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The MW Review of Books is where I issue eloquent and frank book reviews the everyday reader can comprehend and use as a factor as to whether to purchase the book or not. Go figure, a book reviewer you can believe.
If you are an 'illegal alien' what do you do when your finely tuned vehicle finally stops motivating? You simply gather your stolen merchandise, get out of the car, and using your stolen P.F. Flyers, hoof it down the highway. As an illegal alien, life is much simpler and cheaper, than that of a law-abiding, taxpaying citizen.
Regular unleaded gasoline at three dollars a gallon. Some of these poor saps are
going to have to chose between ridiculously priced cigarettes caused by the
government and unusually high fuel also caused by the government.
Early Saturday morning, I came across a cat in the middle of the street. The last time I had seen this Garfield he was in the same spot pawing a baby bull snake not much larger than a shoestring. As I approached in the near total darkness, this time the feline flew off and settled on the corner of a nearby house.
I know a while back I was praising Arco for their innovative point of service system. But since then I have discovered that when you include their "transaction fee" into the price per gallon of gasoline, their prices are no lower than any other retailers. It's even worse when you step inside for only a couple of cokes to go and give up forty-five cents to a couple of ruder-than-hell imperious Iraqi's running this dump on 32nd Street and Cactus Road in Phoenix, Arizona.
The other morning I turned the corner and saw a brilliant curving white line similar to the one you might see on an oscilloscope moving across the coal-black asphalt. As my middle-age brain assimilated what was impacting on my visual cortex and I began to discern 'black' moving also, I realized I was seeing a huge, four-foot, rattlesnake-dining king snake. I stopped my vehicle and even though there was not a marked crosswalk, allowed him to complete his journey. These unusually strong snakes are constrictors and are non-poisonous. For a more dramatic photo, I could have easily picked him up, but decided that, being a one-man show, (unlike the Crocodile Hunter, God rest his soul) I could not hold both the meter-plus long serpent, and get a decent shot with my camera. Don't even accuse me of being afraid to pick up a snake. Don't do it.
The last time I saw a king snake this size, my brother and I had our hands full with one near 35th Avenue and Orangewood Avenue (Phoenix, Arizona) back when it was still unoccupied Sonoran desert.
In far, far north Phoenix, Arizona (not to be confused with Phoenix, Oregon) unbeknownst to its somnolent resident's, these grunting beasties rumble in packs down their streets in order to rummage through their yards, driveways and garbage. This bashful lad was part of a group of nine. They smell distinctly skunk-like, which sometimes marks their presence, even though they remain hidden in the surrounding desert's doom-like darkness.
On a pre-work drive to my Desert Ridge Starbucks, where for some reason, the coffee is usually free, (I hope the barristo isn't also expecting a free toot on his meat pipe) this absolute selfish, a-hole, Snottsdale Snippet coming south on 69th Street totally blew through the stop sign at Shea Boulevard to race west on Shea. However he almost got his, as an equally moronic female driver in a vanilla Lincoln Mark VII southbound on 68th place (the very next street west of 69th Street) also ignored her stop sign at Shea Boulevard and was in turn, missed being T-Boned by Jerky the Jeep driver by less than the door-width of a Continental. I would have joyfully forfeited my expected Starbucks session to testify against these self-centered Scottsdale snobs. Note: that while I normally blank out license plate numbers, this one was instead, blanked out by the glare of the 106F degree Arizona summer sun.
Since my wife became my EX-wife during her stay in Texas, I imagine this bumper sticker might come from an entire cadre of us who that particular distasteful parting had resulted in the re-shaping of our lives. But upon further investigation, it appears to be some sort of alumni group. Drat.
Here in the north Phoenix, Scottsdale and the Town of Paradise Valley, Arizona, area house prices have skyrocketed. The all-brick home my then-wife and I purchased northeast of Tatum & Shea new in 1979 for $99,000 (266,000 in 2007 dollars) is now closing in on the $700,000 mark.
Which is an unbelievable deal when compared to the chicken-wire and Plaster of Paris sans-foundation homes thrown up by undocumented workers on lots crammed together like vehicles on a Finnish ferry, in Anthem Country Club with their Nazi-Singapore-like H.O.A. and rat-bastard informing neighbors.
Prior to the failed Senate vote on the illegal alien front, I was preparing for a revolt. Here you can see some of my handiwork. Sadly the wall was re-plastered shortly afterward ... by illegal aliens.
Gasoline prices go up and down. It's odd when a ExxonMobil twenty minutes north of Phoenix, Arizona, has lower per gallon prices than many of the stations within the fifth largest city in the nation. At any price though, I don't notice anyone slowing down to save gas. Except me.
It doesn't make sense, since any adult bobcat would easily slice and dice a single coyote, but here is a coyote looking for a bobcat he chased into the desert. Couldn't get a photo of the bobcat since they can leap six feet straight up and over a wall and are about as photogenic as Howard Hughes.