The Parrot Squawks section of our magazine is centered on those who want to let it out! What are you irritated about? What is your beef with anything & everything? People littering on the beach? Orange Crush? Whatever it may be, this is your place to say what you feel. You will be heard by many! We want to hear your rumble of what disturbs you. Could it be the building up on Tybee? Our infrastructure? Price of real-estate? Remain anonymous or put your name on the rant. We just want to hear you!! Please email to: squawks@tybeebreeze.com or send your rant to:
 

Tybee Breeze
Attn: Parrot Squawks
P.O. Box 2833
Tybee Island, GA 31328
 

My Way Or The Highway - I attended the recent meeting on the proposed project to widen highway 80. The meeting was very informative and fortunately the public was not allowed to speak. Surely we would have been there into the wee hours of the morning. During the meeting I heard some interesting comments for alternatives to the proposed project. I heard one gentleman say they should take out the road and have ferry service to Savannah. Obviously he doesn't have a job or he would realize how much time he would spend commuting back and forth to work on a ferry. Most folks that are opposed to the widening come up with some novel excuses not to build the road. One of the big issues was diamondback terrapins. These poor little creatures, while answering the call of Mother Nature, wander onto the highway searching for a place to deposit their eggs. If the road is widened it would actually enhance their nesting area by tripling the width of the existing road shoulders. I thought maybe we could put up some tiny signs saying do not lay eggs beyond this point or maybe we could put some little push buttons that would allow the turtles to press the button and activate a stop light long enough for them to get across the road.
One of the questions that tickled me was someone wanted to know what you would do if you were riding your bicycle in one direction and wanted to go in the other direction. It's been a while since I have ridden a bicycle but, if I recall, all you would have to do is get off the bicycle turn it around and go in the other direction. An article in the Savannah newspaper said due to future environmental restraints it may be a good idea to run a pipeline with the new road so that in the future if the EPD stops us from pumping treated sewage into the Savannah River we could pump our sewage to Savannah to be treated. Oddly enough the same folks that wanted a moratorium because they claimed our sewer plant couldn't handle the growth now say that we don't need a pipeline because the new sewer plant can handle any and all future growth on Tybee. Imagine that?
A survey on the island showed that the overwhelming majority of the people surveyed wanted the highway widened. The widening opponents have stated that the old timers on Tybee don't want the road widened, but I haven't been able to find any old timers that feel that way. I guess they consider someone that has been here for two or three years, old timers. The parents and grand parents that have children or grand children growing up on Tybee would be derelict as guardians to oppose such a project due to the safety of their kids traveling back and forth on Highway 80 to school, athletic events, and throughout their courting years. It is not worth losing even one life for the sake of 35 acres of salt marsh or all the turtles that meet their demise on highway 80. Remember, 50 acres of salt marsh will be created on Bird Island as mitigation for the 35 acres. Let's be sensible and support this much-needed project. By the way, for those of you that feel terrible about the wasted turtles killed on the highway, pick up a few and dazzle your friends with this fantastic Turtle stew recipe.

Two medium sized turtles: Shelled, gutted,
de-boned, and diced
Two large onions: Diced
Two sticks of celery: Diced
1/2 gallon milk
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Sauté onions and celery in bacon fat till translucent. Flour and fry turtle meat in bacon fat till done. Combine with all other ingredients and cook on low heat stirring constantly to prevent scalding milk. Salt and pepper to taste. Makes four generous servings. Feeds four old timers or six Newbians.

A Political Career Decided - OK, I've had it. With what this time you ask? Have no fear; I'm going to tell you. I have made a life changing decision. It all started the other morning. To begin with, I woke up on the wrong side of the planet. No particular reason, just a tad cranky. Yes, me...hard to believe I know. And for those who are about to assume I didn't take my medication, I have been doing so religiously. So, to get on with my tale... I get up with a grunt, wipe the sleep out of my eyes, and make coffee to get the blood pumping, shower, and get dressed. Two cups of black coffee consumed, I kiss the still sleeping better half goodbye. No movement at all. All of this in twenty minutes, flat. Shaving would have cost me another five. The boss will just have to deal. I like tight time management. Wishing I were back in bed, I climb into the car, back out from under the carport and start my seventeen-mile trek to the office making every second count.

I pull onto Victory Drive, turn on the radio and frantically fumble the radio controls to find the talk and classical station that I enjoy while waking up. Somebody has changed the station to some hip-hop stuff that makes me cringe on a good day. Today, this is utterly and completely unacceptable. I can just imagine who the culprit was. Irritated, I drive on. I regain control of my senses and settle in for the sojourn. The sun is shining and it looks to be a good weather day in the makes. The trip is mostly uneventful. I pass the Wal-Mart out on the islands to hear a taped recording of the feeble leader of our great nation once again massacre the English language to our Asian counterparts. He is over there doing a stint lecturing on arms sales, terrorism, economic reforms and human rights. Physician, heal thyself. Whilst G.W. poo-poo's our buds overseas, I drive listening to the Texan's speech drone on.

I'm about to enter the last leg of my trip that will either make or break my time schedule every day without fail. The dreaded Tybee Road. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and pray that the traffic gods are with me. I am no longer listening to the radio as I try to evaluate the driving capacity of those operating the vehicles ahead. For those unfamiliar, Tybee road is about a ten-mile stretch of asphalt on piled dirt that runs parallel to the old railroad tracks that once, in grander days, transported folks to the beaches of Tybee Island from the mainland. Both sides of the lanes are marsh and on high tide, the water can come lapping up to the pavement. The road is about eighty percent two-lanes. The speed limit is fifty-five except for the curves which are lowered to forty-five. During the summer months the road is unmanageable with traffic and sightseers who slow to snap photos of the magnificent views. Being the end of winter, the red necks from the inner counties are still home waiting in their trailers for the mail carrier. The road is almost empty. On a good day my total trip will take only twenty-five minutes. This is not a good day.

As is my luck, and with perfect timing as my mood was brightening, I get behind HER. She's in the one and only car in front of me. You know who she is. She is the woman that you curse each time you get behind her. She is either driving too fast or two slow, braking unnecessarily, slowing for the turn that doesn't exist. Listening to music too loud for even the most hardened concertgoers. Before you think I'm about to embark on a chauvinistic tirade, men are just as guilty of these infractions. The following is what set apart the men from the gals.

While Blondie is doing a whopping forty miles an hour in a fifty-five, I'm noticing that her posture is askew. I squint against the sun to see what her problem is. That explains it. She has her rear-view mirror turned down and she appears to be applying make-up. Now, I'm pissed. I roll my eyes into the back of my head, cough my tongue back up from the depths of my throat and grasp the wheel with dutiful concentration. I start to ride her tail hoping that she will speed up because at this rate, I'm going to be late. She doesn't notice a flipping thing around her, including the thirty-three hundred pound SUV about to nudge her into the marsh that I'm piloting. Damn, I wish I were driving a dump truck. I'd flatten her. I finally lay on the horn because now, she's weaving. She straightens up, puts the mirror back to its intended position and slumps forward. Wonderful. Maybe she'll speed up. No dice. A minute or two later, I see her lighting a cigarette and speeding up to an exciting fifty. I can hardly contain myself. I'm feeling aroused at the extreme speeds for which she is allowing us! As I eye on with horror, glaring into the confines of her vehicle, I see the cord of a cell phone charger stretch from the dope's ear to below my line of sight inside the car. For Chris sakes! Now she's on the damned phone. This woman is going to have a piece of my mind if we run into each other again. I take note of her tag. Chatham County, of course. Now she really is not paying a lick of attention to anything around her because the huge delivery truck in the oncoming lane has flashed a warning with his lights to let Miss Thingamajig know that she's crossing to his lane. At the last minute, she whips the car into the proper lane and looks back like the trucker has done something wrong. Of course I know this because of the single erect finger I see her flash. She, of course, dumped her spent cigarette onto the road to get her point across. By this time, I've backed off from her bumper because she's going to get us killed. I'm furious. We're still meandering along at a maddening 15 miles below the speed I normally navigate Tybee Road. I'm yelling obscenities inside my vehicle that I have only heard myself say in the hottest moments. I glance at the clock. If this witch doesn't wake up, I'm really going to be late. Finally, I get to the part where the road opens up to two lanes so that I can pass missy. I may make it to the office on time after all. I see the opening of lanes coming and plan my move. In one-two-three seconds, the road opens. I gun the accelerator. I pull up along side of the twerp who has sent me into a tizzy and look at her face-to-face. She's twenty something, blonde, and looking disheveled. The make-up wasn't helpful at all. With all sorts of assumptions passing trough my overheated mind, I convince myself that she is on her way home from a drunken night downtown. At least she had the sense not to drive, I think. Probably went home with some desperate, horny college kid who was out for some fun. I'm being presumptuous because this creature that is now solely responsible for my regained bad mood is far from fortunate looking. She's flat out butt-ugly. On any other occasion I'd give her the benefit of the doubt. Not this time. He HAD to be drunk or she is good at what she does. I'm fantasizing about her being the last ditch pick up of the night and hoping that she is suffering from an acute hangover. In the milliseconds it has taken me to dream all of this up, I'm multitasking my vehicle. Driving and at the same time, laying on the horn. Good, got her attention. She looks up; I return her salute from earlier. She mouths a suggestion that is physically impossible for any man to do and I smirk at her. I turn my head from her feeling satisfied and look up at the road ahead. I curse the gods for what I see. Directly ahead of me and in MY lane for which I fought so hard to take control, is a vehicle stopped with left directional signaling a turn to Fort Pulaski. I judge my timing and speed up, but it is no use. I have to slow and let blondie go ahead so I can get around the turner. My ears and face are red with blind fury and I roll the windows down to let the salt air rush in and drown out my scream of frustration. I look at the clock. One minute to the hour. I'm late. I give up. Wishing damnation upon I follow closely behind you-know-who. Up, up, up and over the last bridge at now, thirty-five miles and hour, the decision is made.

Folks, you are the first to hear my announcement. I'm running for political office. Yup, I sure am. Since our elected civil bozos won't do anything about this outrage, it has now become MY duty. Forget the economy, terror attacks, health plans for the under privileged, crime rates, and all the other issues begotten by career politicians. I'm running on a single platform for which I'm sure to be elected and hailed a great leader. I'm going to have road-rage entered into law as justifiable homicide. So help me.