The Return of the Howard The Cabdriver You've Got To Be Kidding Award™

[captainsblog]

In my schoolage radio listening days, long before that other idiot named Howard became a broadcaster, that first name was instead associated with an FM sidekick weatherman on WPLJ (later WPIX-FM), an actual Manhattan cabbie named Howard. In addition to his weather schtick, he would occasionally bestow a particularly newsworthy asshole with his You've Got To Be Kidding Award. Sadly, there is little googlable mention of the man years later, and none of his award (until now), but I have two nominees today for the long-atrophied trophy.

----

Our first nominee, from the real world, is one Deana Francine Jarrett, late of the Seattle Police Department and amazingly not "late" in the more permanent sense of the word. Jarrett was arrested earlier this month on suspicion of DUI; got into a second accident within hours of her first release from the pokey; and finally barricaded herself into her house, forcing police to break down an air conditioning unit to execute the final arrest warrant.

Ms. Jarrett's main claim to fame, though? Blowing a point-47 on her final breathalyzer attempt. That's nearly six times the legal limit in most states of .08%, and is more commonly associated with being dead, or at least mostly dead.

Not surprisingly, there are already bloggers suggesting that people will be out there, vodka bottles in hand, trying to beat the record.

----

Then there's a suspect closer to home. His exact name (and indeed, his sex) are unknown, but he could easily go by the alias of Littlefoot.

Remember me commenting a couple of weekends ago that we had a new aeration assembly in our aquarium? It's a cute looking dinosaur baby popping out of an egg, and the airflow causes his head to bob up and down.  Or at least it did.

I've been taking something of a mental health day today, since the next two weeks promise to be utterly brutal in the traveling and organizing departments. Roughly half the minimum daily requirement of work has been done, and the other half awaits the arrival of the mail anyway, so I made my lunch and sat down with my Lost disk from the other night.

The violent visions (or are they real?) kept getting interrupted by a steady, annoying noise. Pausing the show didn't stop it. It was coming from inside, and from behind me.

I traced it, then watched. It was Littlefoot. His steady stream of bob-bob-bobbin' has somehow converted itself into a regular regimen of airhose farts. Every six seconds: bluuuuuuuuuurg.

I need to clean the damn thing again over the weekend, and I could probably just disconnect the hose right now, but it's almost in a category with watching NASCAR for the good crashes at this point.

Bluuuuuuuuuuurg.

Comments

[headbanger118.livejournal.com]

My husband and his partners in crime would mail the "Coveted Coke Cap Pendant Award" to stupid people on his college campus. The recipient got a Coke cap with a hole in it and a dog-tag type chain through it, along with a certificate that stated for what stupid action the award was being awarded.