I’m sure the tales are universal, not just British…
Reward! for scumbag crackhead who stole our moped!
Reward for any information and prosecution of the crackhead who stole one of our mopeds on Christmas night. Yes, Christmas night, you scumbag! I hope you had a grand time cutting off the industrial strength chain around the rear tire. The man we bought the bike from tried to cut it with a torch for 45 minutes before giving up.
I hope this was a snatch and grab and you don’t come back for the other moped. We’re paranoid now and keep moving it to a “safer” location, but I guess if you want it bad enough, you and you buddy will return and lift it into the back of your pickup.
I’m offering a reward, the amount of which is random. I’ll be posting it on Craigslist for your friends to see. If they’re crackheads like you, the price will be more attractive than that of your friendship. If they’re half-way decent people, their curiosity about where you got a new bike will be amply rewarded. And if someone was stupid enough to buy it from you without paperwork, then God help the Empire.
Have a wonderful 2013, you worthless, filthy animal. May you get what you deserve.by
The Road to Hawaii, or how we sold (almost) everything, quit our jobs and moved to Oahu, as told by one family who is experiencing the journey.
Mike the Honey Guy, and no, it’s not a euphemism.
This morning, I was flipping through my digital cookbook (www.shopnsave.com, amazing. You can copy and paste recipes from magazine websites, sort by ingredients, create your own categories. I digress). Honey seemed to be an ingredient in most of the recipes I wanted to make. So far, honey has been off our grocery list as $5.00 for a little honey bear bottle seemed a little steep.
The next best thing? Do a Yahoo search for local farmer’s markets. My first stop was a nearby honey farm site that seemed to suit my needs. It sold honey from mangoes and papayas and bananas and all things tropical. But why, I asked myself, have it shipped to me when everything in Oahu is so close (distance not traffic). I emailed the owner and asked if they sold their wares at any markets, grocery stores, surf shops, etc.
Less than a half hour later, my phone rang (set to Big Ben’s chimes) and Mike, the Honey Guy, was there to answer all my questions and give me the lowdown on the honey industry in Hawaii. Apparently, it’s controlled by a
drug honey cartel, which decides who and who won’t sell at said markets. Mike gave me waaaayy too much information on the benefits of honey and how others mistreat it. For example, leaving it in the hot sun, where it can heat to over 100 degrees, destroys something important and you’ll get instant diabetes. At least, that’s what I thought he said.
We decided to meet in a nearby town at a drug
drop store at 6:30. I don’t know, but I think I’ve lost a gigajillion brain cells since moving. It never occurred to me to ask for a description of Mike. He’d be the guy with the drugs honey, right?
Six o’clock rolls around, and Aaron absconds with the car to escort Holli home from work. It’s been raining all day, and the roads are slippery. They slide home at 6:13, and Luke and I hit the road to the drug
drop store. Every light is red. Have I mentioned every single intersection has four lanes of traffic with separate left turn lanes and it takes five minutes for your turn? (I exaggerate) (not by much).
At 6:30 on the dot, we squeal into the drug
drop store parking lot. Luke circles around like he’s on a cattle drive while I look for a man selling drugs honey out of the back seat of a seedy looking van. This is starting to sound like a mugging waiting to happen.
No Mike. We hang around for a couple of minutes then Luke spots a guy sitting at a booth/picnic table (on the sidewalk?) and walks up to him.
“Are you the
drug honey man?”
“Are you Mike? Do you have
“No, that’s not me. I’m a contract worker.”
“So you don’t have
Meanwhile, it’s still raining, and I’m trying to call Mike from the number I thought I’d programmed into my phone. No such number exists. I’m sure we’re going to be mugged, or Mike has some secret reverse phone number technology and is robbing our apartment while we’re getting drenched.
Finally, I figure out that I’d transposed two digits. I read off the correct number and Luke calls him.
“Mike, hey, we’re at the drug
drop store, and we’re waiting for you. Oh? Yeah. Okay. No, why don’t you call us when it’s convenient.? No, I don’t think we can swing by your house (it was pitch black by now) Yeah, sorry to hear about your dad. We’ll do this later.”
“His dad died.”
WTF? HIS. DAD. DIED. What kind of flim-flam joint is he running? I guess, when your dad dies, taking care of business tends to jump to the bottom of the priority list. It happens.
We went home in the rain. Without
drugs honey. I have a feeling I’ll have to change my phone number and email address. Mike will stalk me until I buy his drugs honey. I’ll be obligated to him for life for my drugs honey supply.
Sorry for your loss, Mike. I bet your dad was a hell of a beekeeper.
9-21-12 a.m. Update! Mrs. Mike is delivering
drugs honey to my doorstep today. I’m taking the knives out of the drawer.
9-21-12 p.m. Mrs. Mike is not coming. I fear for her life. She’s probably being held captive by the
drug time honey lord. Pray for her.