Mojopoll: Life's A Beach

The results from the last Mojopoll (What is your favorite time of day?) indicate chronic insomnia. Me too! At night I can turn off my filters and contaminate the Interwebs in peace. However, I also enjoy mornings because I don’t need much sleep. Like you, I am uncommunicative until I have coffee and the resulting bowel movement, but after that we can be friends again.

The new poll (on the right) was inspired by a moron practicing Kung Phooey at the Indiana Dunes on Sunday. I’m going to call him Chi Chi the Cheetah, which may or may not mean he is directly related to this hot mess on Wikipedia.

Black belt? Are you shitting me?

Chi Chi was working on his martial arts moves at the beach with props that included his Okinawan kobud weapons (nunchucks, as they say in junior high school), some knives and daggers. If he was any good I might have tipped him a fiver, but Chi Chi was all thumbs. He was smacking himself in the head, dropping stuff and tripping. The lifeguards were not concerned but – gee – I was. I’m weird like that, when clumsy poopheads are running full-tilt-boogie with sharp objects in their hands, while little babies are trying to build sandcastles.

Obviously, I had to take a picture. Chi Chi hissed at me, but the other guy on Wikipedia says he likes audiences. On a related vanity website, you can view videos.

After the photo op, I asked a park cop if nunchucks and daggers were allowed on the beach. “Absolutely not!” she said. I pointed to Chi Chi and, eventually, a big fat park cop came by in a go-cart to shoo him away.

According to Wiki some people feel it is important to be a “...freedom fighter who fights for the freedom of expression when and where the audience exists.” If he keeps throwing freedom around like that someone is going to lose an eye!



I don’t know what is wrong with me. I never woke up one day and thought about working on my Black Mamba death squad moves on the shores of Lake Michigan. Usually I just bring snacks and tanning lotion.

To Fauxhawk And Svetlana On Miller Beach

We all knew exactly what was going on. You, Fauxhawk Boy, and you underfed Russian footwear model – no one was fooled. From the moment he peeled aside Svetlana's bikini top so Fauxhawk’s bro could snap some pictures of him enjoying the nipple of her small breast, I understood everything. With his cell phone camera, no less.

Fauxhawk began digging a deep hole in the sand, and my suspicions made a racket of noise between my ears. Everything was confirmed when I saw the girl crawl into your pit. Her ankles in the air were my first hard evidence. The sweat on your brow, sir, and the jerking motion of your torso… Well, what can I say? Sometimes I know things.
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We saw all we needed to see. No, the Indian families to your left were not fooled. The elderly couple to your right acted nonchalant, although Grandpa was eager to climb up a dune for a better view. I ‘d like to remind everyone that Grandpa bears some blame for his chest pain that day. Grandpa might have considered bacon and beer less often in his youth, instead of climbing up impossibly steep sand dunes for a better view of two kids having sex in a sand pit after lunch, when he is clearly near death.

An hour spent digging in the sand for two minutes of bliss? Not unheard of. No.