This probably doesn't come as a shock to long-time readers, but I don't check my e-mail as often as I probably should.
That being said, I logged in this morning to discover an e-mail from a nice lady at NRAhq.org advising me that I had been added to the media list for the NRA Annual Meeting in April of this year.
*blink, blink*
"Oh, good," sayeth my lady, as she looks over my shoulder, "Better make some reservations. Here's the name of the hotel."
This here is what us finely-trained law enforcement types call "A Clue". I have a suspicion that Herself has been Arranging Things.
I've actually always wanted to go to an NRA Annual Meeting ... but as Media?
Me, who frequently gets Interview confused with Interrogation?
And I'm pretty sure there are going to be a lot of people Breathing My Air there.
Whoo.
If anyone needs me, I'll be out back, hyperventilating.
LawDog
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
Sonnuva -- !
Well, it seems my lungs felt left out of the other night's performance.
I've not felt ... right ... since the Great Body Clear-Out of 2012, so I finally staggered out of bed and over to my witch-doctor.
You know, when Ye Olde Potion Pusher is listening to your chest and he stays at one spot for a looooong time -- this is what us finely-trained law-enforcement types call "A Clue."
When he steps out into the hall, closes the door, and then two more people come in to listen to your chest, it becomes time to raise a finger and say, "Oi, doc. Something I need to know about?"
One chest x-ray and one blood-work later, the nurse comes in and cheerily says, "Well, your A1c is 5.4. That's some good news!"
I could have strangled her.
I've got a stomping case of aspiration pneumonia, most probably the result of something I'd rather not think about right now going a wee bit astray during the six hours of Wagnerian 'Speaking to God On The Porcelain Phone' from earlier in the week.
I'd never heard of Solu-Medrol before today, but it is apparently lovingly gathered from the fiery depths of Kilauea, gently mixed with extract of naga jolokia, and seasoned with just a pinch of thermite before being loaded into a hydraulic press and shot into my right bum cheek through a sewer pipe.
When the wee lass said, "There's probably going to be a little burn" be aware that the little darling probably referred to the sinking of the Titanic as, "A little oopsie."
Too right there's a burn. The only thing that kept me from doggie-dragging my butt across the carpet on the way to the fire extinguisher was male ego -- and that was losing the fight.
Yeesh.
Two albuterol treatments later, some heavy-duty antibiotics, and I'm back to home. Thank various and sundry gods.
I'm going to find a bag of frozen peas and spend the rest of the day napping.
Toodles.
LawDog
I've not felt ... right ... since the Great Body Clear-Out of 2012, so I finally staggered out of bed and over to my witch-doctor.
You know, when Ye Olde Potion Pusher is listening to your chest and he stays at one spot for a looooong time -- this is what us finely-trained law-enforcement types call "A Clue."
When he steps out into the hall, closes the door, and then two more people come in to listen to your chest, it becomes time to raise a finger and say, "Oi, doc. Something I need to know about?"
One chest x-ray and one blood-work later, the nurse comes in and cheerily says, "Well, your A1c is 5.4. That's some good news!"
I could have strangled her.
I've got a stomping case of aspiration pneumonia, most probably the result of something I'd rather not think about right now going a wee bit astray during the six hours of Wagnerian 'Speaking to God On The Porcelain Phone' from earlier in the week.
I'd never heard of Solu-Medrol before today, but it is apparently lovingly gathered from the fiery depths of Kilauea, gently mixed with extract of naga jolokia, and seasoned with just a pinch of thermite before being loaded into a hydraulic press and shot into my right bum cheek through a sewer pipe.
When the wee lass said, "There's probably going to be a little burn" be aware that the little darling probably referred to the sinking of the Titanic as, "A little oopsie."
Too right there's a burn. The only thing that kept me from doggie-dragging my butt across the carpet on the way to the fire extinguisher was male ego -- and that was losing the fight.
Yeesh.
Two albuterol treatments later, some heavy-duty antibiotics, and I'm back to home. Thank various and sundry gods.
I'm going to find a bag of frozen peas and spend the rest of the day napping.
Toodles.
LawDog
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Don't read this. Graphic depictions of bodily functions.
One of the few acupressure points that actually seems to work on me is the one for nausea on the inside of the wrist.
When I was younger, I'd do anything to not throw-up. As I've gotten older, however, I fall more in with the whole, "Better out than in" school of thought.
Early this morning, I awoke to my stomach telling me that things were about to go all splodey, so I hie'd myself into the khazi and arranged myself properly.
Unfortunately, moving seemed to quell the savage beast, so I was sitting on the loo, getting more and more miserable by the moment, when I realized that what kept me from puking, might aid the process -- so to speak.
For those of you who don't know, the acupressure point mentioned earlier is on the inside of the wrist. You take a thumb, and press firmly and -- on me anyway -- a lot of times the urge to chunder goes away.
So, I figured if pressing on the inside of the wrist made the pukey feeling go away, then maybe pressing on the outside of the wrist might ... expedite things.
Yeah. We aren't going to touch that pressure point. Ever. Again.
That little SOB must be connected directly to the pelvic splanchnic ganglion because, while I did NOT throw up, stuff was evacuated. And a damned good thing I was sitting on the porcelain throne, might I add?
To get some idea of what happened, understand that when things cut loose, at that moment, in the Old NASA Engineers Home, several members of the Apollo Space Program made little slide-rule motions in their sleep, and smiled.
I can now positively state that my throne has been G-tested.
The .. umm ... performance was so ... umm ... dynamic, that it apparently caused my stomach to go sit in the corner and sulk, because once I got done hanging on to the walls for dear life, I wasn't all that ready to throw-up anymore and staggered back to bed.
Fast-forward some minutes, and my stomach decided that it had the perfect response to the performance earlier, so -- once more -- I fling back the covers and high-step it to the bathroom.
Where I discover that apparently my stomach likes opera. Wagner, actually.
To get some idea of the next several minutes, I'd like you to think of that classic Bugs Bunny cartoon using opera, the one where Elmer Fudd is the viking out to "Kill da Wab-bit!" take the score, and replace the words of the song with variations of "Blargh!" and a gentle undertone of, "Ohgodohgodohgod."
Blargh--bl-bl-blargh, blargh! Blargh, bl-bl-blargh, blargh! BLLAAAAARRGH!!!
In true Wagnerian fashion it went on. And on. And on.
Finally, my stomach dug down deeeep for the last aria, put down the baton, re-fastened the bow-tie, adjusted the tails just so, and regarded my lower GI tract with a "Hmph".
One-upper.
So, how was your day?
LawDog
When I was younger, I'd do anything to not throw-up. As I've gotten older, however, I fall more in with the whole, "Better out than in" school of thought.
Early this morning, I awoke to my stomach telling me that things were about to go all splodey, so I hie'd myself into the khazi and arranged myself properly.
Unfortunately, moving seemed to quell the savage beast, so I was sitting on the loo, getting more and more miserable by the moment, when I realized that what kept me from puking, might aid the process -- so to speak.
For those of you who don't know, the acupressure point mentioned earlier is on the inside of the wrist. You take a thumb, and press firmly and -- on me anyway -- a lot of times the urge to chunder goes away.
So, I figured if pressing on the inside of the wrist made the pukey feeling go away, then maybe pressing on the outside of the wrist might ... expedite things.
Yeah. We aren't going to touch that pressure point. Ever. Again.
That little SOB must be connected directly to the pelvic splanchnic ganglion because, while I did NOT throw up, stuff was evacuated. And a damned good thing I was sitting on the porcelain throne, might I add?
To get some idea of what happened, understand that when things cut loose, at that moment, in the Old NASA Engineers Home, several members of the Apollo Space Program made little slide-rule motions in their sleep, and smiled.
I can now positively state that my throne has been G-tested.
The .. umm ... performance was so ... umm ... dynamic, that it apparently caused my stomach to go sit in the corner and sulk, because once I got done hanging on to the walls for dear life, I wasn't all that ready to throw-up anymore and staggered back to bed.
Fast-forward some minutes, and my stomach decided that it had the perfect response to the performance earlier, so -- once more -- I fling back the covers and high-step it to the bathroom.
Where I discover that apparently my stomach likes opera. Wagner, actually.
To get some idea of the next several minutes, I'd like you to think of that classic Bugs Bunny cartoon using opera, the one where Elmer Fudd is the viking out to "Kill da Wab-bit!" take the score, and replace the words of the song with variations of "Blargh!" and a gentle undertone of, "Ohgodohgodohgod."
Blargh--bl-bl-blargh, blargh! Blargh, bl-bl-blargh, blargh! BLLAAAAARRGH!!!
In true Wagnerian fashion it went on. And on. And on.
Finally, my stomach dug down deeeep for the last aria, put down the baton, re-fastened the bow-tie, adjusted the tails just so, and regarded my lower GI tract with a "Hmph".
One-upper.
So, how was your day?
LawDog
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Note from Phlegmmy- LawDog's notes
This time last year, I was getting ready to take my math credit course at a local community college, and I needed a pad for working out my algebra problems. LawDog gallantly gave me one of his half-used old notebooks and I used the remainder for my scribblings. Today I was going through my backpack, making ready for my Anatomy and Physiology I class which begins Tuesday and I pulled out the old notebook. In my frenzy for the subject last year, I never read what Himself had written in the beginning of the notebook, and today I find rich meat-food lay therein. Of course, occasionally, someone says in person (or I note in his comments) that he should publish a volume, and though I do not nag, I will mention the same about once a year or so. I'm not kidding when I say I held my sides with mirth whilst reading some of his notes taken in class. I implored and he conceded to allow me to post just one here, and I must say I feel guilty hoarding the rest of the lot to myself. I hope you'll enjoy this tiny taste:
"Be the guiding light." Hell, I'm usually the on-coming train. And I'm good at it. Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how you look at it.
"Be the guiding light." Hell, I'm usually the on-coming train. And I'm good at it. Which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how you look at it.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Wow. Just ... wow.
This is beautiful.
I have often said that the gun community is not quite like any other, and this young lady quite succinctly sums that up.
Well done.
LawDog
I have often said that the gun community is not quite like any other, and this young lady quite succinctly sums that up.
Well done.
LawDog
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Really?
The Texas Alcohol Beverage Commission has nifty little official warning signs posted, that I have been noticing for some time, but one of which kind of kicked over my giggle box.
The signs in question read:
Drinking any type of alcohol while pregnant can hurt your baby's brain, heart, kidneys and other organs and can cause birth defects.
The safest choice is not to drink at all when you are pregnant or trying to become pregnant.
IF YOU MIGHT BE PREGNANT, THINK BEFORE YOU DRINK.
This particular sign is above the urinal.
In the men's loo.
*blink, blink*
Rest assured, chappies, that if I might be pregnant, I will most certainly stop drinking. Right after I call the National Enquirer.
LawDog
The signs in question read:
Drinking any type of alcohol while pregnant can hurt your baby's brain, heart, kidneys and other organs and can cause birth defects.
The safest choice is not to drink at all when you are pregnant or trying to become pregnant.
IF YOU MIGHT BE PREGNANT, THINK BEFORE YOU DRINK.
This particular sign is above the urinal.
In the men's loo.
*blink, blink*
Rest assured, chappies, that if I might be pregnant, I will most certainly stop drinking. Right after I call the National Enquirer.
LawDog
Monday, January 09, 2012
Spam-bot fail
Apparently there's a personal injury attorney in Tampa, Florida (who may or may not be named "Simon") who has retained a spam-bot for the purposes of spamming the comments of blogs.
Found some of that spam in several comments here, point-of-fact.
Now, I'm not a big fan of defence attorneys, because over the past couple of decades they're usually hinting broadly to twelve complete strangers that I'm a liar, incompetent, a lair, crooked, a lair, racist, a liar, poorly educated, a liar, misogynistic, a liar, sadistic and that I lie through my teeth.
On several occasions they weren't hinting, and on at least one really memorable moment the tile-crawler hit most of the points above.
All the while knowing that not only was I not any of the above, but knowing for a fact that his client was guilty as hell.
Like I say -- not a big fan.
However, our Republic needs defence attorneys for our system to work. And -- truth be told -- when they are maligning me to a jury and insulting me to my face on the witness stand, they're just doing a necessary job; it's not personal (most of the time); and (most of them) don't really believe that I would violate my oath.
So, I will needle them on this blog, I will write elaborate comparisons to sharks and other creatures, but I do not indulge in elaborate fantasies involving a defence attorney, a dark alley, a wombat, a sack, and a jar of grease.
Personal injury attorneys, on the other paw ...
... They're the lawyers in "Lawyer-proof triggers".
They're the reason that my cup of coffee says, "WARNING: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT".
The label on a go-kart that says, "CAUTION: THIS PRODUCT MOVES WHEN IN USE"? Personal-injury lawyers.
Neutered chemistry sets? Wimpy slides on playgrounds? "No Swimming" signs at the local watering hole? High dive platforms removed from the YMCA pool? Ban on rat-busting at the city dump? Proof-against-everyone-except-children pill bottle lids?
Thank a personal-injury lawyer -- or the fear of one -- for all of the above.
That feeling that the entire world wants to wrap you in bubble-wrap and only let you have stuff made from Nerf? Personal-injury lawyers.
Near as I can tell, personal-injury lawyers are primarily responsible for sky-high insurance rates, increasingly louder screams for tort-reform and the entire State of California.
"The officer used a blackjack against my client. If he had used an ASP, there wouldn't be any need to sue."
"The officer used an ASP baton against my client. If he had used OC spray, there wouldn't be any need to sue."
The officer used OC spray against my client. If he had used a TASER , there wouldn't be any need to sue."
"The officer TASER'd my client. We're suing!"
Sweet haploid Judas on a crutch!
I'd like to put into print some of my fantasies involving personal-injury attorneys, particularly the one that makes the police psychologist back slowly out of the room ... but someone named "Simon" in Tampa, Florida would probably sue me.
Grr!
Spam-bot fail! Get off my blog!
LawDog
Found some of that spam in several comments here, point-of-fact.
Now, I'm not a big fan of defence attorneys, because over the past couple of decades they're usually hinting broadly to twelve complete strangers that I'm a liar, incompetent, a lair, crooked, a lair, racist, a liar, poorly educated, a liar, misogynistic, a liar, sadistic and that I lie through my teeth.
On several occasions they weren't hinting, and on at least one really memorable moment the tile-crawler hit most of the points above.
All the while knowing that not only was I not any of the above, but knowing for a fact that his client was guilty as hell.
Like I say -- not a big fan.
However, our Republic needs defence attorneys for our system to work. And -- truth be told -- when they are maligning me to a jury and insulting me to my face on the witness stand, they're just doing a necessary job; it's not personal (most of the time); and (most of them) don't really believe that I would violate my oath.
So, I will needle them on this blog, I will write elaborate comparisons to sharks and other creatures, but I do not indulge in elaborate fantasies involving a defence attorney, a dark alley, a wombat, a sack, and a jar of grease.
Personal injury attorneys, on the other paw ...
... They're the lawyers in "Lawyer-proof triggers".
They're the reason that my cup of coffee says, "WARNING: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT".
The label on a go-kart that says, "CAUTION: THIS PRODUCT MOVES WHEN IN USE"? Personal-injury lawyers.
Neutered chemistry sets? Wimpy slides on playgrounds? "No Swimming" signs at the local watering hole? High dive platforms removed from the YMCA pool? Ban on rat-busting at the city dump? Proof-against-everyone-except-children pill bottle lids?
Thank a personal-injury lawyer -- or the fear of one -- for all of the above.
That feeling that the entire world wants to wrap you in bubble-wrap and only let you have stuff made from Nerf? Personal-injury lawyers.
Near as I can tell, personal-injury lawyers are primarily responsible for sky-high insurance rates, increasingly louder screams for tort-reform and the entire State of California.
"The officer used a blackjack against my client. If he had used an ASP, there wouldn't be any need to sue."
"The officer used an ASP baton against my client. If he had used OC spray, there wouldn't be any need to sue."
The officer used OC spray against my client. If he had used a TASER , there wouldn't be any need to sue."
"The officer TASER'd my client. We're suing!"
Sweet haploid Judas on a crutch!
I'd like to put into print some of my fantasies involving personal-injury attorneys, particularly the one that makes the police psychologist back slowly out of the room ... but someone named "Simon" in Tampa, Florida would probably sue me.
Grr!
Spam-bot fail! Get off my blog!
LawDog
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Something Tookish woke up inside him ...
I have seen the teaser trailer for The Hobbit, and after listening to the song of the dwarves that I have read so many times in print ...
... I am experiencing a serious urge to gather up my hat, walking-stick and handkerchief, and run to catch up with the dwarves.
I want to have an ale in Hobbiton, walk the halls of Rivendell, explore Mirkwood, watch the sun come up from the docks of Lake-town, and take on Smaug -- preferably with a Stinger MANPADS.
*sigh*
Instead, I guess I'll just go to work.
Bugger.
LawDog
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