Thursday, May 31, 2007
I have chased that smarmy little bugger for the last 14 years -- and have yet to lay eyes on him.
The list and tally of his nefarious crimes is long indeed, and AD and others have mentioned some of his most infamous activities, but they have neglected to mention Sumdood's most cunning act of evil:
He owns a clothing factory.
Yes. It is true.
When he gets gets bored, Sumdood will go down to the warehouse and he will pick an article of clothing -- usually pants, but sometimes a shirt -- then he will go to his lair deep below the basement of the IRS office and he will pick one of his collection of stolen guns -- or maybe a quantity of unlawful recreational pharmaceuticals -- and he will place this inside one of the pockets.
Once this is done, Sumdood will choose a random address from the phone book, go to this residence inhabited solely by the most devout missionaries, and he will leave this article of clothing on the floor, where one of these goodly people will pick it up and wear it into the street, unaware that Sumdood is following them.
And then, then the true depths of Sumdood's vileness is revealed -- for when our guileless innocent passes within proper distance of a Minion of the Law, Sumdood will cause the attention of that Minion to become fixed upon our puir, wee lambikins, out doing God's work.
"What's this?", inquires said Minion, bringing forth into the light a ziploc baggie containing about three ounces of a pale yellow, crystalline substance.
"Man, these aren't my pants!"
"Whose pants are they, then?"
Genius. Sheer genius.
And it's not just clothing, either. Reno informs me that just last month it was discovered that Sumdood has branched out into the used car business -- and is using them in drive-by shootings before foisting them off onto his unsuspecting victims.
Can you imagine the shock of the poor, unwitting pigeons upon learning that not five minutes earlier, Sumdood was shooting up a neighborhood from the passenger window of the car -- the very car! -- that they are now driving?
He must be stopped.
Monday, May 28, 2007
The number of people offering help was truly humbling. I thank each and every one of y'all.
Last week, due to the kind efforts of people whom I've never met in the paint, a certificate came to Nana from UTMB.
It was not a copy of Great-granda's diploma. It was much better than that.
It was a wonderfully framed certificate recognizing Nana as the daughter of her father, stated when he graduated from UTMB, the length of time he served the people in his community, and embraced Nana as a member of the UTMB family.
I really don't have the words to express my gratitude, so I'll let some pictures do the talking.
Here is Nana, realizing what she has been given:
I think the look of surprise pretty much says it all.
Here is Nana with the certificate:
To those who helped this become reality, and to those who offered to help: thank you. The gift of your time and your care was more precious than you can imagine.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Title: Al-Azhar Lecturer Suspended after Issuing Controversial Fatwa Recommending Breastfeeding of Men by Women in the Workplace.
You know, I am a man of the world. I fully and completely understand that the universe is not only stranger than we imagine, but stranger than we can imagine -- to quote Sir Arthur Eddington.
Some things, though, still have the ability to absolutely blow my tiny little mind -- such as the above-referenced article.
Doctor Izzat Atiyya, of Al-Azhar University in Cairo, Egypt, has decided that the knotty problem of an Islamic woman working in private with an Islamic man not related to her can be easily solved by shari'a law: to wit, if she breastfeeds him, he then becomes a family member. According to his interpretation of shari'a.
Umm. Hmm. Uhh...
Wow. That's just ...
I can't add anything to that. I really can't. There simply are no words.
Read the analysis linked above for more mind-blowing quotes.
I'd like to thank Peter for sending me a link which will, no doubt, cause me to sit bolt upright in bed at three in the morning, babbling, "Do what??!!" at least once in the coming years.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Kiddos loved it.
Personally, I loved Shrek 2, and the first movie tickled my funny bone, too.
This one ... fifteen minutes into the movie and I'm rooting for Prince Charming. The charm of the Shrek franchise is the sly stuff aimed at the adults in the audience -- well, I don't know if someone complained, or what, but #3 lacks the wink-and-a-nod at the grown-ups.
Without that, Shrek 3 is just a ponderous, stodgy, completely predictable children's tale.
Plus, it kind of felt like Mike Myers phoned in his performance -- probably figured out that his money ride is coming to an end.
If you have little ones, go see it. Otherwise, rent a DVD copy of Flushed Away and save yourself the $7 matinee price.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Training is vital -- even more so when guns are involved -- however, when it comes to the distaff side of the species, I sometimes wonder if they're getting a bit short-changed.
Most trainers are men, and though they do their best, let's face it: outstanding trainer though he is, Louis Awerbuck has probably never worn a little black dress and high-heels with matching clutch in his life.
There is an entire world -- hell, universe -- that you ladies inhabit and deal with on a daily basis that I, and every other man out there, have never experienced and never will.
A camp or school taught by women shooters for women is bound to cover some stuff that would never cross our male minds.
I thoroughly recommend that any of my lady readers who are shooters, or considering becoming a shooter, check out this camp or one similar to it.
It will only help.
Monday, May 21, 2007
I have been gently reminded that verse in the Scots dialect is much like music on the bagpipes -- beautiful to those who love it, and incomprehensible to those who don't.
Last night, one of the most beautiful sailing vessels ever to grace the seven seas -- the Cutty Sark-- caught fire. 140 years of "peerless and irreplaceable maritime craftsmanship", to quote Jim Gilchrist of The Scotsman, lost.
In the poem the protagonist, an intoxicated gentleman by the name of Tam O'Shanter, is riding home from the pub when he happens across a coven of witches exuberantly dancing in the moonlight.
One particularly beautiful young witch is wearing only a way-too-short chemise, and during a high point in her dance, our hero forgets himself and belts out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" (cutty = short, sark = chemise, or nightshirt).
Tam O'Shanter, being mounted on his famous racing mare, takes off like striped-butted ape as the witches give chase.
His faith in his mare is justified as she gets him to safety across running water, but not before Cutty-sark -- leading the chase -- yanks the horse's tail off.
Well named, the clipper Cutty Sark was the greyhound of the sailing ships. At 280 feet long, and a beam of 35 feet, she weighed 963 tons, but carried 32,000 square feet of sail.
She regularly posted incredible times, first in the Shanghai-to-England tea run, and later in the Australia-England wool trade. She made the Australia-to-England run in 67 days, and her best time ever -- 360 nautical miles in 24 hours -- was never matched by any other ship of her size.
I visited the Cutty Sark during one of our layovers in England, and spent half-a-day on her. Absolutely gorgeous little ship, I don't know of anyone who couldn't recognize the speed and grace in her -- even tied up at dock.
There are indications that the fire that ravaged the Cutty Sark may have been deliberately set.
I'm here to tell you, anybody who'd set fire to something that pretty ought to be taken out and shot like a rabid dog.
And hopefully her namesake is waiting to chase that critter around hell.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
In May of 2006, a young man by the name of Jesse MacBeth slimed the men and women of our Armed Forces by claiming to have been an Army Ranger, and as such, having been directly ordered to commit atrocities on civilians in Iraq.
Of course, this "brave veteran" immediately became the darling of the Anti-War Left, with the organization Iraq Veterans Against the War not only scheduling Young Master MacBeth to represent the organization at events around the country, but also using their homepage to host a video in which Our Boy Jesse described -- in excruciating, stuttering detail -- the various acts he was forced to commit by the war-mongers back in Washington.
If you get all your information on things military from a Mack Bolan novel.
Several folks -- including Your Humble Scribe -- thought that MacBeth's story smelled a skosh fishy.
Well, it was. Jesse MacBeth got his little Squeal butt bounced out of Army Basic training -- never even finished -- and never got anywhere within spitting distance of Ranger Training or Iraq.
I think the MacBeth debacle was a major embarrassment to the anti-war movement -- not that you'd think so the way they pretended not to have even heard of the sprat.
Anyhoo, according to the Associated Press, Jesse MacBeth was charged twice in Federal court on Friday for 1) using or possessing a forged or altered military discharge certificate; and 2) making false statements in seeking benefits from the Veterans Administration.
It seems Young Jesse was fairly easy to find: apparently he's been serving time in the Tacoma lock-up for fourth degree assault.
Better stock up on those honey-buns, Jesse -- the exchange rate in the Fed Bed and Breakfast isn't as generous as that in local.
Good riddance and throw away the key.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Due to a family emergency, Deputy LawDog has temporarily taken over the 911 desk.
"Bugscuffle 911, this is Deputy LawDog, what is your emergency?"
"Is my baby's daddy in jail?"
"Is. My. Baby's. Daddy. In. Jail?"
"Madam, I hardly think this qualifies as an emergency."
"That's what you think. Is he in jail, or not?'
"Umm. Okay. What's his name?"
"Hmm. I'm not seeing anyone by that name in our jail."
"He ain't in your jail, he's supposed to be in Austin jail."
"You called Bugscuffle 911 to find out if someone's in a jail 600 miles south of here?"
"Well ... duh."
"This is not an emergency. Goodbye, madam."
"Bugscuffle 911, this is Deputy LawDog, what is your emergency?"
"I'll have you know it is an emergency! If my baby's daddy don't sign over his checks, the baby ain't gonna get fed!"
"Madam, you have to call Travis County to find out if your ... whatever ... is in their facility. We don't have that information. Now, don't call 911 again unless it's an immediate emergency, that's why we have the admin number. It's in the front of the phone book. Goodbye, madam."
"Do you have an emergency? Life or death, that doesn't involve people half-a-state south of here?"
"Yes. See, Austin is a long-distance call. I can't afford that, so I need y'all to call for me and ask if Joel is there."
"Bugscuffle 911, this is Deputy LawDog, what is your emergency?"
"Now see here, you can't just hang up on a 911 call that way!"
"Yes, mother[deleted], did you hear me?!"
"Are you still at 1313 Stump drive, #134?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You going to be there for, oh, another five minutes?"
"Yes, mother[deleted] I live here. With my baby's daddy, when he's not in ... oh, [deleted] you is going to send the laws here, aren't you?! Oh, [deleted] the laws is coming! Get rid of that [deleted], the laws ... *CLICK!*"
Whistling softly, I roll the chair over to the desk where the regular phone sits.
Glancing back-and-forth. I dial the LAST RECEIVED NUMBER on the display, and examine my fingernails.
*brrt ... brrt ... brrt*
"Tell her to take it out of the baggies before she flushes, or the commode will back up."
"Oh, [deleted], they on the phone! *CLICK!*"
Hmm. How rude.
*brrt ... brrt ... brrt*
"Should I call Child Protective Services and three way the call, or would you like it to be a surprise?"
"Is this Mr. 'Dog? Mr 'Dog, is that you?"
"Actually, I believe the name you used was, 'mother[deleted].'"
"Oh, [deleted], it's Mr. 'Dog! *CLICK!*"
Oh, what the hell.
*brrt ... brrt ... brrt ... brrt ... brrt*
No answer. Goodness. She was so communicative earlier, but now no answer. Obviously, something has happened to the residents of that address.
"County, Car 29."
"29, go ahead."
"29, go to 1313 Stump Drive, number 134 in reference to multiple 911 hangups and a welfare check."
"10-4 County, en route."
We don't pay our dispatchers enough to put up with this kind of thing.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
If you're in Texas, and you have questions regarding Texas gun laws in general, and CHLs in particular, I'll bet they can either answer the question, or point you in the right direction.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Sunday, May 13, 2007
I have heard about them all of my law enforcement career -- usually at about 3 o'clock in the morning -- but it's obvious that someone is actively engaged in hiding them from me.
I mean, there I am, driving along minding my own business, when I notice the bed of a pick-up truck sticking out of a house.
Now, this is the sort of thing that kind of requires a tad bit of attention, so I stop and get out to ponder the architectural statement of a bloody huge Ford tailgate protruding between a couple of very large bay windows.
As I meditate upon this, I notice a pair of trenches cut into the lawn that lead from the street to -- you won't believe this -- the pick-up truck.
This discovery, together with the bisected hedge, and the mysterious disappearance of the Mama deer lawn ornament that was formerly -- if memory serves -- located between the Daddy deer (now to the left of the trenches) and Baby Bambi (right side), leads me to believe that my professional services are probably required.
I call dispatch and have them run a 10-28 on the license plate prominently attached to the visible part of the pick-up, then further inform them that I will be needing the services of the VFD, a mentally-flexible tow-truck driver, and possibly EMS.
Then I scramble up onto the bed of the pick-up, duck under the collapsed eaves and into the living room.
The first thing I notice in the glare of the one remaining headlight, is Mama deer looking at me reproachfully from somewhere betwixt the radiator and the fuel pump.
The second thing, is the gentleman steadying himself against a bookcase with one hand, warbling a country song, as he relieves himself into some kind of potted plant.
Ah, I think to myself, here is Person of Interest #1.
I look into the cab of the pick-up, but I don't see anyone else. Behind me, George Strait left his saddle in San Antone, and I pad into the kitchen.
I quick twist of the taps produces no water. I had remembered that the owners of this house were summer-ing in Colorado; looks like they hadn't come back yet.
Even so, a quick trip through the bedrooms reveals only dust and a musty smell -- thank God -- so I return to Mama deer and Person of Interest #1, as Dispatch returns the name and address of the registered owner of the pick-up.
I step up behind the gentleman -- who is firmly shoving up-and-down on a unoffending branch -- and I clear my throat.
"What's on your mind, sir?"
"Summbeesch won-wonn--won't flusdht."
"That's okay, sir, ferns are bad that way. Want to tell me what happened here?"
"Welsh, I's tak-taken a whizz, 'n the thin-thingie won't fllushdt."
"Ah," I say, "And how much have you had to drink tonight?'
Behind my back, I extend two fingers.
He looks at his own hand, counts unsteadily, then waves a Victory sign at me.
Damn, I'm good. I should give lessons to Miss Cleo.
"You do realize, sir, that you have succeeded in parking your truck in a house?"
"G'wan funnymaansh ... wa-wait minnit. Yoosh a copdt."
Hello, higher brain functions! I wave the flashlight beam around the living room, the pick-up grill, the bits and pieces dangling from the ceiling. The decapitated plaster deer.
"Succinct, yet pithy observation. Let's go outside."
"Way,way,wayminnit! Yoush 'rrestin' me? Whafor?"
"Suspected DWI and hunting plaster deer out of season."
"Nonono, no. Mansh got ri',rite to do wha he wnats wi' his hoo -hou -, house!"
"Yes!" I exclaim, happily, "Yes, he does! And you are Mr. Jim Drunkard, of Onehorse, Texas, are you not?!"
"Yeesh! Da's me!"
"This is Bugscuffle. Onehorse is about 120 miles..." I point, "That way."
I want to see the two beers that can give a 270 pound man a BAC of 0.27%.
Seriously. Do they come in buckets, or what? Is there a secret non-cop beer mug measured in gallons behind the bar?
Of course, I suppose from the smell he could have been swimming in it. Are there special beer vats for dunking customers that I've never seen?
I want to see these famous two beers, dammit!
Friday, May 11, 2007
He and Mom started swapping stories, and that, along with some rather nice Italian food, made for a very enjoyable evening.
On the drive back home, Mom made the comment that it was nice to talk Africa with people who knew exactly what you were talking about.
I think she badly misses Africa -- but I also think that the Africa she misses changed a long time ago, and not for the better.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Take my advice, don't view this unless you've put any throwable objects out of reach.
You know, I'm not an expert on copyright law, but wouldn't Disney have grounds for a lawsuit against Hamas for unauthorized use of Mickey Mouse?
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
-- Section One, 14th Amendment, United States Constitution.
No one shall be denied equal protection of the law.
What could be more American? Indeed, did not the Founding Fathers consider it a self-evident truth that all men are created equal?
All men are created equal, and all are deserving of equal protection under the law.
As I consider the recent -- most recent, I guess -- hate crime legislation in the Federal Government, I am reminded of another quote concerning equality.
This quote isn't found in the Declaration of Independence, not is it in the Constitution of the United States.
Instead, this quote is found in a much-later work --1945 -- to be exact.
"All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others."
It is, of course, from the novel Animal Farm by George Orwell -- a work which probably needs to be read more often, especially in schools.
So. Why do some animals get to be more equal than the rest of us; and why in the name of sweet bugger all does the Federal Government think it has the right to decide which animals get to be more equal?
Equal Protection Under the Law can not -- I say again my last -- Can Not be "equal" if one group is getting more protection than others.
Once you have singled out one group, or two groups, or ten groups, and decided that they get more protection than the rest, there is no way that you can claim that All are receiving Equal Protection Under the Law.
At least, not with a straight face.
If all -- ALL, everybody, each and every animal -- are not receiving Equal Protection Under the Law, then someone is violating the Constitution of the United States, and should be tried for treason before being hung by the neck from the rafters of the Capitol Building.
And let us not be coy here: "Hate Crime" is a misnomer. It is not "Hate" crime, that is being legislated, it is "Thought" crime.
Yes, it bloody well is.
If Joe Schmoe walks out of his house and punches a 22 year-old-man in the mouth, it is assault. And Joe is punished for the act.
If Joe Schmoe walks out of his house, punches a 22-year-old-man in the mouth, whiling yelling, "Queer!" what is the difference?
Both acts are assaults. Both acts involve a fist and a mouth, and both acts involve the same level of physical damage.
The difference is that in one, Joe thinks -- thinks -- that his victim is somehow deserving of an assault because of sexual orientation. Or he thinks the sexual orientation is evil. Maybe he thinks his God has a case of the red-arse towards that particular sexual orientation.
Whatever the excuse, it still boils down to the fact that the Federal Government wants to add extra punishment, more charges because of What. Joe. Thinks.
Are you not proud?
Where does it stop?
Government power does not, has not and will bloody never decrease. The government camel never pulls his nose out of the tent.
So. Once we start hacking people for thought crimes, which thoughts should be next?
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
I surprised the host of the Internet call show and tested this equipment. I should not do that.
I've got hay-fever, I swear. And the boom mike on this thing is halfway up my snout. People don't normally hear me inhaling, I swear to God.
I'm so stressed out that my accent is sliding all over the place.
I'm going to crawl under the bed and not show my face for a week.
Monday, May 07, 2007
By way of my friend Peter, we learn of the romantic adventures -- and tactical lessons -- of a Louisiana critter.
There is a Class 1 Beverage Alert in effect.
A few tactical lessons learned from an incident this weekend:
1. If you're a young, horny teenage male who wants to get it off in the worst possible way, do not get a school 'friend' to introduce you to a pretty girl without checking on the background of said girl. In the absence of such checks a few salient facts might go unnoticed.
2. It is not a good idea to take your friend and said girl in your car to a 'movie', drop your friend at the door to buy tickets, and instead of parking the car, drive out of the cinema parking lot and down the road.
3. It's not a good idea to turn off onto a dirt road, stop the car, expose yourself and brag about how good a time you're going to give her.
4. It's an even worse idea to expose yourself when the girl in question has been well and truly informed by her parents of the effects of grabbing and squeezing (in a distinctly non-erotic manner). This error is compounded when she has naturally long, sharp nails.
5. When the young lady leaves your car and runs back to the main road, after you've unwrapped yourself from around the steering wheel and stopped crying, it's not a good idea to try to go after her by initiating a three-point reverse on a Louisiana single-lane dirt-track road when there's a bayou off to the side where you're reversing.
6. Having swum to shore and wrung your clothes out, it's not a good idea to go chasing after the girl screaming (at the top of your lungs) what you're about to do to her . . . particularly when the nice policeman (who happens to be her godfather) has just spotted her at the roadside, pulled up, got out of his car, and is listening to her tale of the night's adventures.
7. When said policeman remonstrates with you (as politely as possible under the circumstances) about your intentions and advises you to "cool it", it's a really, REALLY bad idea to tell him that he's a "****-sucking pig-*** mother******", that you know your rights, and that he can't do a ****ing thing to you. He may take this as an invitation to demonstrate to you the depths of your error of judgment.
8. When handcuffed and in the rear seat of the nice policeman's vehicle (once again in a pain-wracked state) it's the height of folly to inform the policeman and the girl (now sitting in the front seat) that your daddy's gonna fix his *** for him, but good. It's an even worse idea to tell him your daddy's name and address when he inquires about it. You see, your daddy has a string of felony convictions as long as you wish a certain portion of your anatomy was, and he's got an outstanding warrant right now.
9. When the nice policeman nods gravely at the flow of insulting comment and asks "Is your daddy home right now?", your daddy (under the circumstances) may not be too pleased if you answer "Yes".
10. When the nice policeman and the young lady in the front seats look at each other and break into hysterical laughter while the nice policeman reaches for his microphone and calls for backup, you might begin to get an inkling that you've just compounded your earlier errors.
11. After a brief interval, when your daddy's placed in the back seat alongside you (also in handcuffs) and, amid much profanity and muttering, wonders aloud how the "****ing cops knew he was at home", it's the crowning glory of your evening's errors to tell him that you told them he was at home.
12. This will lead to several large, hairy policemen standing around the patrol car having hysterics whilst your infuriated father tries to bite your ear off (with considerable, albeit only partial, success).
13. When you and your daddy have eventually been booked in at the jail, and both of you demand loudly to make bail, it's not polite to scream with horror when informed that the young lady's father is - guess what?- the judge who will be considering your bail application, but he can't come right now as he's listening to his daughter tell him about her evening. Don't worry - he'll be along shortly.
Okay, Gentle Readers, I am tentatively scheduled for a Internet radio interview at the midnight between Thursday, May 10 and Friday, May 11. Local time.
The address is here.
I reserve the right to drop the handset and run shrieking like a little girl -- matter-of-fact, I'll probably do the entire show from the safety of under the bed.
It looks like there will be opportunities to call in during the segment.
ps: Yes, I sound like Alvin the Chipmunk. On speed. After breathing helium.
Sorry, but that's the way it is.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Earlier this month my name was suggested as a candidate to be appointed to fill out the remainder of an elected term.
The elected term of a Texas judge, to be specific.
Part of the appointment process involves an interview. As one might guess, you do not walk into an interview for a judicial position wearing jeans and a Brushpopper shirt.
I admit to some nerves, and while prepping the night before, I soothed myself by writing a brief piece concerning the tie and the troubles involved in tying one -- part of which involved the fact that I hadn't even bothered to wear a tie to my Baby Sisters wedding.
Confusion has, alas, ensued.
For the record: I am still single. I am not married now, nor have I ever been.
When that situation changes, you can bet that I will neither be coy, nor shy about announcing that fact at length, and with absolutely no possibility of being misunderstood.
ps: I have not traded in my badge and gun for a gavel, either. A more-qualified individual won the appointment -- a circumstance which I find does not bother me in the least.
The only ship available which could ensure the timely arrival of this condiment was the RMS Titanic.
The ill-fated ship was, in fact, carrying 20,000 jars of the condiment scheduled for delivery in Vera Cruz, Mexico, which was to be the next port of call for the great ship after New York City.
Apparently at this time, the Mexican people had an inordinate fondness for mayonnaise, and were looking forward to the arrival of the shipment with a fervor bordering upon fanatic.
They were so rabidly fanatic about Hellman's famous product, that when they learned of the sinking of the ship containing their precious cargo, they declared a National Day of Mourning, which many people observe to this very day.
It is known, of course, as the Sinko de Mayo.
Oh, I'm going to hell for that one.
Zumbo has just finished a course under Pat Rogers.
The write-up will be in the August issue of SWAT magazine, on newsstands July 17, and shipped to subscribers June 26.
If you want to get the issue early, there's a SWAT link to the left, feel free to subscribe.
I'd like to take this moment to thank Denny Hansen and Rich Lucibella. I hope -- indeed, I pray -- that this will have done a great deal to offset the damage done to the Second Amendment by Mr. Zumbo's unthinking comments.
Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you very much.
The only -- and I mean only -- newsworthy bit about this whole thing is that it illustrates the African-Rift-Valley-sized gap between "celebrities" -- and I use that word broadly -- and everyone else.
Allow me to explain.
Around here, when you violate your probation, the local Community Supervision department goes to the judge who placed you on probation and gets a Violation of Probation warrant.
Sometimes they get a Motion to Revoke warrant, but it's usually a VOP.
Since you have already proven that you will not abide by agreements you enter in to, VOP warrants are usually No Bond warrants.
This is then punted off to the Sheriff's Office, who goes and gets your happy butt and tosses you into General Population at the jail.
About the time you bounce into the GenPop unit, the judge is notified and you get penciled into the busy court docket wherever they have room -- it's going to be a while.
You languish in GenPop until your hearing date, when you will be put into a belly-chain and shackles and brought before the judge -- wearing a yellow jumpsuit.
A probation hearing is usually fairly short:
"Is this your signature?"
"Just above your signature, there is a sentence, 'Shall not do X.'"
"These witnesses/this evidence prove(s) you did X."
"Can you prove otherwise?"
And your happy butt goes back to GenPop for whatever length of time the judge feels to be appropriate.
Did anyone see anything like this happen to Whatsername?
Her parents -- who expressed their opinions most firmly during the hearing, a kittenish act which usually results in getting escorted out of court and/or contempt charges -- feel most strongly that their daughter is being singled out because of who she is.
They got that one right.
When the VOP charges were issued, Young Miss got to run around wild and free until her hearing date. Anyone, you know -- Not Famous -- would have been dragged out of their car, house, place of work in handcuffs and spent that same period of time in jail.
Young Miss got to show up for her hearing in classy, understated, not-County-issue clothes. I believe we've covered the whole yellow jumpsuit thing for anyone else.
When Young Miss got her butt revoked, she left the courtroom and went home -- ordered to show up to serve her time in a month. Anyone else goes straight back to GenPop from court.
Young Miss will serve her sentence in Protective Custody, no one to sneak up on her in the middle of the night, no mass showers, no bargaining for what TeeVee show gets played on the communal TeeVee, no figuring out your place in the tank pecking order. Anyone else gets General Population -- see previous.
I realize that we are not related, but I have some advice for you. Having some experience with the corrections system, I suggest that when you get to Intake, tell the receiving officer that you're going to hurt yourself.
Tell that officer that the very thought of bars makes you suicidal, and do not allow them to dissuade you from this.
And they will attempt to. They will announce in tones most dire that you really aren't suicidal. They may even accuse you of faking it. Stick to your guns!
Once they figure out that you might hurt yourself in their care, they will treat you with kid gloves. Sympathy will flow forth, and your stay will be much more comfortable.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
If you spend any time at all on the World Wierd Web, you'll inevitably run across conspiracy goodness of one kind or another. So -- me being me -- I got curious and strolled through the halls of Cyberspace looking for conspiracies.
Goodness. And ye gods.
After much cogitation (and maybe a tot of Maker's Mark), I have formulated the LawDog Theory About The Assassination of President Kennedy (okay, it was a big tot. Maybe even a dash).
Firstly, you must understand that it is a Bad Thing to mix up your protocols. While most gaffes will not be quite as spectacular as, say, greeting Thapageti-Thoth, High Priest of the Great Old Ones with the recognition hand-sign of the Association of Junior Leagues, it is important to understand that a conspiracy faux pas tends to be hard on breakable objects: limbs, housewares, buildings, small metropolitan areas, that kind of thing.
Secondly, as everyone (except, maybe, the Gentle Reader -- but we have suspicions) knows, in the 1960's the distribution of Palm Pilots and other electronic organizers was tightly controlled by the Freemasons.
President Kennedy (according to the always-reliable Internet) belonged to (according to my precise, in depth, meticulous 16-minute cyber-search) no less than 37 different organizations bent on controlling the World.
37 different Secret Protocols -- without electronic aid -- are hard enough to keep straight in your head -- and the multiple close quarter assassination attempts by Bilderberger Agent Marilyn Monroe didn't help things.
Sooner or later, JFK was doomed to slip up.
I finally found the details in a 16,000 year-old copy of the Reg Veda. It states that JFK was meeting with a representative of Dark Conspiracy Organization 102,849, and mistakenly used the Super-Secret Members-Only ID Moose-Call of Dark Conspiracy Organization Geshundteit to identify himself.
Well, this would tear things, wouldn't it?
DCO Geshundteit, understandably distressed at their Most Closely Guarded Secret Moose-Call being revealed to a rival Organization, tried convene a quorum of its Members to change the Super-Secret ID Moose-Call.
Unfortunately -- as everyone knows -- the Geshundteit High Council encrypts their Member list in a Babylonian Code so secure that the last known copy of the decrypt key went up in smoke when Julius Caesar (Rosicrucian Executive Vice President) burned the Library of Alexandria to prevent the discovery of the memoirs of Klarkash-ton by agents of the feared Hottentot Department of Tourism.
So, no quorum.
The Martian Order of the Golden Gerbil, seeing the distress and complete disarray of the DCO Geshundteit, decided that maybe their induction of JFK into their Dark Conspiracy Organization might not have been a good idea. To prevent Kennedy from revealing that the Earth is actually ruled by rodents, and to prevent the need to convene a quorum of their own Members (since no Gerbil really knows who is a Member of the Martian Order of the Golden Gerbil, it's bloody difficult to, you know, summons a quorum), the Gerbils attempted to have him whacked.
The Gerbils, being somewhat short on trained assassins after the Fluorescent Tube Death Ray debacle, called the Vatican and reminded the Holy See that they still had the negatives from the whole Tunguska thing.
The Vatican sent their top Opus Dei agent, Brother Elvis Presley, to Dallas with instructions to terminate President Kennedy -- with inordinate bias.
Anyone with any common sense will realize that the Illuminati claim that their ninja agents were actually searching the Dallas Book Depository for the Spear of Longinus is laughable bunk -- since everyone knows the Spear was, at that time, still in the possession of the Order of Thule -- none-the-less, Brother Presley was forced to slaughter hundreds of ninjas and was thus prevented from accomplishing his objective.
If Lee Harvey Oswald (Ninja, 4th Class, Probationary) hadn't glanced out of the window of the Depository and recognized that what the world thought was First Lady Jackie Kennedy was actually an Atlantean Infiltration Android, he would not have engaged the AIA with his Illuminati-issue Carcano.
And if he had made it to Ninja, 3rd Class, he would have learned that AIA's are bulletproof, and would not have continued to ricochet bullets through various dignitaries.
I understand that Illuminati ninja training has been modified to prevent future 'magic bullet' occurrences of this kind.
I had documents, photographs, and original flash-drives to prove the veracity of this account, including the full and complete confession of the Gerbil High Potentate, but my dog (whom I believe to be an agent of the Movementarians) cunningly ate the evidence.
Nevertheless, I shall publish a book, just as soon as I can find a publisher who isn't mind-controlled by the High Vegetarian Order of the Snark.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
I find myself somewhat intrigued, yet I do not know much about Internet radio -- or anything about Internet radio to tell the truth -- so I'd like to hear from those who are a bit more worldly in these things than I.