Stupid Stupid Stupid

Ripped from the pages of today’s (well this weeks) headlines.

Sometimes I just don’t believe people. Does nobody accept responsibility for their actions? Well, no.

The Parents of Dead Robber Are Really Mad His Victim Had A Gun

The parents of a dead armed robber are very angry over his death, and are demanding to know why his innocent victim was allowed to be armed. (Oh, so were all 3 robbers. Only their’s were not legal.)

It’s been a difficult week for parents Temia Hairston and Michael Grace Sr. Their son, Michael Grace Jr., was shot and killed during an attempted robbery early Sunday morning. (Marriage is an outdated tradition.But don’t let that stop you from having kids,)

Police said Grace Jr. and two other people tried to rob a Pizza Hut in the 3200 block of Freedom Drive. During the incident, an employee fired his own handgun and killed Grace Jr. “If there was to be a death, it was not the place of the employee at Pizza Hut. That is the place of law enforcement,” said Hairston. (Really, the place of law enforcement. Really?)

The parents are angry that their son was shot and killed by an employee. They don’t believe the full story has been released to the public. “Why in the hell did this guy have a gun?” questioned Hairston about the employee who shot her son. ( Who was in the commission of a violent felony.)

Oxford graduate sues university for £1million because he did not get a first class degree.

An Oxford graduate is suing the university for £1million because he did not get a first class degree. ( Only a “second class degree”, from Oxford. BooHoo.)

Faiz Siddiqui claims he was the “victim of poor teaching” that cost him the chance of a lucrative legal career. (Maybe he should have studied. Or gone to Yale. Or spent the tuition on ..whatever.)

Accused Burglar, Sues Victim, 90, For Shooting Him During Alleged Robbery

A 90-year-old man who shot a robbery suspect is now being sued by the accused burglar. Back in January, (name)allegedly entered the Greenbrae, Ca., home of 90-year-old  (name) and began robbing the senior citizen at gunpoint. ( 90, at gunpoint? He must be a very “bad” man.)

The invader then ran from the home, and he was eventually charged with attempted murder, burglary, robbery and firearms offenses by a felon. (Oh “firearms offenses by a felon.” Not his first dance.)

Now, (Name), is suing (Name)for causing him “great bodily injury, and other financial damage, including loss of his home, and also the dissolution of his marriage,” .( So his wife left him because of a 90 year old man? Or because he can’t even rob a 90 year old man? Or because he’s a crummy human being?)

“He’s the one who busted my door in,” the victim said, according to the New York Daily News. “I’ll just countersue him then. That’s what I’ll need to do.” (No you shouldn’t. He ain’t got nothing anyway.)

The depth of human stupid is great.

For Claire

A friend of mine is leaving Hawaii and headed to the land of the big Evergreens. She asked I add one of my fiction stories.

This is one that hasn’t been out before. I hope you like it.

                     THE RED HEADED STRANGER

None of the regulars at Dave’s knew the name of the blonde with the big tits. She got off the bus one day, got a room above Dave’s, and just started hanging at the bar. Shots of Black Jack and a draft was all she ordered.

She never talked, only listened to the music like it was the only thing good enough to touch her body.

Most of the local boys were afraid to approach her. A couple tried, and she cut them off with a voice and a tongue like a razor sharp switchblade.

“The red-headed stranger from Blue Rock Montana rode into town one day.

Beneath his knees was a raging black stallion,

Following behind was a bay.”

I saw him from the front window of Dave’s Place. He was driving a ratty old pick-up but the motor sounded real good. It was what was in the bed that caught my eye.

There was a shiny black sportster, custom wheels, stretched frame, and a paint job that looked a foot deep. Next to it was an old panhead that had been in a real hard slam. The front was totaled and the frame was twisted the way only a solid front end crash can twist.

He parked the truck, got out stretching like he’s been on the road a long time. He twisted like he had a bad back then slammed the truck door and started walking toward the back. As he rounded the rear of the pick-up I swear I saw him reach out and touch the panhead with a stroke, and then he patted the sportster. Not touched, patted, like it needed gentling.

He was a big man. I mean real big. We got a lot of big farmers here abouts but I never saw anybody as big as him. And there was a deep sadness in those eyes, and an anger that boiled just below the surface.

“The yellow haired lady was in fear of the stallion,

But she cast greedy eyes on the bay”

He walked in, sat at the bar, and ordered a beer and a shot of Jack. When Al. the bartender, put it in front of him his eyes never left the top of the bar. He just grabbed the shot, downed it, and sipped the beer.

That’s when the blonde spoke outa nowhere,

“Hey Scooter tramp, those your bikes?”

He never looked up. Just stared at the bar and said in a low tired voice, “One.”

“Hey,” she said “My old man dumped me here. How about a ride out and we can be good friends.”

Again he never raised his eyes, “Nope. Don’t need any new friends right now.”

I swear there was a flash of light from the blonde. Her lips pressed and her brows got close together. I never saw anybody get that mad, that fast.

He never moved a muscle. He just raised a finger to Al, made a circle over two empty glasses and that was it.

“Hey man,” she started up again. “I gotta get out of this place. Let me ride one of the bikes. The sportster. I’ll follow you till we get someplace I can get a friend to pick me up.

“Ain’t my bike.” It was the same voice, but there was something different about his shoulders. Tense maybe.

“Then who’s is it?” Can I ask them? I gotta get outa here.” It didn’t seem like she was asking, more like demanding. He still didn’t move but those shoulders were tight.

“Ain’t my bike I said. Go away and don’t bother me Bitch.” That was a final a dismissal as I ever heard. But the shoulders didn’t relax. Not an inch.

“She had no way of knowing the bay meant more to him than life.”

“Well if it ain’t yours, who the hell’s is it?” This time there was no mistaking the demand in her voice.

The big guy never looked up, just clutched the shot glass tighter and said softly, “Hers.”

“Well just fuck you and this one shithole town.” She slammed her empty glass on the bar. She picked up the small bag next to the chair and stomped out of Dave’s.

The big guy never even looked at her. He just circled his finger over the glasses again. Al got the hint and poured the drinks without saying anything.

As we sat there the silence was blasted by the sound of a cycle engine starting.

I looked up out the window, but the big redhead was already at the door. I’ll never forget what I saw.

The blonde had dropped the pickup tailgate, straddled the sportster and started it. Just as she dropped it into gear and jumped forward out of the truck bed the big guy moved faster than anyone I ever saw, big or small.

I never saw him reach for the gun, it was just there in his hand. The blonde and the sportster jumped forward, coming out off the truck bed like a motocross bike off a jump and the big .45 blasted twice. Louder than even the straight pipes on the roaring sportster.

Both rounds took the blonde in the center of the back flinging her from the bike just as it hit the street. She fell one way and the bike fell over with the engine roaring from a open throttle.

Everyone ran to the bleeding body lying on the street. Everyone but the big stranger. He walked over the sportster, turned off the engine, picked it up and started pushing it back to the truck.

She was dead, of that there was no question. Those big .45 slugs just tore her apart. I never even saw him put the gun away.

“The yellow haired lady was buried next morning,

The stranger went free of course,

You can’t hang a man for shooting a woman,

That’s trying to steal his horse.”

(With thanks to Willie Nelson for the the use of his lyrics to “The Red Headed Stranger.)


A Tuesday Special

For some reason I just wanted to put in something a little lighter than I have lately. Enjoy

Loud Mouths

Sometimes, people just have to put their foot in their mouth. Mostly by making comments or judgements without knowing the facts, or their audience.

A bunch of us were sitting having a couple of beers at the old “Sugar Bar”.  A mile beyond Haleiwa, in the sleepy sugar plantation town of Waialua, locals gather at the Sugar Bar, in a building that formerly served as the Bank of Hawaii. They used the old bank vault as the liquor storage with a sign, “The Safest Beer in Hawaii” hanging over the door.

A big part of the Sugar Bar’s charm was the large outdoor deck with a few tables and benches. You could sit there, have a couple, and keep your bike in sight the whole time. A big plus.

So there I was, sitting next to my wife, minding my own business, when two bikini clad girls pull up in a rented convertible. They went into the bar, got their drinks and then walked out onto the deck.

These two fine young ladies were wearing very small bikinis, rubber slippers, and big smiles. They started talking with the bikers sitting there, asking about maybe a ride later, until one of them pops up and asks; “Anybody here know this fucker ‘Storyteller’?”

Of course, all heads turn in my direction so I answered, “Yeah I know him. Why?”

And away she goes. For all the things she accused me of, I’d to have been three guys working as a tag team to accomplish it all. She accused me of stuff that never even happened and shit I certainly wasn’t responsible for.

Everybody there had known Julie and me for many years so there was no doubt they all knew this broad was trying to make herself look like a real Hawaii biker woman.

She ended her tirade with what would happen if she ever ran into this “Storyteller”. She finally looked at me and asked; “How do you know him?”

Everyone sort of held their breath until I told her; “I’m married to his wife.”

Silence. Dead silence while she tried to sort this info out. I then stood up, reached out my hand and said; “Hi. I’m Storyteller, charter president of…”and I went through the entire formal biker introduction.

The two of them were dumbfounded to say the least. Then one of the other wives spoke up and said; “Honey. You best climb back in that Mustang and head back to your Waikiki hotel. You got no friends here.”

Appears I did.


But strangers aren’t the only ones that seem to be able to put their foot in mouth.

On the Waianae side of the island used to be a second floor restaurant called the “Fog Cutter”. Over the years the place went through several reincarnations, but was a favorite stopping place for bikers on their weekend ride.

Once again, I was sitting there with my wife, minding my own business when a couple we had met before walked in and sat down. Everything was cordial and friendly and really quite peaceful.

Then I made the mistake of asking a question. It seems both of the newcomers shared the same last name, but were not married or otherwise related, so I asked where did they meet. Seemed like an innocent question.

So the male half answered they had met at the Hawaii Yacht Club. Again, an innocent question, did they know “The club secretary, Elaine”?

And away we go. The female jumps up, literally, and starts telling me about “that red-headed bitch” and all the things she had done to them both and the members of the club.

She went on chapter and verse for about ten minutes and when she stopped she looked sidewise at me and demanded; “How do you know her?”

Julie by this time was trying to hide because she was sure it was about to get ugly. I looked at out two new friends and calmly responded; “She’s my mother.”

My mom had been the club secretary for over 22 years and had just recently retired to Las Vegas.

He looked over at a now very embarrassed companion and told her; ‘You just had to do it, didn’t you?”

I let her off the hook fairly easy, but never let her forget to check her brain before she opened her mouth if her old man was going to ride with me.

He did.

She didn’t.


“Bear” was always claiming to be a member of the Anchorage Chapter of the HA. He had some tats, a prison picture frame made out of Popsicle sticks that said “HELLS ANGELS – ALASKA”. He was on parole and needed an address to report to his P.O. and I offered to put him up for a while. (Don’t remind me, he was one of the bad ones.)

This turned out not such a good idea and I asked him to leave; well really I just put everything into a garbage bag and threw it at him when he pulled into the driveway, and told him to leave. Told him not to say a word, just drive off. He wasn’t as dumb as I thought because that was what he did.

About four months later I get a visit from that friendly neighborhood ATFE           (Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives Enforcement) agent asking me questions about “Bear” .

Seems some friends of his in prison got into a bit of a disagreement with some incarcerated members of a Viet Namese group. A week after one of the VN’s leaders got released, him and his car got exploded. Some pieces of the bomb casing were found and these pieces had Bear’s fingerprints on them. Then he very nicely explained that Bear had been under surveillance put had slipped away, did I think he had the expertise to make such a bomb?

I didn’t feel I really owed Bear any loyalty so I answered that he had often told me how good a bomb maker he was but I had never seen him make any. But he bragged about it all the time.

That was enough and the Fed went away, for about another three months. The second time he just called to tell me Bear had been arrested in Arizona trying to get into Mexico. Seems he paid for his trip down the west coast by robbing every gas station, motel, and convince store he stopped at from Anchorage to Flagstaff. So not only was he a parole violator, a felon with a weapon, armed during the commission of a felony, crossing state boarders to avoid prosecution, but he also had a large container of bomb making supplies in the vehicle, which was also  stolen. Jackpot.

They made Bear finish his first sentence, and then he started to serve the other state and federal sentences. To my knowledge, he’s got two state sentences to finish and then he gets to start on the federal.

Hey, it coulda been life.

If you like what you read, make a comment, and tell someone else.


Just Thoughts

Working on different military installations everyday there is the morning raising of the flag. 8 am everyday. A while back I stood at attention, hard hat under my arm, and hand over my heart. I’m not in uniform so I don’t render the hand salute.

On this morning  from where I was standing I could see the U.S.S. Ashville, the U.S.S. New Jersey, the mighty U.S.S. Missouri, and the final resting place of the U.S.S. Utah and the  U.S.S. Arizona. And I felt a great pride for having once been part of that brotherhood.

Last week I was privileged to see the new U.S.S. Missouri ( America’s newest, most up to date submarine) pass by the original Missouri. All hands were on deck rendering honors to the Mighty Mo. It was a moment in time that will be forever captured in my memory.


Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Remember these are my opinions, not backed by facts, just my opinion.

HEADLINE : Soros Says Facebook And Google Are A Menace To The World

Hey George, you’re a menace. And should be flushed right away. Money does not make you right. It just makes you rich.

HEADLINE : Classmates of 13 Starved Kids Wish They Had Said Something

Read my last story. The teacher spoke up. I took action. We were both criticized and threatened. She didn’t back down and neither did I. We both paid for it, but that was one day that child did not suffer. That’s one regret I don’t have. You don’t be a snitch when you stop someone’s suffering. “I was wrong” is easier to live with “I wish I had”.

Rush Limbaugh is 66 years old.

Crap, I’m older than Rush Limbaugh.


This one speaks for itself.


School year of 82′, I think. I was working D-4 (Kaneohe) on the day shift when I was sent to Haiku Elementary, unknown problem.

I get there and meet with the V-P and a teacher. A student (fifth or sixth grade if I remember) was having trouble sitting still in class. When the teacher tried to figure out why, she noticed blood on the back of his T-shirt. They introduced me to the child and asked him to lift up his T-shirt.

What I saw made me want to scream in anger. The child’s back was striped like a movie prisoner after a flogging. Some places had broken open and started bleeding. The wounds were just below his shoulder level and went all the way down to the bottom of the child’s buttocks.

They story was simple. Grandpa was watching football, sent the child to fetch him a beer, the child stumbles and spilled the beer, so grandpa pulled a cord out a lamp, and whipped the child until the blood ran. For spilling a beer.

I called the watch Commander gave him the facts and that I was taking the child into custody and transporting to Juvenile Crime Prevention Division (JCPD).

This is exactly what I did. I finished the paperwork, notified the school V-P, and went back to work.

At the end of watch (2:30pm) I get a radio call to call the desk by phone. So I do. The watch Sergeant answers and asks if I have any paperwork to turn in. I did not. He tells me to go on home.

Then he explains the child’s family, including cousins, aunts, uncles, and of course grandpa were all at the station and had a full head of anger because I “took their kid away”, without “any reason”.

It wasn’t important that grandpa beat him until there was blood, but only that some “haole” cop took their kid.

Don’t know what my being white had to do with it, but seems to me they kinda had their priorities mixed up.

Of course child services spoke to the family and grandpa, then gave the kid back.

No surprise there.


Hey, its raining in Hilo. Rain. Hilo. Same thing? Don’t care, after a 83 hour work schedule I need the break.

Ok, it makes picking up the puppy poop difficult but again, don’t care.

Am I the only one thats tired of the “skittle pox” commerical.

I gotta a million of there. Please, someone make a comment , just so I know someone reads this.