Gwyllyn Samuel Newton Ford.
Born: 1MAY1916 in Quebec, Canada, became a naturalized US citizen in 1939.
Joined USMC 1942, and was NCOIC of a camera crew at Normandy Beach. He and his crew also documented Dachau concentration camp after its liberation by American forces.
He was discharged from the USMC after WWII with the rank of sergeant, the Medaille de la France Libre, and the Légion d'Honneur.
On 30DEC1958, Ford enlisted in the Naval Reserve, served 30 days of active duty in Vietnam while advising Marine Combat Camera Teams in the Mekong Delta, earning the Navy Commendation Medal and the Vietnamese Legion of Merit, First Class.
He retired from the Naval Reserve 1OCT1978, at the rank of Captain.
Captain Gwyllyn Samuel Newton Ford, USNR (Ret) passed away 30AUG2006.
For those Gentle Readers who may not be familiar with Capt. Gwyllyn Ford, he made a movie or two under the name Glenn Ford.
Requiescat in Pacem, Captain.
LawDog
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
This ought to be interesting to watch.
Does anyone else think California is starting to look a lot like a train wreck that is inevitable, but hasn't quite happened yet?
They're about to pass a law to place an "enforceable limit" on greenhouse gas emissions, and have already rammed the highest minimum wage in the country down the throat of businesses.
However, the prize on the cake is SB 840 a/k/a the California State Universal Health Care System. If Gov. Schwarzenegger doesn't veto it -- and he has made noises about vetoing it -- SB 840 will replace all, let me repeat that: ALL private health care plans in the State of California with one gigantic Government-run, statewide bureaucracy, which every person in California will be required to be a part of, and every person, entity, corporation, business and piglet will be taxed to support.
It is, in plain, simple English: Socialized medicine.
*sigh*
Personally, I'm of two minds about this. One part of me is quite happy about this, as it will give me a giant, stinking, smelly catastrophe to point to the next time some elected jackass starts making noises about "universal healthcare".
"America needs some form of universal healthcare", snivels Pat Congresscritter.
"You think so? There's California. Take a look, and then take a good, long drink of Shut The Hell Up."
The other part of me isn't quite so happy about this, because I bloody well know that when things go down the khazi, a whole bunch of those California idiots are going to wind up in Texas.
Hell, a lot of them are already here.
And just as sure a God made little green apples, those bloody idiots are going to do their best to do the same thing to Texas that they did to California. And why anyone would believe that something which fails miserably in California is going to work any better in Texas is completely beyond my powers of comprehension, I mean, face it: I don't mind if you screw your State into a bloody cocked hat -- it's your State, knock yourselves out -- but I do mind people who screw up their State, then run from the screwed-up State because it's so miserable, and proceed to do the exact same screw-job to the new State.
But I digress.
Anyhoo, does anyone else get the feeling that California is about to go over the edge?
LawDog
They're about to pass a law to place an "enforceable limit" on greenhouse gas emissions, and have already rammed the highest minimum wage in the country down the throat of businesses.
However, the prize on the cake is SB 840 a/k/a the California State Universal Health Care System. If Gov. Schwarzenegger doesn't veto it -- and he has made noises about vetoing it -- SB 840 will replace all, let me repeat that: ALL private health care plans in the State of California with one gigantic Government-run, statewide bureaucracy, which every person in California will be required to be a part of, and every person, entity, corporation, business and piglet will be taxed to support.
It is, in plain, simple English: Socialized medicine.
*sigh*
Personally, I'm of two minds about this. One part of me is quite happy about this, as it will give me a giant, stinking, smelly catastrophe to point to the next time some elected jackass starts making noises about "universal healthcare".
"America needs some form of universal healthcare", snivels Pat Congresscritter.
"You think so? There's California. Take a look, and then take a good, long drink of Shut The Hell Up."
The other part of me isn't quite so happy about this, because I bloody well know that when things go down the khazi, a whole bunch of those California idiots are going to wind up in Texas.
Hell, a lot of them are already here.
And just as sure a God made little green apples, those bloody idiots are going to do their best to do the same thing to Texas that they did to California. And why anyone would believe that something which fails miserably in California is going to work any better in Texas is completely beyond my powers of comprehension, I mean, face it: I don't mind if you screw your State into a bloody cocked hat -- it's your State, knock yourselves out -- but I do mind people who screw up their State, then run from the screwed-up State because it's so miserable, and proceed to do the exact same screw-job to the new State.
But I digress.
Anyhoo, does anyone else get the feeling that California is about to go over the edge?
LawDog
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Surely they're not that dumb.
Got some reader feedback concerning the story about Pearl and the steaks; seems some folks find it a little difficult to believe that critters are actually that stupid.
*snort*
I'm here to tell you that plan of Pearl's was rocket science compared to some stunts I've seen pulled.
When I got into peace officering, I had dreams of matching wits with the kinds of Bad Guys that I'd seen on Monday Night crime stories. I thought the standard cunning, crafty, and devious critter as portrayed by Hollywood was the norm.
I even had some doubts that I'd be up to the task of matching some of these criminal masterminds.
Hah!
There is a theory going around that criminals commit crimes because they are too lazy to earn an honest living.
I hate to break the news to you, but near as I can tell the Mark 1, Mod 0 Critter (Generic) commits crimes because he is too damned dumb to do honest work.
Seriously.
Those faces you see every week on America's Dumbest Criminals are not the dumbest criminals -- they're your normal everyday Standard-Issue criminals.
My paw to God -- you can ask Reno about this -- in our jail at this moment we have a critter who just wrote a letter to the Prosecution's Main Witness against him. In this letter, the critter has gone into graphic detail about the retribution he will visit upon the witness if said witness testifies against him.
He then wrote that the witness could go ahead and tell the police about the threats, because it would be the witnesses word against the word of the critter, and the critter would deny ever having threatened the witness.
He then signed the letter, dropped it into an envelope, licked-and-sealed the envelope, hand-addressed the envelope to the witness and personally handed it to the mail officer.
*blink, blink*
In my county, anyone who has been arrested for a class 'B' misdemeanor or higher must go through what is called 'magistration'. That is where a judge tells the subject what he or she has been arrested for, reads them their rights and sets a bond.
We recently started using a video set-up to do this -- the inmates sit in a room with a camera and a TeeVee and talk to a judge in another building with his own camera and TeeVee.
These cameras and microphones are connected to a DVD recorder which is always on.
Reno and I tell these people to keep their mouths shut. We inform them of their right to remain silent, we inform them that they are being recorded, and we inform them -- firmly -- that the DVDs can be sub poena'd by anyone.
After all that, we still get critters who stand up and say things like:
"Officer 'Dawg, how can they charge me with distribution when I was only holding a couple of pounds of weed?"
"Don't worry, bro, they ain't got [deleted]. I hid the [insert description of stolen goods here] in Big Poomba's storage, and the Task Force will never think to look there!"
"Officer Reno, do you think the judge would give me a PR Bond? I didn't really mean to hit anyone when I was shooting up the house, I was just trying to scare the folks inside."
*sigh*
We've got a dealer who's sold meth to the same undercover officer driving the same vehicle six times in a row. Which isn't so bad, except that the last time the dealer walked up to the truck, he says "Hey! I know you! You busted me before!"
To which the undercover cop responds, "Yeah, but I didn't mean it."
Critter pouts, "Man, you really hurt me with some of those things you said when you testified against me the last time."
Cop says, "Hey, man, sorry about that, but you know my bosses -- they get kind of single-minded about this kind of thing. Got twenty dollars worth?"
Critter digs around his BVDs, "Yeah, hang on. Here you go ... oh, [deleted] you're going to bust me again, aren't you?"
I swear to Shiva sometimes I think the State of Texas needs a "Not Guilty By Reason of Stupidity" verdict.
Oh, well, if they were smart, I'd be out of a job.
LawDog
*snort*
I'm here to tell you that plan of Pearl's was rocket science compared to some stunts I've seen pulled.
When I got into peace officering, I had dreams of matching wits with the kinds of Bad Guys that I'd seen on Monday Night crime stories. I thought the standard cunning, crafty, and devious critter as portrayed by Hollywood was the norm.
I even had some doubts that I'd be up to the task of matching some of these criminal masterminds.
Hah!
There is a theory going around that criminals commit crimes because they are too lazy to earn an honest living.
I hate to break the news to you, but near as I can tell the Mark 1, Mod 0 Critter (Generic) commits crimes because he is too damned dumb to do honest work.
Seriously.
Those faces you see every week on America's Dumbest Criminals are not the dumbest criminals -- they're your normal everyday Standard-Issue criminals.
My paw to God -- you can ask Reno about this -- in our jail at this moment we have a critter who just wrote a letter to the Prosecution's Main Witness against him. In this letter, the critter has gone into graphic detail about the retribution he will visit upon the witness if said witness testifies against him.
He then wrote that the witness could go ahead and tell the police about the threats, because it would be the witnesses word against the word of the critter, and the critter would deny ever having threatened the witness.
He then signed the letter, dropped it into an envelope, licked-and-sealed the envelope, hand-addressed the envelope to the witness and personally handed it to the mail officer.
*blink, blink*
In my county, anyone who has been arrested for a class 'B' misdemeanor or higher must go through what is called 'magistration'. That is where a judge tells the subject what he or she has been arrested for, reads them their rights and sets a bond.
We recently started using a video set-up to do this -- the inmates sit in a room with a camera and a TeeVee and talk to a judge in another building with his own camera and TeeVee.
These cameras and microphones are connected to a DVD recorder which is always on.
Reno and I tell these people to keep their mouths shut. We inform them of their right to remain silent, we inform them that they are being recorded, and we inform them -- firmly -- that the DVDs can be sub poena'd by anyone.
After all that, we still get critters who stand up and say things like:
"Officer 'Dawg, how can they charge me with distribution when I was only holding a couple of pounds of weed?"
"Don't worry, bro, they ain't got [deleted]. I hid the [insert description of stolen goods here] in Big Poomba's storage, and the Task Force will never think to look there!"
"Officer Reno, do you think the judge would give me a PR Bond? I didn't really mean to hit anyone when I was shooting up the house, I was just trying to scare the folks inside."
*sigh*
We've got a dealer who's sold meth to the same undercover officer driving the same vehicle six times in a row. Which isn't so bad, except that the last time the dealer walked up to the truck, he says "Hey! I know you! You busted me before!"
To which the undercover cop responds, "Yeah, but I didn't mean it."
Critter pouts, "Man, you really hurt me with some of those things you said when you testified against me the last time."
Cop says, "Hey, man, sorry about that, but you know my bosses -- they get kind of single-minded about this kind of thing. Got twenty dollars worth?"
Critter digs around his BVDs, "Yeah, hang on. Here you go ... oh, [deleted] you're going to bust me again, aren't you?"
I swear to Shiva sometimes I think the State of Texas needs a "Not Guilty By Reason of Stupidity" verdict.
Oh, well, if they were smart, I'd be out of a job.
LawDog
Monday, August 28, 2006
Meditations on Entitlement
Amarillo is just about in the middle of the United States. If you're going from one side to the other on I-40, you're going to hit the 'Rillo at the halfway point.
Since Old Man Murphy likes to smack folks with Bad Events somewhere around the midpoint of any trip, Amarillo has a large number of folks stranded with no means to go any further.
So, I'm pulling into a truck-stop on the east side of Amarillo and as I drive under the overpass, I see a man and a couple of sub-teenage kids sitting on the concrete slope of the overpass, holding a sign that said:
Hungry.
Broke.
Please help.
God Bless.
After I fill up, I get three sub specials from the deli, and as I scoot under the overpass, I stop and hand the meals to the man and his kids.
I am an adult, so I don't expect thanks for this sort of thing, but I was in no way prepared for the man to look at me, draw himself up to his full height and icily exclaim, "What's this?"
I look significantly at his sign, look back at him and say, "It's food."
He glares at me and snaps, "We don't want food, we want money."
Friends and neighbors, this is a sore spot with me. I'm a big fan of the old axiom, "Beggars can't be choosers."
I figure if you're hungry enough to set aside your pride and beg, then you're hungry enough not to be picky about how -- or what -- gets you fed.
I have rules about this sort of thing: If you come to me and say that you're hungry, but don't offer to work or trade for the food, I'll feed you a meal if I have it to spare, but that's it.
If you come to me, say that you're hungry and ask what you can do in exchange for a meal, I'll feed you and give you a $20 for the road, if I have it.
If you come to me, say that you're hungry and demand that I feed you, well, buddy it just ain't your day. You're either going to take your ingrate arse the hell away from me or one of us is going to get badly hurt, because I will be damned if I'm going to give you any food or money.
Just for a second, that beggar came awfully close to wearing those meals, but I looked past him to his kids, set the bags on the concrete, and said, "There is food, feed your bairns" and started backing to my pick-up.
That two-bit waste of DNA had the nerve to bow up at me, and snarl, "What, you too good to give us money?! We don't need your charity!"
Folks, if I give a stranger any-damned-thing at all, it's charity. Food, money, fuel, a ride, it doesn't matter -- it's all charity.
Totally flabbergasted, all I could do was climb into my pick-up and drive away.
Sweet Mother Mary, what has the world come to?
I'd like to thank the Great Society and the New Deal of the New American Liberals for convincing people that not only is getting money for free not an act of charity, but is actually something to be expected; that there is no shame to be had in sticking out your paw and expecting strangers to happily -- if not gratefully -- drop money into it.
We have an entire generation, hell, an entire culture, that expects -- demands -- that those who have must give to those who don't have, and that this is the Right and Correct Way Of Things. That this is not, in any way, to be thought of as charity, lest the ego of the beggar suffer damage.
Ye Gods.
And it's getting worse.
*sigh*
When my legions of flying monkeys complete my Quest for World Domination, there's going to be whole hell of a lot of changes around here.
LawDog
Since Old Man Murphy likes to smack folks with Bad Events somewhere around the midpoint of any trip, Amarillo has a large number of folks stranded with no means to go any further.
So, I'm pulling into a truck-stop on the east side of Amarillo and as I drive under the overpass, I see a man and a couple of sub-teenage kids sitting on the concrete slope of the overpass, holding a sign that said:
Hungry.
Broke.
Please help.
God Bless.
After I fill up, I get three sub specials from the deli, and as I scoot under the overpass, I stop and hand the meals to the man and his kids.
I am an adult, so I don't expect thanks for this sort of thing, but I was in no way prepared for the man to look at me, draw himself up to his full height and icily exclaim, "What's this?"
I look significantly at his sign, look back at him and say, "It's food."
He glares at me and snaps, "We don't want food, we want money."
Friends and neighbors, this is a sore spot with me. I'm a big fan of the old axiom, "Beggars can't be choosers."
I figure if you're hungry enough to set aside your pride and beg, then you're hungry enough not to be picky about how -- or what -- gets you fed.
I have rules about this sort of thing: If you come to me and say that you're hungry, but don't offer to work or trade for the food, I'll feed you a meal if I have it to spare, but that's it.
If you come to me, say that you're hungry and ask what you can do in exchange for a meal, I'll feed you and give you a $20 for the road, if I have it.
If you come to me, say that you're hungry and demand that I feed you, well, buddy it just ain't your day. You're either going to take your ingrate arse the hell away from me or one of us is going to get badly hurt, because I will be damned if I'm going to give you any food or money.
Just for a second, that beggar came awfully close to wearing those meals, but I looked past him to his kids, set the bags on the concrete, and said, "There is food, feed your bairns" and started backing to my pick-up.
That two-bit waste of DNA had the nerve to bow up at me, and snarl, "What, you too good to give us money?! We don't need your charity!"
Folks, if I give a stranger any-damned-thing at all, it's charity. Food, money, fuel, a ride, it doesn't matter -- it's all charity.
Totally flabbergasted, all I could do was climb into my pick-up and drive away.
Sweet Mother Mary, what has the world come to?
I'd like to thank the Great Society and the New Deal of the New American Liberals for convincing people that not only is getting money for free not an act of charity, but is actually something to be expected; that there is no shame to be had in sticking out your paw and expecting strangers to happily -- if not gratefully -- drop money into it.
We have an entire generation, hell, an entire culture, that expects -- demands -- that those who have must give to those who don't have, and that this is the Right and Correct Way Of Things. That this is not, in any way, to be thought of as charity, lest the ego of the beggar suffer damage.
Ye Gods.
And it's getting worse.
*sigh*
When my legions of flying monkeys complete my Quest for World Domination, there's going to be whole hell of a lot of changes around here.
LawDog
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Bad victim! Bad, bad victim!
There's nothing quite like getting ambushed by a buzzard to let you know that your week is about to take a header down the khazi.
Especially when the buzzard is the size of a Boeing jet and made out of ball-point-pen ink.
I had walked into the main room of The Feedlot in search of nothing more exciting than a chicken fried steak dinner and a gallon of iced tea, but the main room of the restaurant seemed to have been replaced by a jail-house tattoo of a buzzard staring down into a bloody huge canyon of cleavage ...
I took a couple of steps back, looked up and groped for my pepper spray as Pearl -- Big Mama's youngest daughter and Opal's baby sister -- squinted down at me through the haze of smoke generated by the panatela cigar dangling from the side of her mouth.
"Mister 'Dog," said Pearl, removing the stogie and thumping about two inches of ash onto the carpet, "Put'cher butt inna seat. You drinkin'?"
"Pearl!" yelped the voice of the restaurants owner.
Pearl sighed, rolled her eyes at the ceiling, replaced her panatela, and -- while making suggestive pumping gestures with a closed fist (tattooed with the word "l U V E") -- sing-songed, "Welcome-to-the-Feedlot-smoking-over-there-non-smoking- over-there-would-you-like-something-to-drink."
I stood there for a moment, taking in the mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, engineer boots and spaghetti-strap halter top that revealed enough pen ink to be a monument to the Bic corporation, not to mention waaa-aay too much of six-foot-four-inch, 340+ pounds of Pearl.
"What?" she grunted, planting a fist -- this one bearing the word "H a T F" -- on one hip.
"Umm," sayeth I, more than a bit flabbergasted, "You got a ... job?"
"Yeah," she snarled, "Mother[deleted] down at the Parole Office got a little [deleted], an' tryin' to prove he a man. Told me I hadda get a job, or he gonna revoke my [deleted]."
I looked at her, "The horror."
"Got that [deleted] right." She turned and clomped off through the tables.
I made my way to my usual seat, to be joined by Joe Bob, the owner of The Feedlot.
"You've got to do something."
"I am going to do something," I murmured, "I'm going to eat a chicken-fried steak."
"No, 'Dog, you've got to do something about her," he jerked a surreptitious thumb at Pearl, who was fishing around elbow-deep in her bra, "She's driving off my business." Pearl jerked a kleenex from the depths of her decolletage, gave it a brief examination, and dropped onto a table next to a (formerly napkinless) customer.
"Private contracts between private citizens are not my business, Joe Bob. You hired her; you want her fired, you do it."
"Now, see here, 'Dog, my taxes pay your salary..."
"Yes," I interrupted, "Your taxes -- personally -- pay about 1/5500th of my salary. That's about 2 dollars per year. Here's your two bucks worth: In a fight, Pearl goes for the wedding tackle; you might want to keep that in mind."
Silence, as we watched Pearl pick up a plate in front of a customer, cock a finger under her thumb, flick ... something .. off the plate, and thump the plate back down in front of the customer.
"Do you want me to beg?"
"I'm not going to fire your employee. That's your job."
"I'm begging you."
"Nope."
"I'll pay you."
"Not going to happen."
Long silence as the other waitress set my steak dinner in front of me.
"If she kills me, where are you going to go for another steak like that, huh?"
I chewed appreciatively, "To whichever diner hires your cook."
"You'll be sorry when I'm dead."
"I'll cry and tell nice lies about you at the funeral. Pass the pepper, please."
Joe Bob snarled wordlessly at me, and then stomped off to the office.
To my surprise, dinner was uneventful (compared to other run-ins with Pearl), the rest of the shift was quiet, and I went to bed happy.
About 0445, the phone rang.
"Mmhprg, drizl?"
"'Dog," said the midnight dispatcher, "We've had a break-in at The Feedlot. Sheriff said to meet him there."
"Unkfd."
I threw on some clothes and pulled up in front of The Feedlot about the same time as the Sheriff. Bubba, the night deputy, and Joe Bob met us at the door.
"I checked the alley at 0300 and the door was shut. I came back at 0430 and the door was standing open. I've cleared the inside, and Joe Bob says the only thing missing is three boxes of steaks from the walk-in freezer."
I squinted at Joe Bob, "Did you fire her?"
"Who?" grunted Sheriff.
"Yeah, I fired her last night at closing. No thanks to you, by the way."
"He hired Big Mama's Pearl as a waitress," I said to my sleepily blinking boss, "Decided he made a mistake and wanted me to fire her for him."
"Moron," grunted the Sheriff, "Anybody know where Pearl is staying these days? I think we might want to have a chat with that girl."
As if on cue, a 1970-something primer-grey Buick no-door pulled into the parking lot of The Feedlot, and Pearl eased out of the drivers seat through the gaping hole where the door used to be.
"'Mornin', Mr. Randy, Mr. Joe Bob. I done heard about the thievin' and I know some people who know some people and I thought since you was a nice man 'n' all, I'd get you a couple'a box of steaks to replace the ones that done got stoled."
She lifted two white boxes out of the back of the Buick and placed them on the trunk lid.
"Now, Pearl," murmured the Sheriff, laying a hand on a box, "That's almighty neighborly of you."
I'm sure that it was random chance that caused the Sheriff's hand to cover the orange-and-white sticker that read: "Deliver to The Feedlot, Bugscuffle, Texas".
I nodded, wandering up on the other side of Pearl.
"Hey," said Joe Bob, "That's ... OW!"
"Sorry, Sheriff," said Bubba, "I seem to have accidentally stepped upon Joe Bob's foot."
"Now, Mr. Joe Bob, I done bought these here boxes at twenny dolla's each. Just to show there ain't no hard feelin's 'tween you 'n' me, and 'cause you is in a bad way right now, I'll sell 'em to you at twenny each. I won't take no profit, 'cause I like you."
"Well, now, Pearl," smiled the Sheriff, "That doesn't seem hardly right. Tell you we're going to do. Seeing as how Mr. Joe Bob can't lock up his place, we'll take these steaks down to the office so they'll be safe. While we're there, I'm going to write you a receipt for the boxes, and we'll get the town Good Samaritan Fund to pay you fifty dollars for this good deed."
"That's awful nice of you, Mr. Randy," sayeth Pearl, as Bubba gathered up the boxes and put them in the back seat of his cruiser.
I smiled real big at Pearl, and held open the back door of the Sheriff's cruiser as -- with every indication of courtesy and manners -- the Sheriff gently took her arm, patted her hand and led her to his car.
"Are you blind?" bellowed Joe Bob, as he waved one of the stickers from the steak boxes in our general direction, "These are my own [deleted] steaks! Are you [deleted] stupid enough to pay her for the [deleted] steaks she [deleted] STOLE?!"
*sigh*
Things went rodeo from there.
Pearl planted her feet as the Sheriff attempted to shove her at the backdoor of the cruiser, I jumped forward and snagged a good grip on her other arm, and the night deputy came sprinting at us, unlimbering his can of OC.
I fired a solid knee-strike into Pearl's thigh -- which would theoretically distract her from what we were attempting to do -- but she was apparently too busy batting the Sheriff across the parking lot to notice. Seeing as how Plan 'A' was well-and-truly Paws Up, I knee-struck Pearl a second-time, and attempted a take-down.
Unfortunately, right after the knee-strike hit, I felt her arm straighten out, and then she got my full and complete attention -- along with a huge paw-full of the bifurcation of my jeans.
She yanked up, and I was more than happy to jump whichever way she was wanting to go. Unfortunately, I bobbled the landing a bit, and hit the parking lot at Pearl's feet.
Bubba lined up on Pearl's face with his can of OC, but held fire as the Sheriff jumped up onto Pearl's back and snaked an arm around her neck. She dug her chin into her chest, blocking the Sheriff's choke, reached out and got a paw-full of Bubba's face, and proceeded to throw him bodily across the parking lot, turned and started lumbering to her car.
Seeing no other choice, I reached up and wrapped both my arms around her leg, forcing her to drag me along.
Especially when the buzzard is the size of a Boeing jet and made out of ball-point-pen ink.
I had walked into the main room of The Feedlot in search of nothing more exciting than a chicken fried steak dinner and a gallon of iced tea, but the main room of the restaurant seemed to have been replaced by a jail-house tattoo of a buzzard staring down into a bloody huge canyon of cleavage ...
I took a couple of steps back, looked up and groped for my pepper spray as Pearl -- Big Mama's youngest daughter and Opal's baby sister -- squinted down at me through the haze of smoke generated by the panatela cigar dangling from the side of her mouth.
"Mister 'Dog," said Pearl, removing the stogie and thumping about two inches of ash onto the carpet, "Put'cher butt inna seat. You drinkin'?"
"Pearl!" yelped the voice of the restaurants owner.
Pearl sighed, rolled her eyes at the ceiling, replaced her panatela, and -- while making suggestive pumping gestures with a closed fist (tattooed with the word "l U V E") -- sing-songed, "Welcome-to-the-Feedlot-smoking-over-there-non-smoking- over-there-would-you-like-something-to-drink."
I stood there for a moment, taking in the mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, engineer boots and spaghetti-strap halter top that revealed enough pen ink to be a monument to the Bic corporation, not to mention waaa-aay too much of six-foot-four-inch, 340+ pounds of Pearl.
"What?" she grunted, planting a fist -- this one bearing the word "H a T F" -- on one hip.
"Umm," sayeth I, more than a bit flabbergasted, "You got a ... job?"
"Yeah," she snarled, "Mother[deleted] down at the Parole Office got a little [deleted], an' tryin' to prove he a man. Told me I hadda get a job, or he gonna revoke my [deleted]."
I looked at her, "The horror."
"Got that [deleted] right." She turned and clomped off through the tables.
I made my way to my usual seat, to be joined by Joe Bob, the owner of The Feedlot.
"You've got to do something."
"I am going to do something," I murmured, "I'm going to eat a chicken-fried steak."
"No, 'Dog, you've got to do something about her," he jerked a surreptitious thumb at Pearl, who was fishing around elbow-deep in her bra, "She's driving off my business." Pearl jerked a kleenex from the depths of her decolletage, gave it a brief examination, and dropped onto a table next to a (formerly napkinless) customer.
"Private contracts between private citizens are not my business, Joe Bob. You hired her; you want her fired, you do it."
"Now, see here, 'Dog, my taxes pay your salary..."
"Yes," I interrupted, "Your taxes -- personally -- pay about 1/5500th of my salary. That's about 2 dollars per year. Here's your two bucks worth: In a fight, Pearl goes for the wedding tackle; you might want to keep that in mind."
Silence, as we watched Pearl pick up a plate in front of a customer, cock a finger under her thumb, flick ... something .. off the plate, and thump the plate back down in front of the customer.
"Do you want me to beg?"
"I'm not going to fire your employee. That's your job."
"I'm begging you."
"Nope."
"I'll pay you."
"Not going to happen."
Long silence as the other waitress set my steak dinner in front of me.
"If she kills me, where are you going to go for another steak like that, huh?"
I chewed appreciatively, "To whichever diner hires your cook."
"You'll be sorry when I'm dead."
"I'll cry and tell nice lies about you at the funeral. Pass the pepper, please."
Joe Bob snarled wordlessly at me, and then stomped off to the office.
To my surprise, dinner was uneventful (compared to other run-ins with Pearl), the rest of the shift was quiet, and I went to bed happy.
About 0445, the phone rang.
"Mmhprg, drizl?"
"'Dog," said the midnight dispatcher, "We've had a break-in at The Feedlot. Sheriff said to meet him there."
"Unkfd."
I threw on some clothes and pulled up in front of The Feedlot about the same time as the Sheriff. Bubba, the night deputy, and Joe Bob met us at the door.
"I checked the alley at 0300 and the door was shut. I came back at 0430 and the door was standing open. I've cleared the inside, and Joe Bob says the only thing missing is three boxes of steaks from the walk-in freezer."
I squinted at Joe Bob, "Did you fire her?"
"Who?" grunted Sheriff.
"Yeah, I fired her last night at closing. No thanks to you, by the way."
"He hired Big Mama's Pearl as a waitress," I said to my sleepily blinking boss, "Decided he made a mistake and wanted me to fire her for him."
"Moron," grunted the Sheriff, "Anybody know where Pearl is staying these days? I think we might want to have a chat with that girl."
As if on cue, a 1970-something primer-grey Buick no-door pulled into the parking lot of The Feedlot, and Pearl eased out of the drivers seat through the gaping hole where the door used to be.
"'Mornin', Mr. Randy, Mr. Joe Bob. I done heard about the thievin' and I know some people who know some people and I thought since you was a nice man 'n' all, I'd get you a couple'a box of steaks to replace the ones that done got stoled."
She lifted two white boxes out of the back of the Buick and placed them on the trunk lid.
"Now, Pearl," murmured the Sheriff, laying a hand on a box, "That's almighty neighborly of you."
I'm sure that it was random chance that caused the Sheriff's hand to cover the orange-and-white sticker that read: "Deliver to The Feedlot, Bugscuffle, Texas".
I nodded, wandering up on the other side of Pearl.
"Hey," said Joe Bob, "That's ... OW!"
"Sorry, Sheriff," said Bubba, "I seem to have accidentally stepped upon Joe Bob's foot."
"Now, Mr. Joe Bob, I done bought these here boxes at twenny dolla's each. Just to show there ain't no hard feelin's 'tween you 'n' me, and 'cause you is in a bad way right now, I'll sell 'em to you at twenny each. I won't take no profit, 'cause I like you."
"Well, now, Pearl," smiled the Sheriff, "That doesn't seem hardly right. Tell you we're going to do. Seeing as how Mr. Joe Bob can't lock up his place, we'll take these steaks down to the office so they'll be safe. While we're there, I'm going to write you a receipt for the boxes, and we'll get the town Good Samaritan Fund to pay you fifty dollars for this good deed."
"That's awful nice of you, Mr. Randy," sayeth Pearl, as Bubba gathered up the boxes and put them in the back seat of his cruiser.
I smiled real big at Pearl, and held open the back door of the Sheriff's cruiser as -- with every indication of courtesy and manners -- the Sheriff gently took her arm, patted her hand and led her to his car.
"Are you blind?" bellowed Joe Bob, as he waved one of the stickers from the steak boxes in our general direction, "These are my own [deleted] steaks! Are you [deleted] stupid enough to pay her for the [deleted] steaks she [deleted] STOLE?!"
*sigh*
Things went rodeo from there.
Pearl planted her feet as the Sheriff attempted to shove her at the backdoor of the cruiser, I jumped forward and snagged a good grip on her other arm, and the night deputy came sprinting at us, unlimbering his can of OC.
I fired a solid knee-strike into Pearl's thigh -- which would theoretically distract her from what we were attempting to do -- but she was apparently too busy batting the Sheriff across the parking lot to notice. Seeing as how Plan 'A' was well-and-truly Paws Up, I knee-struck Pearl a second-time, and attempted a take-down.
Unfortunately, right after the knee-strike hit, I felt her arm straighten out, and then she got my full and complete attention -- along with a huge paw-full of the bifurcation of my jeans.
She yanked up, and I was more than happy to jump whichever way she was wanting to go. Unfortunately, I bobbled the landing a bit, and hit the parking lot at Pearl's feet.
Bubba lined up on Pearl's face with his can of OC, but held fire as the Sheriff jumped up onto Pearl's back and snaked an arm around her neck. She dug her chin into her chest, blocking the Sheriff's choke, reached out and got a paw-full of Bubba's face, and proceeded to throw him bodily across the parking lot, turned and started lumbering to her car.
Seeing no other choice, I reached up and wrapped both my arms around her leg, forcing her to drag me along.
She took about four steps, then stopped to try to pull the Sheriff off of her back, and I took the opportunity to weasel my slapper out of my vest pocket, then she started dragging me in a circle, while I held on for dear life.
Bubba pulled himself out of the gravel, took a couple of steps and then kicked the hell out of Pearl's other leg, rocking her and giving me the chance to wrap my legs around her leg and start beating the absolute whey out of her thigh with my slapper.
Between Bubba yelling, "Get down!" between kicks to her left leg, me wrapped like a rabid spider-monkey around her right leg while pounding it with a lead weight, and the Sheriff furiously trying to lock that choke in -- it was only about another five minutes before Pearl gave up the fight.
We got her 'cuffed and stuffed into the back of the Sheriff's cruiser; and we're taking stock of the various injuries, when Joe Bob bounced over just as excited as a litter of puppies.
"Holy [deleted]! That was better'n Monday Night Wrasslin'! That was like ... like ... a comic book! Wow!"
"Joe Bob," muttered the Sheriff, trying to staunch a gushing nose, "You are a moron. I oughta flat whip your butt. Go home, get something to lock your diner up with and come get your steaks at the office -- later. Let's go."
I swear: that was the shortest serious fight we ever had with one of Big Mama's offspring. I'm kind of proud.
LawDog
Friday, August 25, 2006
Voila!
Okay, first things first: To the right, you should be seeing the first picture of the sprog.The last time we did this, it was a wee bit more of a surprise. This one's older brother still had a week or so left on the timer when he got a bit impatient and I got a phone call at work, saying, "Congratulations! You're an uncle!"
I headed over to the hospital, hoofed it up to the maternity floor, asked for the room at the nurses station and trundled down to visit.
The fact that I was in full uniform didn't really dawn on me until later.
The new daddy took the opportunity to go get some sleep, so I sat in the room for a while making appropriate noises at the kid while mama dozed.
I didn't find out for a while that a couple of the nurses saw a fully-uniformed officer sitting in the room, and came to an understandable, yet completely erroneous conclusion: they assumed that new mama was a jail inmate.
Of course, once I discovered this, I didn't help matters much -- after the snickering stopped -- by telling every staff member who walked into the room that mama was the prime suspect in a Federal Grand Mopery case.
What can I say? I'm shameless.
Anyhoo, I get off work for this one (wearing my S.O. uniform), drive over to the hospital, step off the elevator, and before I can even open my mouth, five nurses point down the hall and tell me the room number.
Apparently Little Mother fully briefed the nursing staff, so as to avoid a repeat of the "Grand Mopery Suspect" bit again.
Oh, well. Foiled again.
Life is good.
LawDog
North Texas/Southern Oklahoma Public Safety BBQ Cook-Off.
Couple of friends of mine over at Wichita County S.O. put a fund-raising group together, called "The Wichita County Sheriff's Posse". Each year they pick a local charity, and then spend the year raising funds for that charity.
October 14, they're going to be hosting the 1st Annual North Texas & Southern Oklahoma Public Safety BBQ Cook-Off.
If you're involved in Public Safety -- Fire Department, Hospital, Police Department, Rescue Squad, Sheriff's Office, anything having to do with the safety of the Public -- and you know your way around ribs, beans or brisket, why don't you consider swinging by the BBQ Cook-Off?
If you can't cook, but you know a Public Safety-type group that can, consider shooting them an e-mail heads up about this.
Good food for a good cause.
LawDog
October 14, they're going to be hosting the 1st Annual North Texas & Southern Oklahoma Public Safety BBQ Cook-Off.
If you're involved in Public Safety -- Fire Department, Hospital, Police Department, Rescue Squad, Sheriff's Office, anything having to do with the safety of the Public -- and you know your way around ribs, beans or brisket, why don't you consider swinging by the BBQ Cook-Off?
If you can't cook, but you know a Public Safety-type group that can, consider shooting them an e-mail heads up about this.
Good food for a good cause.
LawDog
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The clan increases.
0730 this morning. Baby boy; 6lbs, 3 ozs; 18 inches. Limbs, digits and everything else all present or accounted for.
Picture and funny story to follow.
LawDog
Picture and funny story to follow.
LawDog
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Second accusation of racism
This makes twice that someone has read one of my stories and come to the conclusion that I am racist.
And I have always thought that my stories involving Brigadier-Captain Azikiwe would get me slapped with a racism tag, but so far it's been a law enforcement story both times.
I wonder why this is? I had thought that maybe the occasional reader would see "Texas Peace Officer" and find me automatically Guilty Of Racism Until Proven Innocent due to the Southern Cop Stereotype, but I don't really see any clues in this story to point to me being a Texas cop.
How odd.
And I hate to break it to her, but while that story involves some violence, it doesn't come close to the level of 'sickening' that I am capable of.
The pen that writes humour can, if it so wishes, produce tales of violence that have given people nightmares.
Mr. Critter lived a violent life of crime. He lived by violence and he died by violence. That is a fact. Getting your hanes into a half-hitch over it isn't going to change that fact in any way.
And that, as they say, is that.
Blogging may be light the next couple of days, folks. Looks like I am set to become an uncle again by way of C-Section either tomorrow or Friday -- coincidentally enough by the same sister-in-law that set me straight the last time a reader labelled me a racist.
How's that for a co-inky-dink?
See y'all when I see you.
LawDog
And I have always thought that my stories involving Brigadier-Captain Azikiwe would get me slapped with a racism tag, but so far it's been a law enforcement story both times.
I wonder why this is? I had thought that maybe the occasional reader would see "Texas Peace Officer" and find me automatically Guilty Of Racism Until Proven Innocent due to the Southern Cop Stereotype, but I don't really see any clues in this story to point to me being a Texas cop.
How odd.
And I hate to break it to her, but while that story involves some violence, it doesn't come close to the level of 'sickening' that I am capable of.
The pen that writes humour can, if it so wishes, produce tales of violence that have given people nightmares.
Mr. Critter lived a violent life of crime. He lived by violence and he died by violence. That is a fact. Getting your hanes into a half-hitch over it isn't going to change that fact in any way.
And that, as they say, is that.
Blogging may be light the next couple of days, folks. Looks like I am set to become an uncle again by way of C-Section either tomorrow or Friday -- coincidentally enough by the same sister-in-law that set me straight the last time a reader labelled me a racist.
How's that for a co-inky-dink?
See y'all when I see you.
LawDog
Britain, I knew ye when ye were great.
Some poncey little sheep-shagger in England wrote in to the communications regulating authority (OfCom) snivelling because -- wait for it -- Tom the Cat in the old Tom & Jerry Show was smoking in two episodes of the 1960's era classic cartoon series.
I shall now pause to give the Gentle Reader time to recover from the absolute shock regarding the very idea of a 1960's cartoon smoking a cigarette.
Turner Broadcasting was contacted by OfCom regarding the -- two -- complaints by that one individual, and was apparently advised that similar evils were being displayed in episodes of Scooby-Doo and The Flintstones.
OfCom has happily noted in its news bulletin: "... proposed editing any scenes or references in the series where smoking appeared to be condoned, acceptable, glamorized or where it might encourage imitation,"
Just out of curiosity, is there nothing else in the whole of Brittania that might be of more concern to the health and morals of the children than a CARTOON CAT SMOKING?!
Yes, the pen-and-ink drawing of a cat is smoking a massive stogie, and this is a Bad Thing, healthwise.
It is, however, maybe not so bad a thing as the various pen-and-ink stars getting blown to bits with a grenade; cut into neat cubes by a chain-link fence; set on fire; crushed; punctured by a large weight; and drowned -- all in the same episode (which is a particular favorite of mine).
Children the world over realize that while it is funny for the cartoon mouse to run the cartoon cat over with a lawn-mower, they shouldn't do the same to Little Brother. They understand that dropping the anvil upon the head of the mouse Is Good, but dropping an anvil upon the head of the neighbor next door is Not So Good.
If children can figure that one out, why the hell do we think they can't -- with a bit of guidance -- figure out that smoking isn't something you want to do?
Nope. Someone -- one bleeding heart with apparently waaa-aayyy too much time on his paws -- has to get his knickers into a knot over petty bushwa, and the Brit Gummint has to Step In And Do Something.
Couldn't just send two officials over to his house: "We are in receipt of your memorandum, and we understand that you have taken offence over the sight of a cartoon cat smoking a cartoon cigarette. We have just had a Meeting on this matter, and we have concluded that you are just going to have to get over it, old boy."
Nooo. Got to go politely murmur a bit of courteous coercion to the owner of the cartoons and encourage said owner to check every-sodding-cartoon for examples of the Evil Weed, so that said depictions may be edited away.
If Mumsy and Popsy are smokers, or Nana is a smoker, or if Uncle Ned is a smoker, one would tend to think that hiding a cartoon cat's nasty nicotine habit might not have the anti-smoking effect that might be wished for.
*sigh*
Not that we're any better -- Spielberg should have been drawn-and-quartered for the digital editing of guns in the Anniversary Edition of E.T. -- but for some reason this censoring of childhood cartoons is just flying all over me something fierce.
So, we edit the evils of smoking out of classic cartoons. Don't want the idols of children to be caught smoking.
Tell me, is Winston Churchill still an idol for school-children, or is he unacceptable these days? If he is still considered someone for children to look up to, shall we expect the CG elimination of that huge cigar he was always masticating by this time next week?
Surely if Tom Cat, Scooby-Doo and Fred Flintstone should not be seen by children smoking the Vile Weed, that should also hold true for some old Prime Minister.
"It's for the Chhhiiiilllldddrreennn!" Sweet Shivering Shiva.
Somebody stop the ride -- I want off.
LawDog
I shall now pause to give the Gentle Reader time to recover from the absolute shock regarding the very idea of a 1960's cartoon smoking a cigarette.
Turner Broadcasting was contacted by OfCom regarding the -- two -- complaints by that one individual, and was apparently advised that similar evils were being displayed in episodes of Scooby-Doo and The Flintstones.
OfCom has happily noted in its news bulletin: "... proposed editing any scenes or references in the series where smoking appeared to be condoned, acceptable, glamorized or where it might encourage imitation,"
Just out of curiosity, is there nothing else in the whole of Brittania that might be of more concern to the health and morals of the children than a CARTOON CAT SMOKING?!
Yes, the pen-and-ink drawing of a cat is smoking a massive stogie, and this is a Bad Thing, healthwise.
It is, however, maybe not so bad a thing as the various pen-and-ink stars getting blown to bits with a grenade; cut into neat cubes by a chain-link fence; set on fire; crushed; punctured by a large weight; and drowned -- all in the same episode (which is a particular favorite of mine).
Children the world over realize that while it is funny for the cartoon mouse to run the cartoon cat over with a lawn-mower, they shouldn't do the same to Little Brother. They understand that dropping the anvil upon the head of the mouse Is Good, but dropping an anvil upon the head of the neighbor next door is Not So Good.
If children can figure that one out, why the hell do we think they can't -- with a bit of guidance -- figure out that smoking isn't something you want to do?
Nope. Someone -- one bleeding heart with apparently waaa-aayyy too much time on his paws -- has to get his knickers into a knot over petty bushwa, and the Brit Gummint has to Step In And Do Something.
Couldn't just send two officials over to his house: "We are in receipt of your memorandum, and we understand that you have taken offence over the sight of a cartoon cat smoking a cartoon cigarette. We have just had a Meeting on this matter, and we have concluded that you are just going to have to get over it, old boy."
Nooo. Got to go politely murmur a bit of courteous coercion to the owner of the cartoons and encourage said owner to check every-sodding-cartoon for examples of the Evil Weed, so that said depictions may be edited away.
If Mumsy and Popsy are smokers, or Nana is a smoker, or if Uncle Ned is a smoker, one would tend to think that hiding a cartoon cat's nasty nicotine habit might not have the anti-smoking effect that might be wished for.
*sigh*
Not that we're any better -- Spielberg should have been drawn-and-quartered for the digital editing of guns in the Anniversary Edition of E.T. -- but for some reason this censoring of childhood cartoons is just flying all over me something fierce.
So, we edit the evils of smoking out of classic cartoons. Don't want the idols of children to be caught smoking.
Tell me, is Winston Churchill still an idol for school-children, or is he unacceptable these days? If he is still considered someone for children to look up to, shall we expect the CG elimination of that huge cigar he was always masticating by this time next week?
Surely if Tom Cat, Scooby-Doo and Fred Flintstone should not be seen by children smoking the Vile Weed, that should also hold true for some old Prime Minister.
"It's for the Chhhiiiilllldddrreennn!" Sweet Shivering Shiva.
Somebody stop the ride -- I want off.
LawDog
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
BUGGER!
Stupid magic elf box.
I just spent an hour putting together a scribble on the Fox News team missing in Gaza. It was pithy. It was quotable. For once, I was pleased with it.
Gone.
The idea is from Michelle Malkin, she's not altogether happy with the lack of response to this story from non-Fox-News Mainstream Media, the disinterest in the story from just about everyone, nor the vicious, psychotic giggles from certain areas of the political spectrum.
Her idea is to get the story running through Blog World, and see what shakes loose.
Now, I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier when it comes to Things Computerical. People think I am being witty when I refer to the computer as the Magic Elf Box, and speak of sacrificing chickens to appease the spirits that live inside.
Not so much.
Apparently, my magic elves don't get along worth a damn with Ms. Malkin's magic elves, or I offered up the wrong variety of Kentucky Fried at start-up, because after a good hour -plus of brain sweat, I did the clicky linky thing using her Trackback thingy, my elves talked to her elves, my elves had a snit, and then my elves hauled off and ate my post. All of it. Gone.
*sigh*
It was a thing of beauty, too.
A quick-and-dirty recap:
On Monday, August 14 2006, persons unknown used two large trucks to entrap and block a clearly-marked Fox News vehicle within spitting distance of the Palestinian Security Service HQ. Once the Fox vehicle was immobilized, multiple gunmen emerged from the trucks and kidnapped 60-year-old American reporter Steven Centanni and 36-year-old New Zealand freelance cameraman Olaf Wiig.
Nothing has been heard regarding the fate of the two men since then. No press releases, no claimed responsibility, nothing.
I waxed poetic regarding the fact that the Fox News site was still running Mr. Centanni's bio, complete with the stated facts that Mr. Centanni was an embedded journalist with a SeAL team during Operation Iraqi Freedom, and that he was the first western journalist to arrive at the scene where the 101st did the needful to Udey and Qusay Hussain. I opined that those kinds of things might not sit too well with Johnny Terr.
I meditated thoroughly upon the fact that ex-hostage Jill Carroll is all over the MSM simply because she has written a book about her captivity, yet two journalists currently being held captive merit absolutely no mention.
I held forth at length regarding the character, scruples, ancestry and probable deviant habits of those who would wish further harm upon these two men simply because they work for Fox News. I used three- and four-dollar words.
Anyhoo -- all gone.
Ms. Malkin thought it might do some good to nudge the MainStreamers a bit and see what runs out from under the rocks.
So, go forth and nudge.
LawDog
I just spent an hour putting together a scribble on the Fox News team missing in Gaza. It was pithy. It was quotable. For once, I was pleased with it.
Gone.
The idea is from Michelle Malkin, she's not altogether happy with the lack of response to this story from non-Fox-News Mainstream Media, the disinterest in the story from just about everyone, nor the vicious, psychotic giggles from certain areas of the political spectrum.
Her idea is to get the story running through Blog World, and see what shakes loose.
Now, I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier when it comes to Things Computerical. People think I am being witty when I refer to the computer as the Magic Elf Box, and speak of sacrificing chickens to appease the spirits that live inside.
Not so much.
Apparently, my magic elves don't get along worth a damn with Ms. Malkin's magic elves, or I offered up the wrong variety of Kentucky Fried at start-up, because after a good hour -plus of brain sweat, I did the clicky linky thing using her Trackback thingy, my elves talked to her elves, my elves had a snit, and then my elves hauled off and ate my post. All of it. Gone.
*sigh*
It was a thing of beauty, too.
A quick-and-dirty recap:
On Monday, August 14 2006, persons unknown used two large trucks to entrap and block a clearly-marked Fox News vehicle within spitting distance of the Palestinian Security Service HQ. Once the Fox vehicle was immobilized, multiple gunmen emerged from the trucks and kidnapped 60-year-old American reporter Steven Centanni and 36-year-old New Zealand freelance cameraman Olaf Wiig.
Nothing has been heard regarding the fate of the two men since then. No press releases, no claimed responsibility, nothing.
I waxed poetic regarding the fact that the Fox News site was still running Mr. Centanni's bio, complete with the stated facts that Mr. Centanni was an embedded journalist with a SeAL team during Operation Iraqi Freedom, and that he was the first western journalist to arrive at the scene where the 101st did the needful to Udey and Qusay Hussain. I opined that those kinds of things might not sit too well with Johnny Terr.
I meditated thoroughly upon the fact that ex-hostage Jill Carroll is all over the MSM simply because she has written a book about her captivity, yet two journalists currently being held captive merit absolutely no mention.
I held forth at length regarding the character, scruples, ancestry and probable deviant habits of those who would wish further harm upon these two men simply because they work for Fox News. I used three- and four-dollar words.
Anyhoo -- all gone.
Ms. Malkin thought it might do some good to nudge the MainStreamers a bit and see what runs out from under the rocks.
So, go forth and nudge.
LawDog
Monday, August 21, 2006
Shut up. Sit down. Be silent.
You know, I'm not a big fan of the Media, but I've not actually descended into active hate.
Yet.
Various MainStream Media lawyers are demanding that the arrest warrant for John Mark Kerr, and any other records involving the Jon Benet Ramsey murder investigation be unsealed, so that the MainStream Media may look through the records for themselves.
I have a answer for that. It involves the lawyers and the MainStream Media comitting anatomically improbable sexual acts of moderate deviancy upon themselves.
Allow me to reveal a quote from the filing:
"There is great public interest to learn whether the arrest of John Mark Karr solved the case after a decade or is yet another `mistake,'"
So, if I read this correctly, the MainStream Media wishes to decide for themselves whether the murder of JonBenet Ramsey has been solved.
Silly me, here I was under the impression that that sort of thing would be settled IN COURT.
This is yet another example of the Media getting too big for its britches.
Tell me, truly, if -- and that's one big 'if' -- the judge unseals these records and lets the Media sniff around and "learn whether the arrest of John Mark Karr solved the case", what then?
What happens once the Media decides that the case has -- or has not -- been solved?
Yeah. They're going to start running their fat mouths. Headlines. Op-Ed pieces. Special music on CNN. Repeating the same damned soundbites every fifteen minutes for the next two weeks.
How the hell -- I ask you -- how the hell do you guarantee an impartial jury (Amendment VI, US Constitution) when 24 hour news channels and internet news sites are blasting their opinions everywhere you look?
"In a democracy, in an open society, there's scrutiny of public officials, and how can there be scrutiny without information?" said John Temple, editor and publisher of the Rocky Mountain News.
Who the hell decided that the "rights" of an "open society" trump the right of the accused to a fair trial?
Who the hell decided that the "rights" of an "open society" trump the rights of the family of the victim to the closure of a trial without wondering what effect media spin had? And where was I when this meeting was held?
Listen to me: you want to scrutinize public officials? Knock yourself out -- AFTER any trial is done. Everything is public record then, go forth and conquer.
Until then, do everyone a favour and limit yourself to doing your sodding job, and let the investigators, judge and jury do theirs.
There are details in those records which only the investigators and the killer know. There is no need for the General Public to know these details. And let us face the truth -- once the Media knows it -- EVERYONE is going to know it.
"But, LawDog," I hear you say, "Surely the Media will handle this case with the discretion it deserves."
Yeah. Sure they will. Just like the New York Times used its discretion on the story concerning the wonderfully successful tracking and apprehension of international terrorists by way of electronic fund transfers.
Jumped right to the top of the tallest tower they could find and brayed the details to the Universe (metaphorically speaking), didn't they?
This bunch of hacks with delusions of adequacy won't be any different. Five minutes after they find out a detail that only the killer would know -- the whole rotten planet will know.
Sod the lot of them.
You want to solve crimes? Go to a police academy, then join a department. Work your way up to investigator. Deciding guilt or innocence is not -- despite any grandiose self-delusions -- your purvue.
So. Take your filings and your demands, fold them until they're all points, and then shove them up your various fundments until the lot of you gag.
And while you're gagging, you can wait like everyone else and report the conclusion -- just like everyone else.
*spit*
LawDog
Yet.
Various MainStream Media lawyers are demanding that the arrest warrant for John Mark Kerr, and any other records involving the Jon Benet Ramsey murder investigation be unsealed, so that the MainStream Media may look through the records for themselves.
I have a answer for that. It involves the lawyers and the MainStream Media comitting anatomically improbable sexual acts of moderate deviancy upon themselves.
Allow me to reveal a quote from the filing:
"There is great public interest to learn whether the arrest of John Mark Karr solved the case after a decade or is yet another `mistake,'"
So, if I read this correctly, the MainStream Media wishes to decide for themselves whether the murder of JonBenet Ramsey has been solved.
Silly me, here I was under the impression that that sort of thing would be settled IN COURT.
This is yet another example of the Media getting too big for its britches.
Tell me, truly, if -- and that's one big 'if' -- the judge unseals these records and lets the Media sniff around and "learn whether the arrest of John Mark Karr solved the case", what then?
What happens once the Media decides that the case has -- or has not -- been solved?
Yeah. They're going to start running their fat mouths. Headlines. Op-Ed pieces. Special music on CNN. Repeating the same damned soundbites every fifteen minutes for the next two weeks.
How the hell -- I ask you -- how the hell do you guarantee an impartial jury (Amendment VI, US Constitution) when 24 hour news channels and internet news sites are blasting their opinions everywhere you look?
"In a democracy, in an open society, there's scrutiny of public officials, and how can there be scrutiny without information?" said John Temple, editor and publisher of the Rocky Mountain News.
Who the hell decided that the "rights" of an "open society" trump the right of the accused to a fair trial?
Who the hell decided that the "rights" of an "open society" trump the rights of the family of the victim to the closure of a trial without wondering what effect media spin had? And where was I when this meeting was held?
Listen to me: you want to scrutinize public officials? Knock yourself out -- AFTER any trial is done. Everything is public record then, go forth and conquer.
Until then, do everyone a favour and limit yourself to doing your sodding job, and let the investigators, judge and jury do theirs.
There are details in those records which only the investigators and the killer know. There is no need for the General Public to know these details. And let us face the truth -- once the Media knows it -- EVERYONE is going to know it.
"But, LawDog," I hear you say, "Surely the Media will handle this case with the discretion it deserves."
Yeah. Sure they will. Just like the New York Times used its discretion on the story concerning the wonderfully successful tracking and apprehension of international terrorists by way of electronic fund transfers.
Jumped right to the top of the tallest tower they could find and brayed the details to the Universe (metaphorically speaking), didn't they?
This bunch of hacks with delusions of adequacy won't be any different. Five minutes after they find out a detail that only the killer would know -- the whole rotten planet will know.
Sod the lot of them.
You want to solve crimes? Go to a police academy, then join a department. Work your way up to investigator. Deciding guilt or innocence is not -- despite any grandiose self-delusions -- your purvue.
So. Take your filings and your demands, fold them until they're all points, and then shove them up your various fundments until the lot of you gag.
And while you're gagging, you can wait like everyone else and report the conclusion -- just like everyone else.
*spit*
LawDog
Cor...
I'd like to extend a paw of greeting to the readers from The Other Side of Kim, The Barking Moonbat Early Warning System, and The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler.
All three Internet heavyweights saw fit to mention my little scribblings on their respective pages today, and as a result my poor SiteMeter is probably running for its life right now.
Appreciate it, folks. Hope y'all enjoy the scribbles.
LawDog
All three Internet heavyweights saw fit to mention my little scribblings on their respective pages today, and as a result my poor SiteMeter is probably running for its life right now.
Appreciate it, folks. Hope y'all enjoy the scribbles.
LawDog
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Paw of Approval
Traditionally, one should not be caught away from your house without a knife and a way to make fire somewhere on your person.
Following this rule has generally made life easier for me -- in all senses of the phrase -- but I have come to the conclusion that one should add "and a light" to this axiom.
There are those who would argue that having a way to make fire with you pretty much takes care of the light situation, but in theCentury of the Fruitbat* present time, there are more situations where a flaming torch simply makes the situation worse, than there are where a flaming torch helps.
So. Some kind of flashlight is advisable.
For last year or so, I've been dinking around with a couple of portable light sources which have actually managed to impress me.
The first is the Photon Micro-light II with the white LED. This handy little darlin' clips onto your keychain slick as a whistle, is smaller than a quarter, and is bright enough to light a dark hallway for a decent distance.
Once it's on your key-chain, it pretty much goes unnoticed until such time as you need it, and you'd be surprised what kind of needs you can come up with. My brother and I have used Photon II's to signal each other across a mall parking lot, and I've locked mine in the 'ON' position, looped some fishing thread through the key-chain hole, and lowered it behind counters and into pipes looking for things.
The battery has been good for ~ a year, and is replaceable. At about $16.00 these things are a bargain.
While the microlight is a jolly decent bit of kit, there are times when one simply must have a bigger flashlight than the little Photon, and in this we are fortunate in that there is simply an un-ending parade of miniature lights to choose from.
The flashlights powered by lithium batteries are the current darlings of the lighting world, and for good reason: lithium batteries have a shelf-life of ten years or so, and the lights they power put out an amazing amount of light.
They do have a couple of minor drawbacks, though. While my Surefire 6P puts the sun to shame, when Surefire says that the batteries are good for about 60 minutes, they aren't kidding. That little Surefire runs like a top for the first 60 total minutes; at 60 minutes and thirty seconds the beam starts to get dim, and at 61 total minutes the batteries are dead and the light is out.
Also, running it for any extended period -- say more than 30 seconds -- and it gets HOT. One minute of constant 'on' gets you raise-a-blister temperatures.
Great for back-up to a regular flashlight, and great for searching rooms, but maybe not so good for every-day utility.
My little sister, bless her heart, gave me an iNova X5, as a present.
Folks, this little light is neater than kitten toes. It is powered with the same two lithium battery types that run my Surefire, but with five high-output white-light LED bulbs, the X5 is rated for 20 hours of total use, rather then the one hour total of the Surefire, and the X5 hasn't ever gotten warm enough to notice since I started using it.
It's been dropped in a swimming pool, dropped off of a house, and used in yawara drills without a whimper.
I wouldn't give up my Surefire for it -- the beam isn't anywhere as concentrated as the beam of the 6P, and the beam doesn't seem to have the same kind of range and distance as the 6P, but it's put-it-in-your-pocket-and-forget-about-it small, tough, and pretty much beats my old Mag-Light in every category except skull-thumping ability.
You may find something that suits you better -- and if you do, you should stick with it -- but if you're looking for compact, powerful little lights, you might cast an eye towards these two, they won't do you wrong.
LawDog
*Obscure Terry Pratchett reference. Sorry about that.
Following this rule has generally made life easier for me -- in all senses of the phrase -- but I have come to the conclusion that one should add "and a light" to this axiom.
There are those who would argue that having a way to make fire with you pretty much takes care of the light situation, but in the
So. Some kind of flashlight is advisable.
For last year or so, I've been dinking around with a couple of portable light sources which have actually managed to impress me.
The first is the Photon Micro-light II with the white LED. This handy little darlin' clips onto your keychain slick as a whistle, is smaller than a quarter, and is bright enough to light a dark hallway for a decent distance.
Once it's on your key-chain, it pretty much goes unnoticed until such time as you need it, and you'd be surprised what kind of needs you can come up with. My brother and I have used Photon II's to signal each other across a mall parking lot, and I've locked mine in the 'ON' position, looped some fishing thread through the key-chain hole, and lowered it behind counters and into pipes looking for things.
The battery has been good for ~ a year, and is replaceable. At about $16.00 these things are a bargain.
While the microlight is a jolly decent bit of kit, there are times when one simply must have a bigger flashlight than the little Photon, and in this we are fortunate in that there is simply an un-ending parade of miniature lights to choose from.
The flashlights powered by lithium batteries are the current darlings of the lighting world, and for good reason: lithium batteries have a shelf-life of ten years or so, and the lights they power put out an amazing amount of light.
They do have a couple of minor drawbacks, though. While my Surefire 6P puts the sun to shame, when Surefire says that the batteries are good for about 60 minutes, they aren't kidding. That little Surefire runs like a top for the first 60 total minutes; at 60 minutes and thirty seconds the beam starts to get dim, and at 61 total minutes the batteries are dead and the light is out.
Also, running it for any extended period -- say more than 30 seconds -- and it gets HOT. One minute of constant 'on' gets you raise-a-blister temperatures.
Great for back-up to a regular flashlight, and great for searching rooms, but maybe not so good for every-day utility.
My little sister, bless her heart, gave me an iNova X5, as a present.
Folks, this little light is neater than kitten toes. It is powered with the same two lithium battery types that run my Surefire, but with five high-output white-light LED bulbs, the X5 is rated for 20 hours of total use, rather then the one hour total of the Surefire, and the X5 hasn't ever gotten warm enough to notice since I started using it.
It's been dropped in a swimming pool, dropped off of a house, and used in yawara drills without a whimper.
I wouldn't give up my Surefire for it -- the beam isn't anywhere as concentrated as the beam of the 6P, and the beam doesn't seem to have the same kind of range and distance as the 6P, but it's put-it-in-your-pocket-and-forget-about-it small, tough, and pretty much beats my old Mag-Light in every category except skull-thumping ability.
You may find something that suits you better -- and if you do, you should stick with it -- but if you're looking for compact, powerful little lights, you might cast an eye towards these two, they won't do you wrong.
LawDog
*Obscure Terry Pratchett reference. Sorry about that.
Friday, August 18, 2006
That didn't hurt -- for long.
One of our long-term critters -- part-time dope dealer, occasional thug and full-time poster child for retroactive abortions -- has now become an object lesson.
Apparently, Mr. Critter developed a decidedly one-sided romantic fixation upon the teacher of one of his legion of off-spring. The object of his affections, not appreciating what a singular honour becoming Critter's Baby's Mama # 134 would be, nor desiring such, turned him down.
Mr. Critter seems to have missed the subtle hint contained in the phrase, "Stay the hell away from me!", because early on the morning in question Mr. Critter decided to pay a visit to the home of said Object Of His Affections.
Finding no one home after repeatedly hammering on the door and screaming, Mr. Critter departed the premises, only to return shortly.
As he began to resume his obnoxious activities, the neighbor of the schoolteacher, a middle-aged gentleman whose wife occasionally babysits the infant daughter of the schoolteacher, walked next door to inform Mr. Critter that the schoolteacher was out of town on vacation and to kindly desist from raising Cain on her front porch.
Mr. Critter promptly whipped a large silver-coloured revolver from his waistband, struck the man across the face with the barrel, knocking the neighbor back and down to one knee. Mr. Critter then proceeded to advance on the neighbor, pointing the gun at him him and loudly screaming: "You want a piece of me, mother****er?! Huh?! You want a piece of me?! I'll **** you up, you ho-ass mother****er! You want a piece of me?!"
Down on one knee and unable to retreat, the CHL-equipped neighbor skinned his Glock 23 and neatly whomped two .40-calibre slugs through Mr. Critter's brisket. (The detective taking the statement said, "I guess that'd be a 'Yes...'")
Mr. Critter had the good manners to drop the unloaded Daisy BB pistol with which he had armed himself and expired.
The officers handed the neighbor a receipt for his Glock and told him to come down to the station and pick it up when the Grand Jury was done.
I love Texas.
Ladies and gentlemen, while the first rule of gunfights is to have a gun, there are two corollaries to that rule:
a) It should be loaded; and
b) BB guns don't count.
LawDog
Apparently, Mr. Critter developed a decidedly one-sided romantic fixation upon the teacher of one of his legion of off-spring. The object of his affections, not appreciating what a singular honour becoming Critter's Baby's Mama # 134 would be, nor desiring such, turned him down.
Mr. Critter seems to have missed the subtle hint contained in the phrase, "Stay the hell away from me!", because early on the morning in question Mr. Critter decided to pay a visit to the home of said Object Of His Affections.
Finding no one home after repeatedly hammering on the door and screaming, Mr. Critter departed the premises, only to return shortly.
As he began to resume his obnoxious activities, the neighbor of the schoolteacher, a middle-aged gentleman whose wife occasionally babysits the infant daughter of the schoolteacher, walked next door to inform Mr. Critter that the schoolteacher was out of town on vacation and to kindly desist from raising Cain on her front porch.
Mr. Critter promptly whipped a large silver-coloured revolver from his waistband, struck the man across the face with the barrel, knocking the neighbor back and down to one knee. Mr. Critter then proceeded to advance on the neighbor, pointing the gun at him him and loudly screaming: "You want a piece of me, mother****er?! Huh?! You want a piece of me?! I'll **** you up, you ho-ass mother****er! You want a piece of me?!"
Down on one knee and unable to retreat, the CHL-equipped neighbor skinned his Glock 23 and neatly whomped two .40-calibre slugs through Mr. Critter's brisket. (The detective taking the statement said, "I guess that'd be a 'Yes...'")
Mr. Critter had the good manners to drop the unloaded Daisy BB pistol with which he had armed himself and expired.
The officers handed the neighbor a receipt for his Glock and told him to come down to the station and pick it up when the Grand Jury was done.
I love Texas.
Ladies and gentlemen, while the first rule of gunfights is to have a gun, there are two corollaries to that rule:
a) It should be loaded; and
b) BB guns don't count.
LawDog
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Blarg.
My eyeballs feel like they're packed in hot sand, my joints ache and the back of my throat is dry.
I'm coming down with something. Bloody hell.
In lieu of actually, you know, thinking, here is something I wrote during the height of the Katrina after-mess, when we were getting evacuees -- no, we weren't -- there's a busload due in the next two hours -- no, it went to Amarillo -- then what's that parked at the community center -- wrong load of evacuees -- oh ...
Anyhoo, here is what I wrote on The High Road way back when:
Random yacking from an exhausted LawDog.
1) The only people responsible for the safety of you and yours -- is you. Nobody, not the local government, county government, state government, federal government or the United Nations, nobody owes you survival.
Take it upon yourself to be ready. If you can't protect you and yours for a week, then start figuring out how you're going to do it.
Mother Nature is a bitch. Accept it. Not only that, but she is shacked up with Old Man Murphy, and they both hate your guts. Personally.
Once you understand this simple concept, take an honest look about you. Do you live in Tornado Alley? If so, sooner or later there is going to be a tornado addressed to you. Accept this, and plan for it. Do you live on a fault line? Sooner or late there is going to be an earthquake. Accept this fact and plan for it. Same thing for living in dry forests, below sea level or anywhere else that has been the subject of a Discovery Channel disaster special.
Take simple medical training. Self-taught, if nothing else. Take rescue classes, wilderness survival classes and learn how to swim. If the only thing you can do is read the Boy Scout Handbook, then read it cover-to-cover every year or so.
2) If you are in, or wind up in, a de facto leadership position, then LEAD. Leaders have to do the most difficult, simplest, and most important task during a crisis: they must lead.
You must be calm. You must give the appearance of being in complete control, even if --especially if -- you aren't. You are there so that all the people under you who actually get things done, can look to you and think: If he's calm, then things must be under control. That way each person under your command can take heart and do the million tiny things that add up to getting, and keeping, the situation under control
If you don't think you can keep your mud in a ball during a crisis, then step down from your leadership position.
And I'll give you a hint: bursting into tears on national television, or spewing obscenities on national television is not keeping your mud in a ball. Once your people see you losing your grip, then they loosen their handle on the situation, and their subordinates come unwound, so on and so forth until the whole situation snowballs into a complete cluster****.
More than likely you will wind up with survivors/refugees/displaced persons or whathaveyou wandering about.
If you find yourself with a large group of the above, give them something to do. Do not let them sit and stew on the situation. Grab them, and have them make shelters. Move the elderly. Pitch tents. Dig latrines. Dig graves. Pour tea. Fold towels. Anything. Have them do something and keep them doing something until the situation resolves itself or command passes.
Give your group identity and purpose, impose order and do not allow your group to devolve into anarchy. Use short, simple tasks:
"We're going to the field and erect these tents."
"Now, we will dig 30 latrine pits."
"We will now help everyone move into the tent city."
"Now, we will go to the Wally-World, where we acquire and distribute food, water and medical stuff."
"Now, we will keep watch in rotation on the tent city until morning."
"It is morning, we will now clear the streets between this Dome and the airport to ensure that vehicles can move between the airport and our tent city."
Simple, easy tasks. If their minds and bodies are busy, it is better for everyone involved.
That's all for now. I'm off to bed.
LawDog
I learned the basic principles of leadership at my fathers' knee. PLDC and BNCOC in the US military sharpened these lessons and 13 years as a deputy sheriff polished them nicely, but the basics were passed down by Dad.
I had thought -- foolishly -- that this sort of thing was common sense; "Idle hands being the devil's playground" and all that. I was utterly amazed by camera footage of parts of New Orleans with some semblance of authority present -- and citizens just milling around. Not doing a thing except worrying and fomenting trouble.
My father would have -- I have seen him do it -- wangled shelters from some one. Tents or some-such, from the military, if nothing else. And he might have borrowed an NCO or three, if the military was handy.
Then, he would have made every swinging Richard in the Superdome who was physically capable of doing some kind of work, pitch those tents.
He'd have worked those folks from can-see to can't-see, and not only would they have been too tired to get into mischief, but they'd've increased the safety, comfort, and general level of civilization of everyone there at the same time.
Doing something about the problems, and in that doing something, helping the group as a whole, is what a large percentage of humans instinctively want to do in a crisis. It's what they need to do.
Most of them simply require someone to tell them to do it, and point them in a direction.
Unfortunately in these modern times, people seem to think that "help" involves counseling, and requires "time-outs" and "coming to terms" with the situation.
I guess so, but all that is to be done after the fan has finished flinging the manure. You can counsel, pat-hands and empathize on National TeeVee after civilization has returned.
Up until that time what is needed is someone who can say: "You and you -- get off your arses and grab that tent. You, stop snivelling and give them a hand. Take the tents over to that flat ground."
"You and the rest of your pack, grab those shovels, go over to the far side of the parking lot and start digging trenches. Five feet deep, two feet wide and as long as you can make them."
It's not fun. There will be no rewards. You will have to make tough decisions and stand by them.
Why should you do it?
Because someone has to.
*blink, blink*
Goodness, I didn't intend to get off on a rant. I'm off to bed now.
If I don't blog for a day or so, it's because the 'flu, or West Nile, or whatever, is kicking my furry butt. Give me time and some chicken soup and I'll pop back.
LawDog
I'm coming down with something. Bloody hell.
In lieu of actually, you know, thinking, here is something I wrote during the height of the Katrina after-mess, when we were getting evacuees -- no, we weren't -- there's a busload due in the next two hours -- no, it went to Amarillo -- then what's that parked at the community center -- wrong load of evacuees -- oh ...
Anyhoo, here is what I wrote on The High Road way back when:
Random yacking from an exhausted LawDog.
1) The only people responsible for the safety of you and yours -- is you. Nobody, not the local government, county government, state government, federal government or the United Nations, nobody owes you survival.
Take it upon yourself to be ready. If you can't protect you and yours for a week, then start figuring out how you're going to do it.
Mother Nature is a bitch. Accept it. Not only that, but she is shacked up with Old Man Murphy, and they both hate your guts. Personally.
Once you understand this simple concept, take an honest look about you. Do you live in Tornado Alley? If so, sooner or later there is going to be a tornado addressed to you. Accept this, and plan for it. Do you live on a fault line? Sooner or late there is going to be an earthquake. Accept this fact and plan for it. Same thing for living in dry forests, below sea level or anywhere else that has been the subject of a Discovery Channel disaster special.
Take simple medical training. Self-taught, if nothing else. Take rescue classes, wilderness survival classes and learn how to swim. If the only thing you can do is read the Boy Scout Handbook, then read it cover-to-cover every year or so.
2) If you are in, or wind up in, a de facto leadership position, then LEAD. Leaders have to do the most difficult, simplest, and most important task during a crisis: they must lead.
You must be calm. You must give the appearance of being in complete control, even if --especially if -- you aren't. You are there so that all the people under you who actually get things done, can look to you and think: If he's calm, then things must be under control. That way each person under your command can take heart and do the million tiny things that add up to getting, and keeping, the situation under control
If you don't think you can keep your mud in a ball during a crisis, then step down from your leadership position.
And I'll give you a hint: bursting into tears on national television, or spewing obscenities on national television is not keeping your mud in a ball. Once your people see you losing your grip, then they loosen their handle on the situation, and their subordinates come unwound, so on and so forth until the whole situation snowballs into a complete cluster****.
More than likely you will wind up with survivors/refugees/displaced persons or whathaveyou wandering about.
If you find yourself with a large group of the above, give them something to do. Do not let them sit and stew on the situation. Grab them, and have them make shelters. Move the elderly. Pitch tents. Dig latrines. Dig graves. Pour tea. Fold towels. Anything. Have them do something and keep them doing something until the situation resolves itself or command passes.
Give your group identity and purpose, impose order and do not allow your group to devolve into anarchy. Use short, simple tasks:
"We're going to the field and erect these tents."
"Now, we will dig 30 latrine pits."
"We will now help everyone move into the tent city."
"Now, we will go to the Wally-World, where we acquire and distribute food, water and medical stuff."
"Now, we will keep watch in rotation on the tent city until morning."
"It is morning, we will now clear the streets between this Dome and the airport to ensure that vehicles can move between the airport and our tent city."
Simple, easy tasks. If their minds and bodies are busy, it is better for everyone involved.
That's all for now. I'm off to bed.
LawDog
I learned the basic principles of leadership at my fathers' knee. PLDC and BNCOC in the US military sharpened these lessons and 13 years as a deputy sheriff polished them nicely, but the basics were passed down by Dad.
I had thought -- foolishly -- that this sort of thing was common sense; "Idle hands being the devil's playground" and all that. I was utterly amazed by camera footage of parts of New Orleans with some semblance of authority present -- and citizens just milling around. Not doing a thing except worrying and fomenting trouble.
My father would have -- I have seen him do it -- wangled shelters from some one. Tents or some-such, from the military, if nothing else. And he might have borrowed an NCO or three, if the military was handy.
Then, he would have made every swinging Richard in the Superdome who was physically capable of doing some kind of work, pitch those tents.
He'd have worked those folks from can-see to can't-see, and not only would they have been too tired to get into mischief, but they'd've increased the safety, comfort, and general level of civilization of everyone there at the same time.
Doing something about the problems, and in that doing something, helping the group as a whole, is what a large percentage of humans instinctively want to do in a crisis. It's what they need to do.
Most of them simply require someone to tell them to do it, and point them in a direction.
Unfortunately in these modern times, people seem to think that "help" involves counseling, and requires "time-outs" and "coming to terms" with the situation.
I guess so, but all that is to be done after the fan has finished flinging the manure. You can counsel, pat-hands and empathize on National TeeVee after civilization has returned.
Up until that time what is needed is someone who can say: "You and you -- get off your arses and grab that tent. You, stop snivelling and give them a hand. Take the tents over to that flat ground."
"You and the rest of your pack, grab those shovels, go over to the far side of the parking lot and start digging trenches. Five feet deep, two feet wide and as long as you can make them."
It's not fun. There will be no rewards. You will have to make tough decisions and stand by them.
Why should you do it?
Because someone has to.
*blink, blink*
Goodness, I didn't intend to get off on a rant. I'm off to bed now.
If I don't blog for a day or so, it's because the 'flu, or West Nile, or whatever, is kicking my furry butt. Give me time and some chicken soup and I'll pop back.
LawDog
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
You have the right to SHUT UP!
Had a gentleman picked up last night for Fail To Appear on a traffic infraction issued by a DPS trooper for 112 in a 65 last January.
I go and fetch the gentleman from the jail and stand him in front of the bench, the judge tells him that this a formal hearing, he has the right to have an attorney to aid him in his defense, so on and so forth.
Then the judge produces the warrant with the citation stapled to it, hands it to me, I give it to the gentleman and the judge tells him that he can enter a plea of "Guilty", "Nolo Contendre", or "Not Guilty". He goes on to say that if the gentleman pleads "Guilty" or "Nolo Contendre" the judge will hit him with a fine that he can either sit-out in jail, pay or make other arrangements to deal with, and if he pleads "Not Guilty", the judge will set him a bond and a court date.
The gentleman contemplates for a bit, then nods in agreement.
The judge asks him which plea he would like to enter with the court.
The gentleman ponders.
The judge waits, then gently prompts him, "Sir, what plea do you wish to enter?"
The gentleman looks up with his brow all scrunched up, "I'm ... not sure."
The judge blinks at him, sighs, and says, "Sir, there is a copy of the citation in front of you. Do you own the car listed on the citation?"
"Yes," sayeth the defendant.
"Okay," responds the judge, "There is a signature on the citation. Does it resemble your signature?"
"Pretty much," is the response.
"Okay," continues the judge, "If there is a doubt that you received that citation, you should plea 'Not Guilty' and request a trial."
"It's not that, Your Honour, it's just that I was doing so much dope that month that everything after Christmas is pretty hazy."
"Okay, court will set a bond in the amount ...what?"
I feel my eyebrow slide up.
"I was smoking so much hash, that I honestly can't remember anything that happened that week."
"Sir, I can not advise you, but you should ruminate on the fact that it is never a bad idea to exercise your right to remain silent. That's a hint, by the way."
"Wait ... had I met Two-Step then? It might have been ecstacy."
"Sir, it is in your ..."
"No. No, I remember, now. I started doing the ecstacy in February, so it was hash. I think. Unless ..."
"Sir!"
"Your Honour," I said, "A moment?"
Not waiting for a reply, I stepped in front of the defendant, smiled real big and said, "You need to think about shutting up."
The defendant gave me a puzzled look, "You want me to lie to the judge? I thought that was an offense?"
"I want you to shut up."
"But ..."
"Shush."
"I..."
"Shush. Your honour, I believe that the defendant is ready to enter a plea. 'Guilty'. 'Not Guilty'. Or 'No Contest'. In the traffic case."
"All right. How do you plea? To the traffic case."
"Well, I guess ... he can't tell me to shush! I have rights!"
"Yes," said the judge, firmly,"And one of those rights is the right not to incriminate yourself."
The defendant nodded. The judge waited a bit.
"Now, to the reason why were are all gathered here: how do you plea to the speeding ticket?"
The defendant took a deep breath. The judge nodded encouragingly. I sighed in relief.
"I can waive any goddamned right I want to."
The judge gently, and with the greatest of precision and care, laid his gavel on the bench, placed his elbow on the bench and performed a classic Migraine Salute. I considered the tactical application of police brutality.
"Sir," grated the judge, firmly kneading the bridge of his nose, "The next words out of your mouth better either be: 'Guilty'; 'Not Guilty'; or 'No Contest'."
"I have my rights ..."
"You have the right to SHUT UP! No, you cannot waive any rights! I will not allow you to waive any rights! I require you to assert your rights! I order you to flaunt your rights with your head held high! Now plead and get out of my courtroom!"
"Umm."
"Any word coming out of your mouth that isn't 'Guilty' or 'No Contest' will be considered a plea of 'Not Guilty'."
"No contest?"
"The court accepts your plea. Five days. Goodbye. Good luck. Don't ever darken my doorway again."
"Wait, can you actually ..."
"Deputy. Clear the court. Good day, sir."
*snicker*
I love Traffic Day at JP court.
LawDog
I go and fetch the gentleman from the jail and stand him in front of the bench, the judge tells him that this a formal hearing, he has the right to have an attorney to aid him in his defense, so on and so forth.
Then the judge produces the warrant with the citation stapled to it, hands it to me, I give it to the gentleman and the judge tells him that he can enter a plea of "Guilty", "Nolo Contendre", or "Not Guilty". He goes on to say that if the gentleman pleads "Guilty" or "Nolo Contendre" the judge will hit him with a fine that he can either sit-out in jail, pay or make other arrangements to deal with, and if he pleads "Not Guilty", the judge will set him a bond and a court date.
The gentleman contemplates for a bit, then nods in agreement.
The judge asks him which plea he would like to enter with the court.
The gentleman ponders.
The judge waits, then gently prompts him, "Sir, what plea do you wish to enter?"
The gentleman looks up with his brow all scrunched up, "I'm ... not sure."
The judge blinks at him, sighs, and says, "Sir, there is a copy of the citation in front of you. Do you own the car listed on the citation?"
"Yes," sayeth the defendant.
"Okay," responds the judge, "There is a signature on the citation. Does it resemble your signature?"
"Pretty much," is the response.
"Okay," continues the judge, "If there is a doubt that you received that citation, you should plea 'Not Guilty' and request a trial."
"It's not that, Your Honour, it's just that I was doing so much dope that month that everything after Christmas is pretty hazy."
"Okay, court will set a bond in the amount ...what?"
I feel my eyebrow slide up.
"I was smoking so much hash, that I honestly can't remember anything that happened that week."
"Sir, I can not advise you, but you should ruminate on the fact that it is never a bad idea to exercise your right to remain silent. That's a hint, by the way."
"Wait ... had I met Two-Step then? It might have been ecstacy."
"Sir, it is in your ..."
"No. No, I remember, now. I started doing the ecstacy in February, so it was hash. I think. Unless ..."
"Sir!"
"Your Honour," I said, "A moment?"
Not waiting for a reply, I stepped in front of the defendant, smiled real big and said, "You need to think about shutting up."
The defendant gave me a puzzled look, "You want me to lie to the judge? I thought that was an offense?"
"I want you to shut up."
"But ..."
"Shush."
"I..."
"Shush. Your honour, I believe that the defendant is ready to enter a plea. 'Guilty'. 'Not Guilty'. Or 'No Contest'. In the traffic case."
"All right. How do you plea? To the traffic case."
"Well, I guess ... he can't tell me to shush! I have rights!"
"Yes," said the judge, firmly,"And one of those rights is the right not to incriminate yourself."
The defendant nodded. The judge waited a bit.
"Now, to the reason why were are all gathered here: how do you plea to the speeding ticket?"
The defendant took a deep breath. The judge nodded encouragingly. I sighed in relief.
"I can waive any goddamned right I want to."
The judge gently, and with the greatest of precision and care, laid his gavel on the bench, placed his elbow on the bench and performed a classic Migraine Salute. I considered the tactical application of police brutality.
"Sir," grated the judge, firmly kneading the bridge of his nose, "The next words out of your mouth better either be: 'Guilty'; 'Not Guilty'; or 'No Contest'."
"I have my rights ..."
"You have the right to SHUT UP! No, you cannot waive any rights! I will not allow you to waive any rights! I require you to assert your rights! I order you to flaunt your rights with your head held high! Now plead and get out of my courtroom!"
"Umm."
"Any word coming out of your mouth that isn't 'Guilty' or 'No Contest' will be considered a plea of 'Not Guilty'."
"No contest?"
"The court accepts your plea. Five days. Goodbye. Good luck. Don't ever darken my doorway again."
"Wait, can you actually ..."
"Deputy. Clear the court. Good day, sir."
*snicker*
I love Traffic Day at JP court.
LawDog
Meditations on emergency training
Show of paws: how many of my Gentle Readers have ever taken a CPR course? How many have taken the upgraded course with the AED block?
Next time you're at the mall look around. Sooner or later you're going to see a yellow or red box attached to a wall, probably near the food court. More than likely, that red or yellow case will be an Automatic External Defibrillator. Neat, huh?
Know how to use it?
More to the point, should it become necessary to use it on a loved one, do you want to already know how it works, or would you rather a) take a Time Out and read the instructions; or b) hope someone else knows how to use it?
Yeah. Thought so.
Once you have taken the Red Cross CPR/AED course, consider taking a First Responder course. They're usually 40 to 60 hours long -- two to three weeks at four hours a night, five nights a week. A First Responder course will teach you to look at scenes differently, force you to learn some new skills and introduce you to some people outside of your normal social circle -- which is always good.
When I suggest this sort of thing in the paint, people normally tell me that they aren't interested in getting involved in other folks' problems.
This is an attitude I frankly don't understand, but it's not really the point. If your child dives head-first into the wrong end of the swimming pool are you going to know what to do, or are you going to wing it?
"Winging it" is never the right answer. You need to know what to do. You. Yes, there are people on the far end of 911 who know what to do, but they have to get to the scene, they have to get to your child, and you're already there. Want to wait?
I'm willing to bet that a family or two (or a neighborhood) in post-Katrina New Orleans wouldn't have minded one of their own having First Responder skills. Those Gentle Readers in Tornado Alley might find First Responder training might come in handy sooner-or-later ...
A First Responder course is worth the money and time spent, if only to work your brain, or to network with local public safety folks.
Personally, I by-passed the CPR and the First Responder course and jumped right into EMT-Basic, but that might be a little more gung-ho and involved than most folks need.
It was fun, though.
LawDog
Next time you're at the mall look around. Sooner or later you're going to see a yellow or red box attached to a wall, probably near the food court. More than likely, that red or yellow case will be an Automatic External Defibrillator. Neat, huh?
Know how to use it?
More to the point, should it become necessary to use it on a loved one, do you want to already know how it works, or would you rather a) take a Time Out and read the instructions; or b) hope someone else knows how to use it?
Yeah. Thought so.
Once you have taken the Red Cross CPR/AED course, consider taking a First Responder course. They're usually 40 to 60 hours long -- two to three weeks at four hours a night, five nights a week. A First Responder course will teach you to look at scenes differently, force you to learn some new skills and introduce you to some people outside of your normal social circle -- which is always good.
When I suggest this sort of thing in the paint, people normally tell me that they aren't interested in getting involved in other folks' problems.
This is an attitude I frankly don't understand, but it's not really the point. If your child dives head-first into the wrong end of the swimming pool are you going to know what to do, or are you going to wing it?
"Winging it" is never the right answer. You need to know what to do. You. Yes, there are people on the far end of 911 who know what to do, but they have to get to the scene, they have to get to your child, and you're already there. Want to wait?
I'm willing to bet that a family or two (or a neighborhood) in post-Katrina New Orleans wouldn't have minded one of their own having First Responder skills. Those Gentle Readers in Tornado Alley might find First Responder training might come in handy sooner-or-later ...
A First Responder course is worth the money and time spent, if only to work your brain, or to network with local public safety folks.
Personally, I by-passed the CPR and the First Responder course and jumped right into EMT-Basic, but that might be a little more gung-ho and involved than most folks need.
It was fun, though.
LawDog
Monday, August 14, 2006
I have been gifted with a digital camera.
Let us test this little gem out...
Hey! It works!
Above, you should be seeing a picture of the latest addition to Rancheria LawDog. Looks like two of the girls don't quite trust him yet, and are keeping a close eye on him.
And he's a puppy. Look at the size of him, compared to the black-and-white cowdog/terrier on the right.
He's going to be huge.
*sigh*
Oh, well.
LawDog
Casey Sheehan's grave
In the interests of fairness -- I do attempt to be a gentleman occasionally -- I must point out that the grave of Casey Sheehan now has a proper headstone.
Of course, as with anything involving Mama Moonbat, there was much weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth (in front of the cameras) and bald-faced lies before this got accomplished.
SPC Sheehan fell in battle on Palm Sunday, April 4, 2004.
American soldiers of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment were ambushed and pinned down in the fierce fighting of Sadr City. Unable to exfil, and being cut to pieces, the unit called for a rescue.
Casey Sheehan volunteered for the Quick Reaction Force put together for that rescue. Eight men died on that rescue mission, Casey Sheehan among them. They went down fighting.
In April of 2006 -- two years later -- with her allies and accomplices getting a minor case of the heebie-jeebies regarding the un-marked grave, Cindy Sheehan attempted to explain to the Media why she had left the grave unmarked.
She blamed it on the Government and the owner of the mortuary, Steve Nadeau.
Of course. It's always someone elses fault, she's always the innocent victim, yackety, yackety, yackety...
Mr. Nadeau fired back, explaining on national TeeVee that he -- himself -- had absorbed all costs of Casey Sheehan's funeral that weren't covered by the military and other private citizens.
On 25 May, 2006, not haivng any other choice, Mama Moonbat finally put a headstone on the grave of her warrior son, and issued this statement:
"It is important for the rest of Casey's family to have one, I guess the pain of seeing it etched in marble that he is dead is another pain I will have to deal with."
It's always about her, isn't it?
Anyhoo, she further stated that the headstone was "very expensive" and that the "government should have paid for it because of its responsibility for his death."
All you had to do was ask, you stupid daft cow:
"The Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) furnishes upon request, at no charge to the applicant, a government headstone or marker for the grave of any deceased eligible veteran in any cemetery around the world."
Took me all of 3 seconds on Google to find that.
But, what is one more lie from Cindy Sheehan compared to the thousands she's already told?
So. The final resting place of Casey Sheehan has been marked. It just took two years, as much publicity as could be wrung out of the process, and a couple of brazen lies to get it done.
LawDog
Of course, as with anything involving Mama Moonbat, there was much weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth (in front of the cameras) and bald-faced lies before this got accomplished.
SPC Sheehan fell in battle on Palm Sunday, April 4, 2004.
American soldiers of the 2nd Battalion, 5th Cavalry Regiment were ambushed and pinned down in the fierce fighting of Sadr City. Unable to exfil, and being cut to pieces, the unit called for a rescue.
Casey Sheehan volunteered for the Quick Reaction Force put together for that rescue. Eight men died on that rescue mission, Casey Sheehan among them. They went down fighting.
In April of 2006 -- two years later -- with her allies and accomplices getting a minor case of the heebie-jeebies regarding the un-marked grave, Cindy Sheehan attempted to explain to the Media why she had left the grave unmarked.
She blamed it on the Government and the owner of the mortuary, Steve Nadeau.
Of course. It's always someone elses fault, she's always the innocent victim, yackety, yackety, yackety...
Mr. Nadeau fired back, explaining on national TeeVee that he -- himself -- had absorbed all costs of Casey Sheehan's funeral that weren't covered by the military and other private citizens.
On 25 May, 2006, not haivng any other choice, Mama Moonbat finally put a headstone on the grave of her warrior son, and issued this statement:
"It is important for the rest of Casey's family to have one, I guess the pain of seeing it etched in marble that he is dead is another pain I will have to deal with."
It's always about her, isn't it?
Anyhoo, she further stated that the headstone was "very expensive" and that the "government should have paid for it because of its responsibility for his death."
All you had to do was ask, you stupid daft cow:
"The Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) furnishes upon request, at no charge to the applicant, a government headstone or marker for the grave of any deceased eligible veteran in any cemetery around the world."
Took me all of 3 seconds on Google to find that.
But, what is one more lie from Cindy Sheehan compared to the thousands she's already told?
So. The final resting place of Casey Sheehan has been marked. It just took two years, as much publicity as could be wrung out of the process, and a couple of brazen lies to get it done.
LawDog
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Medical Emergency -- Give this patient 30 units of publicity -- stat!
*sigh*
Cindy, Cindy, Cindy.
Where to start?
Well, let's start by repeating the simple fact that if you're eating vanilla ice-cream with a bit of coffee and guzzling protein shakes, then you aren't on any kind of fast.
Diet -- maybe. Fast -- no.
Also, if you travel to Jordan and break your fast -- even if you think you were tricked into it -- once you break your fast, you don't get to keep claiming that you're fasting. It doesn't work that way.
Bearing these facts in mind, let us take a look at the wonders that Mama Moonbat has pulled off this time:
First off, we get this breathless bit of prose from Fox News. Do note, Gentle Reader, paragraph four. In particular, this sentence regarding her stay in Seattle on Thursday:
"On doctors orders, she ate for the first time in about 37 days, Burns said."
Codswallop. Cindy "The Parasite" Sheehan already admitted to breaking her fast in Jordan. In fact, she claims to have been tricked into eating.
Lying slag.
Anyhoo, do note that she was in Seattle Thursday, was treated and released from an Emergency Room, after being ordered to eat and apparently eating.
(Guess that pizza dinner with Cynthia McKinney didn't count. Bad 'Dog!, Bad, bad 'Dog!)
So. She gets turfed out of the Seattle ER, bippity-bops her fluff-bunny little self down to Texas, leading to this by-line from the above Fox News story:
"WACO, Texas — Anti-war demonstrator Cindy Sheehan was hospitalized Friday evening for dehydration and exhaustion after fasting for more than a month and protesting earlier this week in 100-degree weather, friends and relatives said."
The horror! The shame! Poor sainted ... hey! Wait-just-a-squirrel-hiding-minute -- she's been eating pizza! She's been eating vanilla ice-cream! She blamed the Iraqis for tricking her into breaking her fast in Jordan! Some ER in Seattle made her eat! Where the hell does anyone get off selling that "fasting for a month" crap?
Oh, right. People fell for the bushwa. Damn it.
"But, LawDog," I hear you say, "She wound up in the hospital in Texas because of the diet. Give her a break."
Good point. Being rushed to a hospital again is no ... she checked herself in?
Checking yourself in doesn't sound like the language a reporter would use to describe the intake process for a person in an emergency situation. Are they sure...
Minor gynecological procedure?
Ew! Ew! Ew! Bad mental image! Oh, God, my eyes! The horror, the unfathomable horror...
Okay. Courage. Whoo.
While trying not to mentally associate "Cindy Sheehan" and "gynecological procedure" let us ponder as to what the hell kind of hospital is going to perform -- get back here, you coward! -- a ... procedure ... of that sort on an emergency patient complaining of dehydration, exhaustion, and (har, har) starvation.
Answer? The same hospital that would turf her out Sunday afternoon. In other words -- no hospital worth its malpractice policy.
Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. Minor gynecological procedure for a biopsy and to stop bleeding.
Give me a break.
You want to know my prognosis?
Cindy Sheehan and her Pathetic Pink Putzes weren't news anymore. Going cold-turkey from publicity isn't something that Cindy "The Ghoul" Sheehan is prepared to do.
And why should she go cold turkey, when she can take a routine -- probably scheduled -- medical procedure and bump it into a "major" news story with some bushwa press releases and some properly under-stated drama? Thereby returning to her much-beloved limelight?
LawDog
Cindy, Cindy, Cindy.
Where to start?
Well, let's start by repeating the simple fact that if you're eating vanilla ice-cream with a bit of coffee and guzzling protein shakes, then you aren't on any kind of fast.
Diet -- maybe. Fast -- no.
Also, if you travel to Jordan and break your fast -- even if you think you were tricked into it -- once you break your fast, you don't get to keep claiming that you're fasting. It doesn't work that way.
Bearing these facts in mind, let us take a look at the wonders that Mama Moonbat has pulled off this time:
First off, we get this breathless bit of prose from Fox News. Do note, Gentle Reader, paragraph four. In particular, this sentence regarding her stay in Seattle on Thursday:
"On doctors orders, she ate for the first time in about 37 days, Burns said."
Codswallop. Cindy "The Parasite" Sheehan already admitted to breaking her fast in Jordan. In fact, she claims to have been tricked into eating.
Lying slag.
Anyhoo, do note that she was in Seattle Thursday, was treated and released from an Emergency Room, after being ordered to eat and apparently eating.
(Guess that pizza dinner with Cynthia McKinney didn't count. Bad 'Dog!, Bad, bad 'Dog!)
So. She gets turfed out of the Seattle ER, bippity-bops her fluff-bunny little self down to Texas, leading to this by-line from the above Fox News story:
"WACO, Texas — Anti-war demonstrator Cindy Sheehan was hospitalized Friday evening for dehydration and exhaustion after fasting for more than a month and protesting earlier this week in 100-degree weather, friends and relatives said."
The horror! The shame! Poor sainted ... hey! Wait-just-a-squirrel-hiding-minute -- she's been eating pizza! She's been eating vanilla ice-cream! She blamed the Iraqis for tricking her into breaking her fast in Jordan! Some ER in Seattle made her eat! Where the hell does anyone get off selling that "fasting for a month" crap?
Oh, right. People fell for the bushwa. Damn it.
"But, LawDog," I hear you say, "She wound up in the hospital in Texas because of the diet. Give her a break."
Good point. Being rushed to a hospital again is no ... she checked herself in?
Checking yourself in doesn't sound like the language a reporter would use to describe the intake process for a person in an emergency situation. Are they sure...
Minor gynecological procedure?
Ew! Ew! Ew! Bad mental image! Oh, God, my eyes! The horror, the unfathomable horror...
Okay. Courage. Whoo.
While trying not to mentally associate "Cindy Sheehan" and "gynecological procedure" let us ponder as to what the hell kind of hospital is going to perform -- get back here, you coward! -- a ... procedure ... of that sort on an emergency patient complaining of dehydration, exhaustion, and (har, har) starvation.
Answer? The same hospital that would turf her out Sunday afternoon. In other words -- no hospital worth its malpractice policy.
Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. Minor gynecological procedure for a biopsy and to stop bleeding.
Give me a break.
You want to know my prognosis?
Cindy Sheehan and her Pathetic Pink Putzes weren't news anymore. Going cold-turkey from publicity isn't something that Cindy "The Ghoul" Sheehan is prepared to do.
And why should she go cold turkey, when she can take a routine -- probably scheduled -- medical procedure and bump it into a "major" news story with some bushwa press releases and some properly under-stated drama? Thereby returning to her much-beloved limelight?
LawDog
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.
Not exactly sure who's actually quoted there, although it's most often attributd to Albert Einstein.
Looks like Israel is going to agree to a cease-fire.
Just out of curiosity, how many cease-fires has Israel agreed to so far? Have any of these cease-fires resulted in lasting peace?
*sigh*
Yet, here they go again.
There is one way that this cease-fire is going to result in peace. That way is for the UN Peacekeeping Force in South Lebanon to kill anyone in South Lebanon who points a weapon towards Israel.
That's it, folks. Period. Full stop. End of story.
And there is no way that this is going to happen. The United Nations Peacekeeping Forces do not have the testicular fortitude to pull the trigger.
Hezbollah will be able to drive a 6X6 truck onto the roof of a UN bunker, load up 12 Katyusha rockets and then ask a UN troopie to give them a light for the fuze -- which the troopie will do -- bombard Israel and then drive off with nothing more than muttered protests from the Peacekeepers.
Oh, the Peacekeepers will fire off a memo to UN Headquarters, where the UN will debate the issue for six months, before signing yet another sanction, and snivelling to Hezbollah High Command. And the Hezbollah HMFICs will promptly make diplomatic noises, send the UN off with a pat on their little behinds, and then continue shooting at Israel.
*sigh*
Can anyone tell me what the UN is actually good for?
Other than giving Third World despots an official excuse to think they're the equal of the civilized world -- oh, and to give rapists official credentials to use when they're extorting sex for food.
To hell with it. What will it cost to ship the entire UN building -- lock, stock and piglet -- from New York to Jerusalem?
I will happily pay -- just this one time -- double my yearly taxes, if the extra funds would be dedicated to shipping that pustulent pismire of parasitic political pudding-heads to Jerusalem, immediately.
Y'all want to futz around? Fine, you get to dodge suicide bombers and rockets for a while.
It'd do the UN, Israel and the United States a world of good for the United Nations to get a closer look at the problem in Israel.
Morons.
LawDog
Looks like Israel is going to agree to a cease-fire.
Just out of curiosity, how many cease-fires has Israel agreed to so far? Have any of these cease-fires resulted in lasting peace?
*sigh*
Yet, here they go again.
There is one way that this cease-fire is going to result in peace. That way is for the UN Peacekeeping Force in South Lebanon to kill anyone in South Lebanon who points a weapon towards Israel.
That's it, folks. Period. Full stop. End of story.
And there is no way that this is going to happen. The United Nations Peacekeeping Forces do not have the testicular fortitude to pull the trigger.
Hezbollah will be able to drive a 6X6 truck onto the roof of a UN bunker, load up 12 Katyusha rockets and then ask a UN troopie to give them a light for the fuze -- which the troopie will do -- bombard Israel and then drive off with nothing more than muttered protests from the Peacekeepers.
Oh, the Peacekeepers will fire off a memo to UN Headquarters, where the UN will debate the issue for six months, before signing yet another sanction, and snivelling to Hezbollah High Command. And the Hezbollah HMFICs will promptly make diplomatic noises, send the UN off with a pat on their little behinds, and then continue shooting at Israel.
*sigh*
Can anyone tell me what the UN is actually good for?
Other than giving Third World despots an official excuse to think they're the equal of the civilized world -- oh, and to give rapists official credentials to use when they're extorting sex for food.
To hell with it. What will it cost to ship the entire UN building -- lock, stock and piglet -- from New York to Jerusalem?
I will happily pay -- just this one time -- double my yearly taxes, if the extra funds would be dedicated to shipping that pustulent pismire of parasitic political pudding-heads to Jerusalem, immediately.
Y'all want to futz around? Fine, you get to dodge suicide bombers and rockets for a while.
It'd do the UN, Israel and the United States a world of good for the United Nations to get a closer look at the problem in Israel.
Morons.
LawDog
Oh. My. Gawd.
I shamelessly lifted this picture from a Forum post of Xaviers.
I snickered for half-an-hour after seeing this, so naturally, I thought of my Gentle Readers.
And I have no idea why this is picture kicks over my giggle box (to quote Lady Tam). As we have established in the past, my sense of humour is a little ... squirrely.
Anyhoo, enjoy!
LawDog
Thursday, August 10, 2006
No Muss, No Fuss Omelette
Take three eggs, crack 'em and dump them into a ziplock baggie, add salt and pepper to taste.
Throw in a palm full of cheddar cheese, a palm full of chopped red onion and a palm full of cooked sausage or ham or whatever floats your boat.
Seal your ziplock baggie, and place ziplock baggie inside of another ziplock baggie. You don't want a lot of air in either baggie, because heated air expands, and that could be bad for Domestic Bliss, but you don't have to get paranoid about it, either. When you're sealing the baggies, just kind of vent any spare air.
Seal and shake well.
Drop your ziplock baggies into a pot of boiling water, until omelette has achieved the desired consistency, usually somewhere between five and ten minutes.
Fish baggie out of boiling water, open and deposit omelette on plate, throw away baggies.
Enjoy!
LawDog
Throw in a palm full of cheddar cheese, a palm full of chopped red onion and a palm full of cooked sausage or ham or whatever floats your boat.
Seal your ziplock baggie, and place ziplock baggie inside of another ziplock baggie. You don't want a lot of air in either baggie, because heated air expands, and that could be bad for Domestic Bliss, but you don't have to get paranoid about it, either. When you're sealing the baggies, just kind of vent any spare air.
Seal and shake well.
Drop your ziplock baggies into a pot of boiling water, until omelette has achieved the desired consistency, usually somewhere between five and ten minutes.
Fish baggie out of boiling water, open and deposit omelette on plate, throw away baggies.
Enjoy!
LawDog
Cynthia McKinney -- again.
Evidently, Cynthia McKinney has never been taught how to lose with grace.
What I want to know -- and I feel I deserve an answer to -- is why does Cynthia McKinney get a pass on this crap?
Watch this video, courtesy of Ms Underestimated, and explain to me just why the hell nobody in politics or the MainStream Media jumps down Cynthia's throat?
Why is this?
If I had said just one of the slurs that were bandied around so freely by Ms. McKinney and her entourage, my furry arse would be burned in effigy on the court-house lawn.
There'd be editorials full of outrage by highly-placed newspaper staffers demanding my head on a pike, talking heads would be opining at length about my character...
For Cynthia -- business as usual.
Does anyone here think I could call any Africa-American an "Uncle Tom" during an interview on national TeeVee, and not get roasted, sued, and investigated for civil rights violations?
So, why does Cynthia McKinney get a pass on it?
Is it because she's a woman? Is it because she's black? Is it because she's a Democrat?
Why? Why does she get to operate on a different set of rules than me?
Mel Gibson gets drunk, fires off some slurs concerning Jews, and he winds up on FoxNews and CNN every 15 minutes.
Has anyone even seen a report about this, much less a rotating one every 15 minutes?
Gibson's stupidity got him an article in every major newspaper, his anti-semetic comments were repeated with lip-smacking relish, and editorials were dedicated to him.
Anybody seen anything about McKinney? Has CNN run any of the anti-semetic comments from this incident?
Once -- just once -- I'd like a MainStream Media person to sit down and tell me that they believe that all animals are equal, but that some animals are more equal than other animals.
Just once, I'd like them to tell me that behavior that they won't tolerate from white male me, is perfectly acceptable behavior from anyone else who isn't white, male, or me.
It's bushwa, it's obvious bushwa, and I'm getting tired of the MainStream Media's obvious bias.
LawDog
What I want to know -- and I feel I deserve an answer to -- is why does Cynthia McKinney get a pass on this crap?
Watch this video, courtesy of Ms Underestimated, and explain to me just why the hell nobody in politics or the MainStream Media jumps down Cynthia's throat?
Why is this?
If I had said just one of the slurs that were bandied around so freely by Ms. McKinney and her entourage, my furry arse would be burned in effigy on the court-house lawn.
There'd be editorials full of outrage by highly-placed newspaper staffers demanding my head on a pike, talking heads would be opining at length about my character...
For Cynthia -- business as usual.
Does anyone here think I could call any Africa-American an "Uncle Tom" during an interview on national TeeVee, and not get roasted, sued, and investigated for civil rights violations?
So, why does Cynthia McKinney get a pass on it?
Is it because she's a woman? Is it because she's black? Is it because she's a Democrat?
Why? Why does she get to operate on a different set of rules than me?
Mel Gibson gets drunk, fires off some slurs concerning Jews, and he winds up on FoxNews and CNN every 15 minutes.
Has anyone even seen a report about this, much less a rotating one every 15 minutes?
Gibson's stupidity got him an article in every major newspaper, his anti-semetic comments were repeated with lip-smacking relish, and editorials were dedicated to him.
Anybody seen anything about McKinney? Has CNN run any of the anti-semetic comments from this incident?
Once -- just once -- I'd like a MainStream Media person to sit down and tell me that they believe that all animals are equal, but that some animals are more equal than other animals.
Just once, I'd like them to tell me that behavior that they won't tolerate from white male me, is perfectly acceptable behavior from anyone else who isn't white, male, or me.
It's bushwa, it's obvious bushwa, and I'm getting tired of the MainStream Media's obvious bias.
LawDog
The special level of Hell.
For those of my Gentle Readers who don't get the above quote, it's from the best Science Fiction series that no-one ever watched: Firefly. The preacher, Shepherd actually, named Book tells Captain Malcolm Reynolds that if he takes sexual advantage of a woman, he will go to a "Special level of hell, one reserved for child molesters and people who talk at the theatre."
Well, I'm fairly sure that the "special level" is also going to be populated with those invertebrates who decide that it's a good idea to drive out into the boonies and abandon the family pet.
Nothing quite as heartbreaking as driving down a dirt road 40 miles from the backside of Nowhere and finding an obvious family pet running down the road in a panic, looking for his family.
And I don't want to hear the excuses. Anyone who thinks that a dog would be happier in the wild, hasn't stumbled across what's left of the family dog after a pack of coyotes gets done with it. More than once I've followed buzzard sign or coyote sign, to find a gutted house-pet, dying in agony.
I didn't take that dog to raise, but I'm the one who has to give it a mercy shot, because his owner is a chicken-s*** excuse for a man; and I'm getting very tired of it.
I used to have five dogs slobbering on various stuff in the house: a Chihuahua, three cowmutts and a bullmastiff -- all of which I've found abandoned in the boonies. I'm pretty sure the first four were dumped because they are female, and the catamites who owned them were too sodding lazy to get them neutered, but didn't want puppies. The bullmastiff got dumped -- well, he was a bullmastiff and weighed in at about 180 pounds.
That dog ate a hell of a lot of food, and the nutless wonder who took him decided that he'd be happier out on the caprock, which coincidentally, would mean that the nutless wonder wouldn't have to cough up money for kibble every month.
I speak of him in the past tense, because after 11 very full, very happy years of being mauled, ridden like a horse, gnawed on, dressed up, chased, whispered to, slept on, and snuggled to a fare-thee-well by various children and other family members, my beloved bullmastiff passed on. He was a house-dog to the very end, and he left a very large, very slobber-free hole around here.
I used to think that I'd like to run across the nutless wonder who dumped that dog, just so I could impress on them what a loving, loyal, devoted creature they deliberately abandoned, but these days I think the nutless wonder just needs to go to hell.
Anyhoo, I was driving down a dirt road a while ago when I spotted a large buff-coloured puppy running frantically down the bar-ditch, looking desperately at each vehicle going by.
*sigh*
Another bloody huge, sweet-natured, mastiff-y mutt has taken up residence. The children are delighted, the other dogs less so.
And he's decided that the leg area under my computer desk is his den. 70 pounds and not grown yet.
*sigh*
I hope the person who dumped him enjoys his stay in the special level of hell.
LawDog
Well, I'm fairly sure that the "special level" is also going to be populated with those invertebrates who decide that it's a good idea to drive out into the boonies and abandon the family pet.
Nothing quite as heartbreaking as driving down a dirt road 40 miles from the backside of Nowhere and finding an obvious family pet running down the road in a panic, looking for his family.
And I don't want to hear the excuses. Anyone who thinks that a dog would be happier in the wild, hasn't stumbled across what's left of the family dog after a pack of coyotes gets done with it. More than once I've followed buzzard sign or coyote sign, to find a gutted house-pet, dying in agony.
I didn't take that dog to raise, but I'm the one who has to give it a mercy shot, because his owner is a chicken-s*** excuse for a man; and I'm getting very tired of it.
I used to have five dogs slobbering on various stuff in the house: a Chihuahua, three cowmutts and a bullmastiff -- all of which I've found abandoned in the boonies. I'm pretty sure the first four were dumped because they are female, and the catamites who owned them were too sodding lazy to get them neutered, but didn't want puppies. The bullmastiff got dumped -- well, he was a bullmastiff and weighed in at about 180 pounds.
That dog ate a hell of a lot of food, and the nutless wonder who took him decided that he'd be happier out on the caprock, which coincidentally, would mean that the nutless wonder wouldn't have to cough up money for kibble every month.
I speak of him in the past tense, because after 11 very full, very happy years of being mauled, ridden like a horse, gnawed on, dressed up, chased, whispered to, slept on, and snuggled to a fare-thee-well by various children and other family members, my beloved bullmastiff passed on. He was a house-dog to the very end, and he left a very large, very slobber-free hole around here.
I used to think that I'd like to run across the nutless wonder who dumped that dog, just so I could impress on them what a loving, loyal, devoted creature they deliberately abandoned, but these days I think the nutless wonder just needs to go to hell.
Anyhoo, I was driving down a dirt road a while ago when I spotted a large buff-coloured puppy running frantically down the bar-ditch, looking desperately at each vehicle going by.
*sigh*
Another bloody huge, sweet-natured, mastiff-y mutt has taken up residence. The children are delighted, the other dogs less so.
And he's decided that the leg area under my computer desk is his den. 70 pounds and not grown yet.
*sigh*
I hope the person who dumped him enjoys his stay in the special level of hell.
LawDog
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
9/11 Conspiracies
Maybe it's just me, but I'm noticing a fairly impressive upsurge in 9/11 conspiracy theories here recently -- both on-line and in the paint.
These folks are incredibly frustrating for me, because no matter how logical, or how iron-clad your counter-argument is, they just (metaphorically) stuff their booger hooks into their ears, squinch their eyes shut and sing, "Lalalalala!" at the top of their lungs until you give up and walk away -- which they promptly count as proof that their nutty little theory is correct.
"The demolition of the World Trade Center is obviously a controlled demolition/implosion type event."
"Ever see the inside of a building that's been prepped for an implosion before it happens? You've got walls and floors missing, holes drilled everywhere, huge slices taken out of ceilings and pillars, and bundles of det cord as big around as my thigh going down the middle of halls and taking up most of the space in the stairwells. Don't you think that kind of prep-work would be fairly sodding obvious?"
"Implosion! Controlled demolition! Government cover-up! Lalalalala! Besides, Dr. Whozit is convinced!"
"Dr Whozit has a degree in Sub-Saharan Cultural Anthropology. His sum and total contribution to the world of science is an incomprehensible paper on the mating dances of the Hutu tribe. Structural engineering is a lee-tle bit out of his area of expertise."
"He's an expert! Government cover-up! Lalalala! Besides, he consulted with Hondo Whasisname, who has a degree in Strutural Engineering from Geshundteit University!"
"Ever researched Geshundteit U.? It consists of a fax machine, a Dell PC and an HP Document printer. It's usually located in room 7B over Sevi's Taqueria, unless the Oklahoma City PD Fraud Squad has another outstanding warrant, then you can find it by checking the local No-Tell Motel parking lots for a green-and-primer-grey 1986 Honda Civic."
"Government cover-up! Lalalala!"
*sigh*
And they lie.
I had one person post on a forum that there were "No eyewitnesses who saw a plane being flown anywhere near the Pentagon on 9/11."
I actually went to the trouble of finding a list of folks who testified that they saw a plane at treetop level over a highway heading directly for the Pentagon, called his attention to it, and posted the link for him.
Two days later, he's on another forum telling those folks the exact same line -- and since he got a list of folks who testified that they did, indeed, see a plane, I figure that makes him a damned liar.
Whenever I get suckered into debating one of these folks, I usually wind up with an insane urge to grab them by the throat and bounce their head off of the nearest convenient concrete surface, while shrieking colourful observations regarding their intelligence at the top of my lungs.
However, I have just seen my brother handle one of these folks at the local mall -- and the boy is a genius.
He points and laughs.
I'm talking knee-slapping whoops of belly-laughs, wiping tears, exhortations to, "Say that last one again -- go on!" Followed by, "No, you're serious? Oh, I'm sorry" with one minute of grace, before he starts snickering, which dissolves into gales of laughter again.
Apparently the local 9/11 conspiracy types don't handle pointing-and-laughing well at all.
Now, if I can only figured out how to implement this tactic on the World Wide Web...
Oh, well.
LawDog
These folks are incredibly frustrating for me, because no matter how logical, or how iron-clad your counter-argument is, they just (metaphorically) stuff their booger hooks into their ears, squinch their eyes shut and sing, "Lalalalala!" at the top of their lungs until you give up and walk away -- which they promptly count as proof that their nutty little theory is correct.
"The demolition of the World Trade Center is obviously a controlled demolition/implosion type event."
"Ever see the inside of a building that's been prepped for an implosion before it happens? You've got walls and floors missing, holes drilled everywhere, huge slices taken out of ceilings and pillars, and bundles of det cord as big around as my thigh going down the middle of halls and taking up most of the space in the stairwells. Don't you think that kind of prep-work would be fairly sodding obvious?"
"Implosion! Controlled demolition! Government cover-up! Lalalalala! Besides, Dr. Whozit is convinced!"
"Dr Whozit has a degree in Sub-Saharan Cultural Anthropology. His sum and total contribution to the world of science is an incomprehensible paper on the mating dances of the Hutu tribe. Structural engineering is a lee-tle bit out of his area of expertise."
"He's an expert! Government cover-up! Lalalala! Besides, he consulted with Hondo Whasisname, who has a degree in Strutural Engineering from Geshundteit University!"
"Ever researched Geshundteit U.? It consists of a fax machine, a Dell PC and an HP Document printer. It's usually located in room 7B over Sevi's Taqueria, unless the Oklahoma City PD Fraud Squad has another outstanding warrant, then you can find it by checking the local No-Tell Motel parking lots for a green-and-primer-grey 1986 Honda Civic."
"Government cover-up! Lalalala!"
*sigh*
And they lie.
I had one person post on a forum that there were "No eyewitnesses who saw a plane being flown anywhere near the Pentagon on 9/11."
I actually went to the trouble of finding a list of folks who testified that they saw a plane at treetop level over a highway heading directly for the Pentagon, called his attention to it, and posted the link for him.
Two days later, he's on another forum telling those folks the exact same line -- and since he got a list of folks who testified that they did, indeed, see a plane, I figure that makes him a damned liar.
Whenever I get suckered into debating one of these folks, I usually wind up with an insane urge to grab them by the throat and bounce their head off of the nearest convenient concrete surface, while shrieking colourful observations regarding their intelligence at the top of my lungs.
However, I have just seen my brother handle one of these folks at the local mall -- and the boy is a genius.
He points and laughs.
I'm talking knee-slapping whoops of belly-laughs, wiping tears, exhortations to, "Say that last one again -- go on!" Followed by, "No, you're serious? Oh, I'm sorry" with one minute of grace, before he starts snickering, which dissolves into gales of laughter again.
Apparently the local 9/11 conspiracy types don't handle pointing-and-laughing well at all.
Now, if I can only figured out how to implement this tactic on the World Wide Web...
Oh, well.
LawDog
Monday, August 07, 2006
Oh, Judas Priest!
By way of the folks over at Lone Star Times.
I've got to wonder if the members of the Arlington School Board are lab experiment refugees.
Why do I say this? Well, it seems to be fairly obvious that any male member of the Arlington School Board has totally and completely forgotten what is was like when puberty hit. They have, believe it or not, decided to ban cleavage so that teenage boys will no longer be 'distracted'.
Ye Gods and little fishies. How bloody ancient are the members of the Arlington School Board? I mean, seriously?
If you're a male of the species, raise a paw. Now, if you remember those heady days when you first noticed that girls were delightfully different, keep those paws up.
Okay, now, did it matter what girls were wearing? In other words, were you distracted by the clothes, or what was inside of the clothes?
I thought so.
When my family finally moved to the States for good, I was already dealing with my voice wandering happily up-and-down the scale and the sudden sprouting of peach-fuzz and other associated fur that hits the male of the species on a fairly predictable basis (except, apparently for some folks in Arlington) but I hadn't quite discovered the "Me-Boy-You-Girl-WOW!" thing until one fall afternoon at the Dairy Queen.
Dad usually took his vacation in the summer, and we spent it at the home of my mother's parents in North Texas. There was a little blonde girl named Cherie living down the street from my grandparents who wound up being the closest thing I had to a friend in that town, and I usually spent most of my playtime every summer with her.
Fast forward to me being permanently stuck Stateside. I'm dealing with the fact that I'm going to be attending an American school, and my voice is acting stupid, and I'm not exactly sure that I'm happy about Life in General.
In my self-absorbed state, it barely registered on me that Cherie had taken to wearing big fuzzy sweaters most of the time, but -- in my defense -- I did notice that she smelled awfully good all of a sudden.
So, there we were in the Dairy Queen, with her telling me that I was going to like the local High School, and not to worry, I'm not convinced, I go to the counter to get refills on our drinks, turn around ... and Cherie was in the middle of an epic, back-popping stretch.
About that time the Puberty Gnome sprinted out from under a table, jumped up, and fetched me a right good thump betwixt the running lights with a solid oak cluebat.
I didn't realize until later that he took advantage of my dazed state to abscond with about 90% of my cognitive functions, including most of my fine motor control, communications skills, and powers of concentration and self-control.
Took about ten years to get them back, too. Little bastard.
Anyhoo, from that point on the default setting between my ears was jammed on "Girls."
And it didn't matter what they were wearing. Hell, you could've picked a girl -- any of them -- in my Algebra class, put her in a burlap burka, and I'd have at least one eye on her the entire class. And if, for whatever reason, she wound up doing any walking, I'd've had both eyes on her the entire class.
Those big fuzzy sweaters that Cherie wore? Hah! I had a pretty good idea of what was under those sweaters, and by God I wasn't going to miss another glimpse -- which caused me to watch for stretches and the like even more closely. Which wasn't any good for my limited concentration, I'm here to tell you.
To this day, I still have a lingering appreciation for women in big fuzzy sweaters.
Anyhoo, Mama Nature has hard-wired the male brain for some fairly specific functions, and when she decides it's time to crank up the testosterone in teen-age boys, the only way you are going to keep the female of the species from distracting teenage boys in school, is to have teen-age-boy-only classes, taught by male teachers.
Otherwise, they're going to be distracted.
Come to think, I'm hitting forty and I'm still entranced by that nice little distaff hip-sway as they walk by.
But, here are the members of the Arlington School Board, utterly convinced that if they should ban the display of cleavage, teen-age boys will no longer be distracted.
*blink, blink*
What the hell planet are you folks from?
LawDog
I've got to wonder if the members of the Arlington School Board are lab experiment refugees.
Why do I say this? Well, it seems to be fairly obvious that any male member of the Arlington School Board has totally and completely forgotten what is was like when puberty hit. They have, believe it or not, decided to ban cleavage so that teenage boys will no longer be 'distracted'.
Ye Gods and little fishies. How bloody ancient are the members of the Arlington School Board? I mean, seriously?
If you're a male of the species, raise a paw. Now, if you remember those heady days when you first noticed that girls were delightfully different, keep those paws up.
Okay, now, did it matter what girls were wearing? In other words, were you distracted by the clothes, or what was inside of the clothes?
I thought so.
When my family finally moved to the States for good, I was already dealing with my voice wandering happily up-and-down the scale and the sudden sprouting of peach-fuzz and other associated fur that hits the male of the species on a fairly predictable basis (except, apparently for some folks in Arlington) but I hadn't quite discovered the "Me-Boy-You-Girl-WOW!" thing until one fall afternoon at the Dairy Queen.
Dad usually took his vacation in the summer, and we spent it at the home of my mother's parents in North Texas. There was a little blonde girl named Cherie living down the street from my grandparents who wound up being the closest thing I had to a friend in that town, and I usually spent most of my playtime every summer with her.
Fast forward to me being permanently stuck Stateside. I'm dealing with the fact that I'm going to be attending an American school, and my voice is acting stupid, and I'm not exactly sure that I'm happy about Life in General.
In my self-absorbed state, it barely registered on me that Cherie had taken to wearing big fuzzy sweaters most of the time, but -- in my defense -- I did notice that she smelled awfully good all of a sudden.
So, there we were in the Dairy Queen, with her telling me that I was going to like the local High School, and not to worry, I'm not convinced, I go to the counter to get refills on our drinks, turn around ... and Cherie was in the middle of an epic, back-popping stretch.
About that time the Puberty Gnome sprinted out from under a table, jumped up, and fetched me a right good thump betwixt the running lights with a solid oak cluebat.
I didn't realize until later that he took advantage of my dazed state to abscond with about 90% of my cognitive functions, including most of my fine motor control, communications skills, and powers of concentration and self-control.
Took about ten years to get them back, too. Little bastard.
Anyhoo, from that point on the default setting between my ears was jammed on "Girls."
And it didn't matter what they were wearing. Hell, you could've picked a girl -- any of them -- in my Algebra class, put her in a burlap burka, and I'd have at least one eye on her the entire class. And if, for whatever reason, she wound up doing any walking, I'd've had both eyes on her the entire class.
Those big fuzzy sweaters that Cherie wore? Hah! I had a pretty good idea of what was under those sweaters, and by God I wasn't going to miss another glimpse -- which caused me to watch for stretches and the like even more closely. Which wasn't any good for my limited concentration, I'm here to tell you.
To this day, I still have a lingering appreciation for women in big fuzzy sweaters.
Anyhoo, Mama Nature has hard-wired the male brain for some fairly specific functions, and when she decides it's time to crank up the testosterone in teen-age boys, the only way you are going to keep the female of the species from distracting teenage boys in school, is to have teen-age-boy-only classes, taught by male teachers.
Otherwise, they're going to be distracted.
Come to think, I'm hitting forty and I'm still entranced by that nice little distaff hip-sway as they walk by.
But, here are the members of the Arlington School Board, utterly convinced that if they should ban the display of cleavage, teen-age boys will no longer be distracted.
*blink, blink*
What the hell planet are you folks from?
LawDog
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Verrry eenteresting...
The Gentle Reader may or may not know that there has been some controversy surrounding the death of civilians at Qana.
The controversy revolves around some photos of the rescue effort taken by a photo-journalist named Adnan Hajj.
In the eyes of your Humble Scribe, the photos I have seen seem a touch squirrely compared to crime scene photos I have seen -- and testified to -- concerning similar circumstances.
The photos -- in and of themselves -- are not enough to persuade me to scream, "Staged!" or "Faked!" without other independant evidence ...
Guess who just got suspended from Reuters for a badly photo-shopped war picture?
Mr. Adnan Hajj submitted a photo to Reuters of the results of the Israeli bombing in Beirut. Alert bloggers noticed that the billowing smoke in the photo had a really odd repeating pattern.
And then someone noticed that the buildings in the photo had a really odd repeating pattern...
Whoopsie.
Tip of the Stetson to Little Green Footballs and HotAir.com.
Kind of makes for a wee bit of suspicion regarding previous photos, hmm?
LawDog
The controversy revolves around some photos of the rescue effort taken by a photo-journalist named Adnan Hajj.
In the eyes of your Humble Scribe, the photos I have seen seem a touch squirrely compared to crime scene photos I have seen -- and testified to -- concerning similar circumstances.
The photos -- in and of themselves -- are not enough to persuade me to scream, "Staged!" or "Faked!" without other independant evidence ...
Guess who just got suspended from Reuters for a badly photo-shopped war picture?
Mr. Adnan Hajj submitted a photo to Reuters of the results of the Israeli bombing in Beirut. Alert bloggers noticed that the billowing smoke in the photo had a really odd repeating pattern.
And then someone noticed that the buildings in the photo had a really odd repeating pattern...
Whoopsie.
Tip of the Stetson to Little Green Footballs and HotAir.com.
Kind of makes for a wee bit of suspicion regarding previous photos, hmm?
LawDog
From the Comments: Misusing 'liberal'
mitchshrader said:
"[W]ouldn't mind a bit if you'ld check your definition on 'liberal'.. cause last I heard it meant tolerant."
Really? Hmm.
I was defining it as a member or supporter of a liberal political party. Since this is the United States -- not England, nor Europe -- the liberal political party I had in mind was Modern American Liberalism, as spawned by Roosevelt's New Deal , and weaned by Johnson's Great Society, all with their increased Government role -- intrusion, as matter-of-fact -- in all facets of life.
Although, it could also be defined as someone who follows the political philosophy of 'social liberalism' which is pretty much as above, only more so.
I could also be referring to a 'liberal' as: a graduate of a liberal arts college, but we won't go there.
LawDog
"[W]ouldn't mind a bit if you'ld check your definition on 'liberal'.. cause last I heard it meant tolerant."
Really? Hmm.
I was defining it as a member or supporter of a liberal political party. Since this is the United States -- not England, nor Europe -- the liberal political party I had in mind was Modern American Liberalism, as spawned by Roosevelt's New Deal , and weaned by Johnson's Great Society, all with their increased Government role -- intrusion, as matter-of-fact -- in all facets of life.
Although, it could also be defined as someone who follows the political philosophy of 'social liberalism' which is pretty much as above, only more so.
I could also be referring to a 'liberal' as: a graduate of a liberal arts college, but we won't go there.
LawDog
Friday, August 04, 2006
A lawyer?
Kitiara writes:
"I always thought LawDog was a lawyer."
*blink, blink*
Behold: Your Humble Scribe -- tongue-tied. Flabbergasted. Gob-smacked.
I have been mistaken for many things during my four decades on this little green dirtball. Being mistaken for a barrister is a first, and must be some kind of benchmark.
LawDog
Thursday, August 03, 2006
More evacuations: Manhattan?
I hadn't expected to get so many questions regarding my thoughts on large/extended family evacuations. Actually, truth be told, I wasn't expecting questions at all. Let's take a look.
What suggestions do you have for the masses living in crowded northeastern metropolitan where often "alternate routes" aren't such an option?
Given human nature, it seems to me that most folks tend to wait until the last moment to start running. Having watched a couple of natural disasters as they unfolded, so to speak, I have noticed that the roads appear to be relatively empty during the first hours, or sometimes even days, after people are informed that the Fit Is About To Hit The Shan.
Getting into the wind as soon as possible after discovering that Mother Nature is winding up a right hook will probably leave you with less-congested roads.
There are only a certain number of routes into/out of Manhattan. DC isn't much better.
Let me preface this by saying I've never been on the ground in Manhattan, I don't know anything about Manhattan, and I'm working from a bit of a disadvantage here.
Assuming that circumstances conspire to force you to leave later, rather than sooner, how to evac?
So. Let us pull up a topo map of Manhattan and the surrounding area, pour a mug of Earl Grey, and let the mind wander.
You know what comes to mind? Evacuation routes are only limited if you limit yourself to ground transportation only.
It would take a bit more prep, but would it be possible to arrange for the use of a boat to ferry your and your across the water? Manhattan is an island. I would imagine that the places for a boat to dock and take on you and yours should be fairly numerous, even without Improvising, Adapting, and Overcoming.
The simplest iteration is to arrange for a friend and/or family member to be waiting at a pre-determined point on the mainland for pick-up. This allows you to by-pass congested bridges, but gets you back on roadways as quick as possible.
Alternately, depending upon variables I don't have access to, it might be possible to use the boat itself as the evac. Both the East River and the Hudson River appear to be navigable for a good part of the year. Assuming that you begin your evac with a safe margin, there doesn't appear to be any great obstacle to riding one of the rivers right out of the danger zone, to a destination point on one of the rivers itself, or disembarking and proceeding with your evac well-clear of any panic zones.
Again, I don't know the area, but it's an idea to mind-wrestle.
If boats aren't to your liking, as long as you leave at first warning, the roads and highways should be relatively clear.
LawDog
What suggestions do you have for the masses living in crowded northeastern metropolitan where often "alternate routes" aren't such an option?
Given human nature, it seems to me that most folks tend to wait until the last moment to start running. Having watched a couple of natural disasters as they unfolded, so to speak, I have noticed that the roads appear to be relatively empty during the first hours, or sometimes even days, after people are informed that the Fit Is About To Hit The Shan.
Getting into the wind as soon as possible after discovering that Mother Nature is winding up a right hook will probably leave you with less-congested roads.
There are only a certain number of routes into/out of Manhattan. DC isn't much better.
Let me preface this by saying I've never been on the ground in Manhattan, I don't know anything about Manhattan, and I'm working from a bit of a disadvantage here.
Assuming that circumstances conspire to force you to leave later, rather than sooner, how to evac?
So. Let us pull up a topo map of Manhattan and the surrounding area, pour a mug of Earl Grey, and let the mind wander.
You know what comes to mind? Evacuation routes are only limited if you limit yourself to ground transportation only.
It would take a bit more prep, but would it be possible to arrange for the use of a boat to ferry your and your across the water? Manhattan is an island. I would imagine that the places for a boat to dock and take on you and yours should be fairly numerous, even without Improvising, Adapting, and Overcoming.
The simplest iteration is to arrange for a friend and/or family member to be waiting at a pre-determined point on the mainland for pick-up. This allows you to by-pass congested bridges, but gets you back on roadways as quick as possible.
Alternately, depending upon variables I don't have access to, it might be possible to use the boat itself as the evac. Both the East River and the Hudson River appear to be navigable for a good part of the year. Assuming that you begin your evac with a safe margin, there doesn't appear to be any great obstacle to riding one of the rivers right out of the danger zone, to a destination point on one of the rivers itself, or disembarking and proceeding with your evac well-clear of any panic zones.
Again, I don't know the area, but it's an idea to mind-wrestle.
If boats aren't to your liking, as long as you leave at first warning, the roads and highways should be relatively clear.
LawDog
More Evacuations: Rally Points and Bug Out Bags?
What kinds of places make good Rally Points?
The best rally points are both out-of-the-way and visible from the main route. They need to be out-of-the-way, because you don't want to hold up traffic when traffic consists of stressed-out, panicky people. They need to be visible, so that you can be seen.
In this area, highways are crossed at fairly regular intervals by County Roads, or Farm-to-Market/Ranch-to-Market roads. Pick FM/RM roads that -- as you approach the FM intersection -- you can clearly see a hundred yard stretch of the FM road. You should be able to view this hundred-yard-stretch of road both outbound on the evac route, and in-bound, on the return route.
Your rally point should be a location fifty yards more-or-less down the FM road from the evac route.
Why use a road for the rally point? Parking areas and parking lots are going to get crowded during an evacuation. No privacy, and human predators, like all other predators, hunt where prey is plentiful. Plus, most parking areas/parking lots have a limited number of ways in or out, and you are guaranteed to have a bottleneck at the exit.
A road allows you to see people coming, and to watch them during their entire approach. If a problem develops, you have the rest of the FM road to use, or you can put the transmission in 'D' and bull your way the short fifty yards to the main route.
Also, fifty yards off the main route gives enough privacy for your party to -- one at a time -- go "talk to the man about a horse" as they say. A necessary task that most people find nearly impossible in a parking lot. And if I choose to sit in my vehicle with a .357 magnum revolver in my lap and a pump 12 gauge in the side seat, there aren't going to be strangers wandering about to look in the windows and start getting daft ideas.
Also, any sources for PRACTICAL bug out bag lists?
The best rally points are both out-of-the-way and visible from the main route. They need to be out-of-the-way, because you don't want to hold up traffic when traffic consists of stressed-out, panicky people. They need to be visible, so that you can be seen.
In this area, highways are crossed at fairly regular intervals by County Roads, or Farm-to-Market/Ranch-to-Market roads. Pick FM/RM roads that -- as you approach the FM intersection -- you can clearly see a hundred yard stretch of the FM road. You should be able to view this hundred-yard-stretch of road both outbound on the evac route, and in-bound, on the return route.
Your rally point should be a location fifty yards more-or-less down the FM road from the evac route.
Why use a road for the rally point? Parking areas and parking lots are going to get crowded during an evacuation. No privacy, and human predators, like all other predators, hunt where prey is plentiful. Plus, most parking areas/parking lots have a limited number of ways in or out, and you are guaranteed to have a bottleneck at the exit.
A road allows you to see people coming, and to watch them during their entire approach. If a problem develops, you have the rest of the FM road to use, or you can put the transmission in 'D' and bull your way the short fifty yards to the main route.
Also, fifty yards off the main route gives enough privacy for your party to -- one at a time -- go "talk to the man about a horse" as they say. A necessary task that most people find nearly impossible in a parking lot. And if I choose to sit in my vehicle with a .357 magnum revolver in my lap and a pump 12 gauge in the side seat, there aren't going to be strangers wandering about to look in the windows and start getting daft ideas.
Also, any sources for PRACTICAL bug out bag lists?
When prepping for a large/extended family evacuation, Bug-Out Bags aren't necessarily as important as one might think.
Not that they aren't important -- I have a Bug-Out Bag, and wouldn't evac without it -- but in a large/extended family evacuation there will be other considerations and necessities that simply aren't covered by the Bug Out Bag.
For instance, if my extended family has to unarse the A.O. and head for High Ground, there are probably going to be multiple small children involved, if not at least one infant.
The Space Blanket and poncho liner in Uncle 'Dog's B-O-B are just fine for pretend camping in the living room, but not so much for a bunch of exhausted sprogs over a 72 hour period.
Likewise, note the part about one or more infants. My B-O-B has no provisions for diapers. After 72 hours, one can only imagine how important diapers are going to become.
So. Be sure to bring your Bug Out Bag(s), but for a large/extended family evacuation, bring the minimum amount of stuff that your family needs to get through 72 hours.
The best way to do this, is to mark a normal 72 hour period. During this period keep a meticulous list of everything your family uses or consumes during this time.
After the 72 hours is done, go back over the list and cross off everything that is a luxury. Take a look at what's left, and cross off everything that you can live without. Now, go back and consolidate the remainder as much as possible. What's left of the list will give you an idea of what you're going to need.
As a side-note: Uncle LawDog, Uncle Chris and Uncle Reno drink tanker-loads of Dr. Pepper, tea and coffee every day. We are, to put it mildly, caffeine junkies. The thought of adding caffeine withdrawal to the stress of a natural disaster and accompanying evacuation does not make for peaceful slumber.
Therefore, you can bet your last bippy that there is a box of Vivarin somewhere on that list. Yes, it will keep sleepy drivers awake. It will also keep Uncle LawDog from snapping someones head off because he can't find a single Dr. Pepper ANYWHERE ON THIS DAMN ROAD? IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR JUST ONE LOUSY CAN ...
Oh.
Ahem. Sorry about that.
While food should be as compact and condensed as possible, bring some foodstuffs that need preparation. Maybe as minor as a loaf of bread and some jars of peanut butter and jelly.
The worst impact -- psychologically and emotionally -- during a natural disaster is the feeling of helplessness. During a large/extended family evacuation, there are liable to be family or group members who are not able to be an active part of the evacuation.
This is a potent one-two punch: they are helpless in the face of the disaster, and then they are helpless again during the evacuation of family. Bad, bad, bad.
Approaching these family members at an appropriate time with an armload of foodstuffs that need some preparation, while saying something along the lines of:
"I don't know what to do with this."
"The children could probably do with a hot meal."
This gives that family member a chance to do something to help. To aid in the evacuation. To be useful.
This is invaluable in staving off shock.
Hot food tastes pretty good, too.
LawDog
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Great Googly-Moogly
All of a sudden, I have developed a massive influx of visits from livejournal.com/friends links.
Since LiveJournal confuses the hell out of me, I have no idea who, what, where, when, or which, despite having checked more than a couple of the back-links.
*scratch, scratch*
Oh, well, my curiosity must go unsatisfied.
Welcome to The LawDog Files.
Booze and BBQ that way, guns that way, feel free to put your boots up on the coffee table, but don't bother the discarded pizza boxes -- they'll bite if they feel threatened.
LawDog
Since LiveJournal confuses the hell out of me, I have no idea who, what, where, when, or which, despite having checked more than a couple of the back-links.
*scratch, scratch*
Oh, well, my curiosity must go unsatisfied.
Welcome to The LawDog Files.
Booze and BBQ that way, guns that way, feel free to put your boots up on the coffee table, but don't bother the discarded pizza boxes -- they'll bite if they feel threatened.
LawDog
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Meditations on evacuations
Well, it's getting to be that time of year again. Hurricanes (if a hurricane is given a male name, does it become a himicane?), forest fires and floodings galore.
Speaking from a law enforcement perspective, I wish folks who might have to evacuate an area would have some kind of plan in place before it's needed, rather than winging it while palm trees sail past your ears.
Folks, it is a fact of life: during a large-scale evacuation people are going to get separated and lost. You can not avoid it.
Another fact of life: during a large-scale evacuation, I, and every other public safety employee, will have more on our plates than we can handle as it is. Us finding your lost kith and kin is probably not going to happen: you are going to have to do it.
Let me repeat that for the liberals: During an evacuation I won't have the time, I won't have the resources, and I won't have the capability to locate your missing.
Welcome to the Real World, you are On Your Own and we'll see what we can do when things settle down.
This becomes particularly important if you are part of a large, or extended, family which may or may not be evacuating at the same time.
First off, have a place to evacuate to, and I'll tell you right now that 'away' is an unacceptable destination.
I would strongly suggest that your destination point not be involved in any way with any kind of government disaster strategy. While going to a government shelter may sound like a good idea -- if you're totally and completely gormless -- be advised that any government emergency shelter will probably have some utterly bloody stupid rules. No pets. No guns. Required donation of any foodstuffs. No leaving at will. That kind of thing.
Totally unacceptable.
So. You have decided upon a destination in the advent of an evacuation. Now, kindly be sure that everyone involved knows where you're supposed to go. This sounds simplistic, but nobody should ever have to ask the question, "Does (Insert Name Here) know we're going to (Insert Destination Here)?" followed by the famous reply, "Uhhh...I don't know."
Tell everyone, and then tell them again. You may even want to write it down and stick it to any available fridge doors belonging to the people whom you have told.
And while we're on this subject: KINDLY INFORM THE FOLKS AT THE DESTINATION AHEAD OF TIME, IF YOU PLEASE. Like, now. Yes.
Don't count on comm lines being open to allow you to contact your destination people 10 minutes before you depart. And, while I'm sure that they're going to be delighted to put you up for a weekend (in Katrina days that could be years), common courtesy demands that they have some kind of warning that y'all might be on the way.
Now. Drive the route, and while you're doing so, look around you and imagine it occupied by how-ever-many thousand people are in your city/county/metropolitan area -- all with evacuation in mind, but unprepared and panic-prone.
Those overpasses. Can you get around them if they're blocked? Same with any bridges -- how will you get around them if they're rendered unpassable? Secondary routes?
Secondary routes get interesting, because of the next thing I'm going to seriously suggest you do: Put a box of gallon-sized Ziplock bags, a box of 3X5 cards and two or three waterproof markers in everyones evac kit.
Rally Points. Also called Rendezvous Point, Check Points, Way Points or any other number of names. I want you to take a good hairy eyeball at the route between Here and There. At normal speed, under normal conditions, I want y'all to find easily seen, easily accesible (but out-of-the-way) spots no more than an hour apart on the route.
Stress to each family member that if -- for whatever reason -- they can't continue to evac on their own and have to stop, that they are to only stop at a Rally Point. Read that part over again.
If you're in a congested area, you might give consideration to locating these spots a normal half-hour apart, instead of an hour. If you're in wide-open rural areas, you may want to extend the spacing to two or even three hours each. Up to you, really.
Again, you make sure that everyone knows where the Rally Points are.
The way the Rally Point System works is simple. Let us imagine that you are part of an extended family and Mother Nature has decided to open a can of whoop-arse on your home turf. Your extended family is smarter than some, and y'all promptly get into the wind.
The first person, or group, to get to the first Rally Point takes a 3x5 card, writes down the date and time in waterproof marker, along with the name (Very Important, don't forget this) of each person in the group and a description of the vehicle(s) they're in.
This goes into a Ziplock bag and it is put somewhere at the Rally Point that a stranger isn't likely to glom onto it and use it for a notepad or bog paper. Since you have wisely located each Rally Point just-a-bit-off-the-path, this shouldn't be too hard.
The first party then continues on, doing the same at each Rally Point until they are forced to stop (at a Rally Point) or they get to the destination. Each following person or group fills out their own 3x5 card at each Rally Point and adds it to the Ziplock bag.
"But, LawDog," I hear you say, "This seems like an awful lot of trouble."
You are correct. It is an awful lot of trouble. If you're planning on skiting out on your own, or with just enough people to fit in one or two cars, then Rally Points aren't for you.
However if you have a large number of family (that you care about) and/or friends (that you care about) who may not be evacuating at the same time, or from the same place, you need to consider something like this.
So. Here we have the Frickert Clan and associated friends. They have evacuatedNew Orleans their home town, and a nose-count at the destination shows that all are accounted for, excepting only Grandpa, Grandma, Ms. Emily and the triplets.
X-number of knuckle-dragging monsters are picked, they jump into a jeep and head back along the evac route, while the rest of the Frickert Clan is firmly ordered to remain at the destination point and not to expand the problem any further by haring off.
The knuckle-draggers check each Rally Point in reverse order, and when they find the one where Grandma and Grandpa last signed in, they have a firm known last location, and they know that Grandma and Grandpa are in the 1977 Dodge Dart -- blue in colour.
This allows them to carefully check downstream from that Rally Point and locate Grandma and Grandpa high-centred in the bar-ditch, pull them out and send them on the way with a knuckle-dragger to do the rest of the driving.
Continuing along the evac route, the rescue crew discovers that the stress of the disaster, plus dealing with three-month old triplets, is sending Emily into shock.
Fortunately, she remembered that if she couldn't get any further she was to head for a Rally Point and stay there. With that goal to keep panic at bay, Emily has managed to get to a Rally Point, and it's only a matter of time before the knuckle-draggers show up -- no muss, no fuss, no extended searches -- Emily gets reassured, a cooler head does the driving, and everyone in the Frickert Clan is safe.
Something to think about, folks.
LawDog
Speaking from a law enforcement perspective, I wish folks who might have to evacuate an area would have some kind of plan in place before it's needed, rather than winging it while palm trees sail past your ears.
Folks, it is a fact of life: during a large-scale evacuation people are going to get separated and lost. You can not avoid it.
Another fact of life: during a large-scale evacuation, I, and every other public safety employee, will have more on our plates than we can handle as it is. Us finding your lost kith and kin is probably not going to happen: you are going to have to do it.
Let me repeat that for the liberals: During an evacuation I won't have the time, I won't have the resources, and I won't have the capability to locate your missing.
Welcome to the Real World, you are On Your Own and we'll see what we can do when things settle down.
This becomes particularly important if you are part of a large, or extended, family which may or may not be evacuating at the same time.
First off, have a place to evacuate to, and I'll tell you right now that 'away' is an unacceptable destination.
I would strongly suggest that your destination point not be involved in any way with any kind of government disaster strategy. While going to a government shelter may sound like a good idea -- if you're totally and completely gormless -- be advised that any government emergency shelter will probably have some utterly bloody stupid rules. No pets. No guns. Required donation of any foodstuffs. No leaving at will. That kind of thing.
Totally unacceptable.
So. You have decided upon a destination in the advent of an evacuation. Now, kindly be sure that everyone involved knows where you're supposed to go. This sounds simplistic, but nobody should ever have to ask the question, "Does (Insert Name Here) know we're going to (Insert Destination Here)?" followed by the famous reply, "Uhhh...I don't know."
Tell everyone, and then tell them again. You may even want to write it down and stick it to any available fridge doors belonging to the people whom you have told.
And while we're on this subject: KINDLY INFORM THE FOLKS AT THE DESTINATION AHEAD OF TIME, IF YOU PLEASE. Like, now. Yes.
Don't count on comm lines being open to allow you to contact your destination people 10 minutes before you depart. And, while I'm sure that they're going to be delighted to put you up for a weekend (in Katrina days that could be years), common courtesy demands that they have some kind of warning that y'all might be on the way.
Now. Drive the route, and while you're doing so, look around you and imagine it occupied by how-ever-many thousand people are in your city/county/metropolitan area -- all with evacuation in mind, but unprepared and panic-prone.
Those overpasses. Can you get around them if they're blocked? Same with any bridges -- how will you get around them if they're rendered unpassable? Secondary routes?
Secondary routes get interesting, because of the next thing I'm going to seriously suggest you do: Put a box of gallon-sized Ziplock bags, a box of 3X5 cards and two or three waterproof markers in everyones evac kit.
Rally Points. Also called Rendezvous Point, Check Points, Way Points or any other number of names. I want you to take a good hairy eyeball at the route between Here and There. At normal speed, under normal conditions, I want y'all to find easily seen, easily accesible (but out-of-the-way) spots no more than an hour apart on the route.
Stress to each family member that if -- for whatever reason -- they can't continue to evac on their own and have to stop, that they are to only stop at a Rally Point. Read that part over again.
If you're in a congested area, you might give consideration to locating these spots a normal half-hour apart, instead of an hour. If you're in wide-open rural areas, you may want to extend the spacing to two or even three hours each. Up to you, really.
Again, you make sure that everyone knows where the Rally Points are.
The way the Rally Point System works is simple. Let us imagine that you are part of an extended family and Mother Nature has decided to open a can of whoop-arse on your home turf. Your extended family is smarter than some, and y'all promptly get into the wind.
The first person, or group, to get to the first Rally Point takes a 3x5 card, writes down the date and time in waterproof marker, along with the name (Very Important, don't forget this) of each person in the group and a description of the vehicle(s) they're in.
This goes into a Ziplock bag and it is put somewhere at the Rally Point that a stranger isn't likely to glom onto it and use it for a notepad or bog paper. Since you have wisely located each Rally Point just-a-bit-off-the-path, this shouldn't be too hard.
The first party then continues on, doing the same at each Rally Point until they are forced to stop (at a Rally Point) or they get to the destination. Each following person or group fills out their own 3x5 card at each Rally Point and adds it to the Ziplock bag.
"But, LawDog," I hear you say, "This seems like an awful lot of trouble."
You are correct. It is an awful lot of trouble. If you're planning on skiting out on your own, or with just enough people to fit in one or two cars, then Rally Points aren't for you.
However if you have a large number of family (that you care about) and/or friends (that you care about) who may not be evacuating at the same time, or from the same place, you need to consider something like this.
So. Here we have the Frickert Clan and associated friends. They have evacuated
X-number of knuckle-dragging monsters are picked, they jump into a jeep and head back along the evac route, while the rest of the Frickert Clan is firmly ordered to remain at the destination point and not to expand the problem any further by haring off.
The knuckle-draggers check each Rally Point in reverse order, and when they find the one where Grandma and Grandpa last signed in, they have a firm known last location, and they know that Grandma and Grandpa are in the 1977 Dodge Dart -- blue in colour.
This allows them to carefully check downstream from that Rally Point and locate Grandma and Grandpa high-centred in the bar-ditch, pull them out and send them on the way with a knuckle-dragger to do the rest of the driving.
Continuing along the evac route, the rescue crew discovers that the stress of the disaster, plus dealing with three-month old triplets, is sending Emily into shock.
Fortunately, she remembered that if she couldn't get any further she was to head for a Rally Point and stay there. With that goal to keep panic at bay, Emily has managed to get to a Rally Point, and it's only a matter of time before the knuckle-draggers show up -- no muss, no fuss, no extended searches -- Emily gets reassured, a cooler head does the driving, and everyone in the Frickert Clan is safe.
Something to think about, folks.
LawDog
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