the less. He's crapping in his skivvies about Escambia spiking when he said the virus was no worse than the flu. Then the bars closed and now he's worried about the beaches shutting down and the Trump Boat Parade getting canceled."

"Must be tough living in the Sanctuary on River Road. What was that last thing? A Trump Parade?"

"There's this idiotic Trump Boat Parade a group of brain dead locals are putting on the day after the 4th and the Commissar thinks that will be a huuuggge morale booster around here and he doesn't want COVID-19 shutting it down. Or anyone giving it a bad look or calling attention to it because of the pandemic.....such as yourself."

"What the shit is the whole purpose behind this Rally?"

"Really it's just a bunch of right wing dipshits drinking Budweiser and flying Trump flags driving around in the ship channel acting like Stepford Wives on meth and Busch."

 

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"But they've become a big propaganda tool for Trump. They don't cost him a thing. The bleach drinkers call them Trumptillas! And there will be Trump souvenir vendors all over the fucking place. Marinas...beach bars...and that means cash. And palms that want to be greased. So you might want to back off for a while." He leaned back with his palms up, "But I really don't give a shit. You do whatever you want."

"Sure, Captain. No problem."

THERE'S GOING TO BE MORE THAN BULLSHIT SHIRTS AND MAGA HATS AT THIS SHINDIG

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BUT THEN AGAIN, MAYBE NOT, BECAUSE SOMEONE IN CHARGE MAY HAVE TO GROW SOME BALLS!

Mahalo

fiksie

FLORIDA IS NOW ONE BIG CHATTAHOOCHEE INSANE ASYLUM

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

DOES FLORIDA AND THE COMMISSAR OF PERDIDO KEY HAVE A DEATH WISH?

Grade A badass Charles Bronson in Death Wish - definitely not to be confused with the Commissar.

This will be the 15th article since I've started this blog and it's had over 1 million hits worldwide (if Trump can inflate the hell out of the numbers, why can't I for my simple blog)!

I've already received several personal messages from some of the readers. So let's share:

Q:

Mr. Goatlips,

I've enjoyed your articles but they really don't provide much information for people coming in on vacation. Maybe you could recommend restaraunts, dolphin watching cruises, Jet-Ski rentals, and other fun stuff.

Karen

A:

KAREN, GET FUCKING REAL GO VACATION IN GODDAMN IOWA!

Q:

Shitbird, Im gonna fine your ass and pull yur nutz off with my ma's big chevy truck.

A:

My nuts got shot off in the war, shitbird! But take a look at this, farmboy Don't you miss home?               

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Q:

Mr. Goatlips,

I find both your articles and your language filthy and very offensive. Don't you know that people who want to come to the Jewel of the Gulf Coast want good positive information. Get your house in order, Buster Brown!

Der Commissar

A:

BITE A FART!

Q:

Goatlips,

You rock, man! Your articles are fucking cool as shit. You're cool as the other side of the pillow.

Biff

A:

I know.

Q:

Hey Goat,

Do any of your contacts think that the Commissar is a failed leftover product of the CIA's mind control program. If, so can they remove the micro-chip they implanted?

Name withheld by request

A:

I SIGNED AN AGREEMENT SO ANY INFO  ON THAT SUBJECT THAT I CAN  PROVIDE IS LIMITED BUT SINCE THAT PROGRAM WAS HEAVY ON THE USE OF LSD, YOU WOULD NOT WANT TO BE WITH THIS GUY WHEN HE'S TRIPPING! SO IF HE WAS A SUBJECT, THEY PROBABLY KICKED HIS ASS OUT OF THE PROGRAM. THANKS FOR THE MESSAGE!

GOAT

Q:

Mr. Goatlips,

Does the Commissar have a death wish for his constituents by acting like COVID-19 is a Democratic conspirary to destroy not only tourism and America and for which it stands?

Chiquita

A:

CHIQUITA,

AFTER A QUICK SEARCH, THE COMMISSAR HAS BEEN QUIET LATELY - WHICH IS STRANGE SINCE HE LOVES SOCIAL MEDIA - AS THE VIRUS SWARMED OVER FLORIDA. THIS WAS HIS FATHER DAY'S POST:

It's sweet how he shits all over divorced fathers who don't live with their kids but have active roles in their lives.

Then out of the blue, testerone pulsing through his veins, the Commissar must speak!

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And today's breaking news

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SO CHIQUITA, YOU'LL HAVE TO MAKE UP YOUR OWN MIND ON THAT ISSUE.

And Escambia County will, too!

MAHALO

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