Friday, September 29, 2006

And it's a source of considerable irritation, too.

I have a squirrelly memory.

I was glancing through pdb's blog, and I saw this quote:
Like a wise man once said to me, "I can sketch you out a diagram of the interactions of the nine basic forces in the universe. But I don't understand economics, and anybody that claims they do is a clottin' liar."

That quote is from the Sten series of books, by Alan Cole and Chris Bunch. More specifically, it's a quote from the Eternal Emperor to his spymaster, Ian Mahoney. I haven't read those books in at least five years, probably more.

I was watching the movie
Soldier with Kurt Russell, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his arm that read "Tannhauser Gate", and I immediately mentally linked it with this quote from Rutger Hauer in Bladerunner:
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched C beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain."

I haven't seen Bladerunner in ages.

I'm sitting in a dentist's office twenty years ago, and I read a pamphlet left on the table. Two decades later, someone on TFL asks a question about an obscure group, and I can remember the city the group is based out of, and the name of a previous leader from that pamphlet, read twenty years previously.

Yet, I can't remember faces or names worth a damn. I can't pick a critter out of a line-up to save my life.

Bloody frustrating, is what it is.



Ladies and gentlethings -- I am On Vacation!

Hide any sisters, daughters, distaff cousins, maiden aunts and chihuahuas!

Where, oh where, did I hide the obscene geckos t-shirt?

Zippity-do-dah, zippity-day! Nothing to do with the office until 16OCT!

Goodness, the trouble I could get into ...


Thursday, September 28, 2006

Comments, part 2

From Wolfwalker:

A 60-year-old woman or a 50-year-old politician can't possibly be as good as a 25-year-old commando-trained bodyguard at any kind of combat.

Agreed, yet not the point.

Queen Elizabeth has two military units guarding her at Buckingham Palace, both units no doubt filled with strikit, braw young men who eat snakes and can kill people with an emory board.

Not only that, but she has an entire dedicated police Special Operations Unit who probably drag their knuckles on the Persian carpets and practice leg-breaking 14 hours out of the day.

Three units of dedicated professionals and not a one of them was anywhere useful during the 12 minutes that Michael Fagin sat within arms reach of his target, cradling a jagged piece of glass.

What does it matter how good they are, if they aren't there?

You will always be there for you. You cannot be bribed away from your side. You will not be walking your corgis when the Poster Child for the Mildly Bewildered shows up in your bedroom and menaces you for twelve minutes. You will not be under a pile of Chilean Security Forces while you are undefended in a building 20 yards away.

This is why you are your best defense: You are the only person who will always be there for you.

Is this really so difficult to understand?




Tip of the Stetson to the Texican Tattler for finding this speech from Senator Inhofe.


Wednesday, September 27, 2006

From the Comments on the Cooper article

A Nony Mouse posted this in response to the Cooper article:

... to say that you are better protection then professionals is, er... silly (I'd rather not use a stronger word) According to this article, the President should NOT have his body guards, because after all, you can't trust them. Instead, he should be packing a gun himself. Good luck with that!

I do agree that even with body guards, one would be wise to pay attention and be armed, but you will NOT be your BEST protector. If nothing else, you are ONE person, and you can't do the job of 10. I'm sorry, this article takes an otherwise sane and logical argument (you should protect yourself) to an extreme by using ABSOLUTE arguments that you, and you alone are the best, and frankly ONLY person that can protect you. Hope Bush doesn't listen.

And why are you not your own best protector?

You state -- and I quote: "
to say that you are better protection then professionals is, er... silly" unquote.

I ask you, why is it silly?

For further enlightenment, let us step into the Wayback machine and set it for November of 2004. The place is Santiago, Chile -- the closing dinner of the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation forum.

In particular, we should focus upon the black Cadillac limousine, from which President George W. Bush and the First Lady of the United States are descending.

Notice the man holding open the door of the limousine. Allow me to introduce Special Agent Nick Trotta, he is the second lead on the Secret Service Security detail assigned to the President.

Arguably, there are none more professional in their duties than the American Secret Service, and there are few who are their equals.

President and Mrs. Bush walk up the stairs and greet their hosts, the President and First Lady of Chile.

Do notice the absence of security.

Where, you ask, is the Secret Service? Look outside the building. Look at the bottom of the stairs. See the scrum of Chilean Security Forces? That is President Bush's Secret Service detail which is being detained in head-locks and full nelsons.

Notice that despite the blows and chokeholds being dished out by the Security detail of President Bush, they are
not getting through the crowd of Chileans.

I turn your attention to the inside of the building, where the President of the United States stands -- unprotected by his professionals. This is the part you should pay attention to: watch President Bush walk outside of the building; observe him walk up to the full-on brawl between his professionals and the locals; and witness him push Chileans out of the way, reach over the scrum, grab his professional and pull his professional out of the fray.

Now, tell me again that it is "silly" to think that you are better protection than the professionals?

For several minutes, President Bush -- whom you used as your example --
was his own protection.

Why should you think it is any different for anyone else?

Let us re
-enter the Wayback Machine. This time, we shall set it for July 9, 1982. The place is London, England. Buckingham Palace, to be exact.

It is just after 0600 local time. Here is Queen Elizabeth the Second, constitutional monarch of Great Britain. She has not one, but two military units tasked with her protection at home. There is a Metropolitan Police Special Operations Bureau tasked with her security and protection at home. There are innumerable servants, footmen, maids, butlers and whatever devoted to her protection.

So ... let us cast our gaze upon the mentally-ill man sitting at the foot of her bed. Notice, if you will, the steady fall of blood from his hand and the broken half of a bloodied ashtray he holds.

As soon as the Queen notices this intruder in her chamber, begin counting on your watch. I wish you to count off twelve minutes. This is the length of time it will take for help to arrive.

Twelve minutes. Long time. She will attempt to summon help no less than three times during this conversation -- keep counting, do. Despite the phone calls from the Queen, it still takes twelve minutes for help to arrive.

Here you are, telling me that it is "silly" ... keep counting off those twelve minutes, sirrah! ... to think that you yourself are better protection than the professionals. Tell me, do: here is the Queen, herself, yet where are her professionals? Ten minutes away?

What protection are her professionals providing, that she, herself, isn't doing already?

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

This is 1982. Surely, this is a lesson?

Let us go to 2003. Windsor Castle, on the anniversary of the 21st birthday of Queen Elizabeth's grandson, Prince William.

The man you want to watch is dressed as Osama bin Laden. Not the best choice in this post-9/11 world, but what the hell, right?

No, watch. Yes, he is scaling the wall. Oh, security got him ... no, he's talking his way past them -- now he's up on the stage with Prince William in front of most of the British Royal Family ... he just kissed Prince William on not one, but both cheeks.

Do you think kissing range is knifing range? I do.

Where is the Royal security, the professionals we are "silly" not to trust?

Do you think kissing range is pistol range? I do.

Where are the bodyguards?

Do you think kissing range is suicide bomb range? I do.

But, here is Prince William, heir to the throne of Great Britain, with only himself for protection.


The President of the United States has unparalleled bodyguards, can afford unparalled security ... yet, those bodyguards aren't always there. The President had to tend for himself for those long seconds.

The Royal Family of great Britain have unparalleled bodyguards, can afford unparalleled security ... yet, failures happen. The Queen had to tend for herself for twelve long minutes. Her grandson had to tend for himself for the duration of having a mic snatched and two kisses planted.

And yet, here you are to tell me that it is "silly" to think that each man is a better guard of himself than hired professionals are.




I started this blog on 24FEB2006. On 5JUN2006, I finally bribed someone to hook me up to SiteMeter.

Today, according to SiteMeter, at 0910 local time my 100,000th visitor logged in by way of ComCast from Fremont, California.

100,000 visits.

It's kind of humbling to think that folks have popped in to my blog a hundred thousand times just to read my little scribblings.

Thank you.


Tuesday, September 26, 2006

A sample of the writing of Jeff Cooper.

I have just realized that there will be readers of this blog who are not familiar with Colonel Cooper.

He was a lot of things, not the least of which was a writer. I hope one day to come close to having the command of the written language possessed by the Colonel.

He was the author of several books, my favorite of which is
"To Ride, Shoot Straight, And Speak The Truth", a book which should be given to every boy on his sixteenth birthday.

Colonel Cooper wrote the following article for the 1975 Guns & Ammo Annual, and I post it here so that those of my readers who did not know of Colonel Jeff Cooper may get a taste of his writing.



Cooper Vs. Terrorism,
by Jeff Cooper

So here we are in the "Age of Extortion." Our local friendly felons have finally discovered what has long been taken for granted in what we used to call "more backward countries"—that crime does pay—in millions. All you need to do is threaten to do something terrible and people will throw money at you. You don't need any particular talent or skill to get rich this way, and you don't need education or training. The only requisite is nastiness, and that is no rare quality.

We can speculate at length upon why this foulness has come upon us so strikingly at this point in our history, but I doubt that any incontrovertible conclusion will result. My own suggestion is simply overpopulation. Like rats, we get testier as we get crowded. By simple arithmetic, if the proportion of goblins to people in our society remains constant, doubling our population doubles the number of goblins. And they reinforce each other as their numbers rise.

But such speculation is academic. We have the problem; never mind why. What shall we do about it? In a socialist atmosphere, the immediate response is to hand the problem to the state. Pass a law! Any law. Just so you can say that something has been done. And above all, spend money. We have come to assume that the more money we spend on a problem, the quicker it will go away.

Now it is quite true that the state can indeed abolish extortion, terrorism, and crime. History offers many examples of nations in which none of these things existed. We can start with Senacherib of Assyria and browse on up to Porfirio Diaz of Mexico. An iron fist will do it. That's the state's simple and effective answer to disorderly conduct. If you want it arranged so that the state will protect you, you can do so. What you give up in return is your liberty.

No deal.

The man to protect you is you. Not the state, not the agent of the state, and not your hired hand—YOU!

How often is our intelligence insulted by the fatuous claim that we should rely on the police for our physical security! I cannot believe that the people who advance this idea believe it themselves. The police do indeed abort a certain amount of violent crime by their coincidental presence on the scene, and that's fine. But to tell us that all we have to do is call a cop when confronted by a troll is to talk like a fool—and those who tell us this know it.

The "in" crime today is kidnapping. The police have never prevented a kidnapping. Not once. On the other hand, the intended victim often has. You don't hear much about these latter episodes, because a crime that does not take place is not newsworthy, but it is my business to know about such things and I keep track of them as best I may, and there have been at least a dozen instances brought to my attention in the last two years.

Hiring other people, public or private, to protect yourself, is perhaps not totally futile, but it must never be considered more than marginally effective. Both policemen and bodyguards can be suborned, and skill levels are problematical.

Pistol skill is not something to count on in a hired hand. Two recent examples stand out because they were caught by television cameras. These were the attempts on Governor Wallace and Imelda Marcos. In each case, guards were plentiful, and armed, but not sufficiently skilled. In each case, there was plenty of time to hit the attacker before he acted, but those responsible reacted only afterward.

On the other hand, the intended victim can seek his own skill level, and he can put it to use more quickly than any other person when he suddenly finds that he himself is a target.

Your best protector is you!

Apart from the skill factor, there is the matter of reliability. A man you hire to protect you can be hired by somebody else not to. It is nerve-wracking to be dogged about by armed men on your daily rounds, and it is also both conspicuous and un-private.

Some years ago, I undertook to train the personal guard of a certain chief of state in pistolcraft. When the course was completed, I was able to address my client thus:

"Your Excellency, 24 of your 28 men are now distinctly more efficient with their sidearms than the generality of those who guard the President of the United States. They are very good, but I don't know who they are—I hope you do."

He knew what I meant. One of his predecessors in office had been murdered by one of his own guards. Of my students who previously employed bodyguards, most now do not, except as car watchers.

Your best protector is you!

Still we hear, over and over again, that we should not be armed, that we should not resist, that we should rely on the police for our personal safety—that our best answer to violence is to give up. Such drivel demands a stronger stomach than mine.

One bleeding-heart type asked me in a recent interview if I did not agree that "violence begets violence." I told him that it is my earnest endeavor to see that it does. I would like very much to ensure—and in some cases I have—that any man who offers violence to his fellow citizen begets a whole lot more in return than he can enjoy.

Your best protector is you!

The obvious way to eradicate crime is to eradicate criminals, but neither the lawgivers nor the constabulary seem inclined to do this. The man who elects to prey upon society deserves no consideration from society. If he survives his act of violence, he rates a fair trial—but only to be sure that there has been no mistake about his identity. If he is killed in the act, there can be little doubt about whose act it was.

But we don't want a "Porfiriato," in which the police simply shoot all suspects out of hand. Such a regime may indeed have a certain austere appeal in today's climate of urban chaos, but to trade one's liberty for security is to sell one's soul to the devil, as Ben Franklin noted. And, to quote James Burnham, it is both our lives and our liberties that are at stake.

Laws are not the answer. We have laws against murder. We have laws against kidnapping. We have laws against extortion. And murder, kidnapping, and extortion are on the rise. The answer, it seems to me, is wrath. Let the thug take his chances with an alert, prepared, and angry citizenry. It may very well spoil his whole career.

This is not a call for vigilantism: It is a call for self-reliance. For those who feel short on self-reliance, I have a suggestion. Take up practical pistol shooting as a recreation. It is a good game. It is fun. It is "relevant." And it does wonders for your self-reliance.

Your best protector is—as it always has been—you!

I'd like to apologize ...

To any anony mouses who tried to comment, but were denied.

For some reason Blogger apparently suddenly decided that my blog would no longer accept anonymous comments.

That has been rectified.

Sorry about that.


Vaya con Dios, Colonel

Jeff Cooper.

10MAY1920 to 25SEP2006

Requiscat in Pacem.


Monday, September 25, 2006

Brits Bag Bozo

Lord, for what he received, I hope he was truly grateful.

Namely, a magazine of British 5.56mm.

On or about 5JUN2002, Al-Queda's top Ops Planner
-- Omar al-Farouq -- was doing what he did best in Indonesia and wound up getting snatched by the locals, who promptly turned him over to us.

We stuck his happy butt in a high-security prison in Afghanistan and started asking questions. At first he wasn't talking very much, but after a couple of months we may (or may not) have graduated to ... enthusiastic ... questioning, at which point he apparently sang like a canary.

He was the "intelligence source" that caused our first ever elevation to 'Orange' on that dumb-arse threat ladder.

Anyhoo, he provided quite a bit of reliable information, before breaking out and running for the hills on 10JUL2005.

Once free, Omar got a bit freedom-happy -- showed up on al-Araybia TeeVee in Dubai to cock a snook in our general direction, amongst other kittenish activities -- but never relaxed enough for us to get our paws on him.

Well, just before dawn this morning Brit troopies visited a house in Basra -- no, don't get up, we'll let ourselves in -- and during the confusion of the visit someone who wasn't wearing British colours cranked off some rounds in their general direction.

This little display got the shooter reclassified from 'Tiresome' to 'A Bloody Nuisance' and the irritated troopies shot him to doll rags.

After the screaming and exploding and shooting got all done, the Brits discovered that their early-morning bullet-magnet turned out to be none other than Omar himself.

That's another one down.

Thanks, guys.


Saturday, September 23, 2006

*snicker, snicker*

The NSA song.



You can PMCS the Magic Elf Box?

By way of Kateykakes:


I know you mention the DSL problem, but do you do regular maintenance on your machine, such as:

Adaware or Ewido Spybot
Search & Destroy
CleanUp! or Crap Cleaner
(CC)Swyware Guard
Spyware Blaster
Panicware Popup Stopper

Also, if you have too many programs running in the background, that can slow your machine up too. A program like StartUp Mechanic or WinPatrol takes the guess work out of messing w/ your System Config. options.

Even though this might not have anything to do w/ your issue, it doesn't hurt to have the necessary tools to help keep your machine running smoothly.

Anyway, hope you get things in order w/ your PC soon.

Regular maintenance?







What are you?

I don't tell a lot of people about my 'blog -- for a number of reasons -- but I found myself informing a young lady of the existence of this tiny little niche on the World Wide Web.

She visited, found it somewhat interesting and then surprised me by wanting to know exactly how to classify it.

I responded that I really never thought about classifying myself. I think Robert Heinleins famous quote about specialization probably got brought up.

She became fairly insistent. Am I a gun blog? Milblog? Politics? Conservative? Liberal? Entertainment? Ego?


I'll have to give that some thought.


Friday, September 22, 2006

Hugo, Hugo, Hugo.

By now I doubt if there's a single person out there in BlogWorld who hasn't heard of the speech given by the Dictator President of Venezuela, Hugo Chavez.

By-the-by, is it just me, or does anyone else get a mental image of Chavez playing Mini-me to Castro's Dr. Evil?

Sorry about that. Where were we?

The striking thing about the "Ah smell de Debbil!" speech given by Chavez isn't that he gave it (anyone who didn't expect something along those lines from that idiot has been living under a rock) -- or the fact that he called President Bush "The Devil" (Americans call President Bush worse than that every day, just visit Democratic Underground) -- what is striking about that speech is the pure and blatant hypocrisy.

Let us turn our eyes towards the Venezuelan Criminal Code, in particular the amendments to that document rammed through the Venezuelan Government by Hugo Chavez and his supporters in March of 2005.

It is currently, under the Venezuelan Criminal Code, a criminal offence to "insult or show disrespect for the president" -- to the tune of 40 months in the clink if nicked in the act.

Now, personally, I'm of the mind that calling my President "the devil" and stating that the stench of sulphur is still in the air a day after he gave a speech is disrespectful and more than a bit insulting.

So. If some Venezuelan kid got up behind the podium right after Hizzeckslency got done spraying froth, and said kid announced to the crowd that he could still smell the stench of brimstone left in the air by Hugo the Chavez; then went on to publicly brand Hugo as "The Devil" --

-- Does anyone want to take any bets on how hard that kid would hit the back wall of his new cell?

Maybe a couple of hours worth of Social Inquiry session involving a field-phone?

I don't mind Hugo Chavez shooting off his cake-hole in front of that worthless cabal of catamites currently infesting the U.N. building.

Freedom of speech, and all that.

However, if Hugo is going to run his mush about my President, then he needs to quit punting his peons into the pokey for running their mouths about him.

Sauce for the goose being sauce for the gander, and all that.


Isn't this a sign of the Apocalypse?

The American Union of Pizza Delivery Drivers

Now I've seen it all.

Personally, if I were the new President of the AUPDD, I'd be negotiating with Domino's concerning CCW, but somehow I get the idea that the concealed handgun carry is probably dead last on their list of demands.

That article mentioned the Wobblies (Industrial Workers of the World), which startled me a bit, as I was somehow under the impression that they folded in the 1920's.

The fact that they are actively trying to recruit fast-food employees doesn't surprise me in the least, though.

Man, socialists turn up in the oddest areas, don't they?


Small town trivia

One of the things that big city folks don't quite understand, is that the local peace officers know all about your social habits.

We know who belongs to which car, we know which house each car belongs to and we know which house everyone lives in.

We know which houses have college kids living in them for the semester. We know which house belongs to the local courtesan, which one has the weed, where to find the facilitator of item relocation, and the domiciles of the folks that are liable to shoot first and question after the sun comes up.

And, one of the lesser-known parts of being a small town peace officer is the fact that we develop a ... thorough ... knowledge of the local alleys.

Since we aren't exactly gormless, if a car belonging to a forty-something-year-old married man starts winding up being parked in the alley behind a house whose only occupant is a 20-year-old college co-ed, we get a glimmer of a notion concerning what is probably going on.

If we find the above car parked in the above alley behind the above house three nights a week past four-in-the-A-M, we know exactly what's going on.

Now, some folks would opine that peace officers don't go spreading this information because of some Peace Officer Code of Honour, or some silly-arsed notion about being Guardians of The Public Trust, innate sense of fair play, or other bushwa.

Horse feathers.

The reason we don't jump up on a table at the local feed trough and tell the entire town that you're playing pat-and-tickle with a girl the same age as your eldest daughter, is that we're the ones who are going to have to clean up that mess.

And that mess is probably going to require paperwork. Overtime. People going to jail. Depositions. Might wind up under the attention of a Grand Jury. General hate and discontent to spare, that sort of thing.

That is why we don't blab everything we know: we're lazy and we don't want to deal with the extra work.

Just wanted to get that off my chest.

What else do we have ...

In other small town news, the preachermullah of the local Shi'a Baptist Church has apologized profusely to my mother regarding the existence of a "Lost List", promised to diligently work to ensure that this sort of behavior not ever happen under his stewardship again, and swore that Mom's name wouldn't ever wind up anywhere near any of the lists that his congregation wouldn't ever be publishing again.

Now, that was a downright neighborly and honourable thing to do, don't y'all think?


Boy, there ain't nothing like ...

... an 8 kb/s download speed. And I'm paying through the sinus cavities for DSL ... why, exactly?

Do note that the numeral in the above sentence is an '8'. I'm given to understand that back in the late Jurassic, the benchmark speed for modems was 14.4 kb/s.


Let's see if this is even possible.


Huzzah! We're up!


Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Going to be a bit of a blink

Apparently my ISP has learned something in the way of courtesy: I have been informed that the DSL will be down "for a short period" this evening.

Considering that the local phone company seems to measure time on a geological scale, I hope to be back up sometime tomorrow.

See y'all then.


Oh, come on now ...

Bit of excitement around the old homestead.

Couple of life-long residents of the local State Correctional Facility decide that they are not content with the quality of the living conditions, service, that kind of thing, and that it will simply
not do to complete their life sentences in such a place, so they take it into their heads to do a bit of an unauthorized walkabout.

Since this kind of thing figures fairly high on the list of expected activities, both inmates were spotted legging it over the horizon, and were ID'd in no time flat.

Names and descriptions are sent to the local PD and SO, to be disseminated at First Shift Briefing, said walkabout having occurred somewhat before the crack of dawn.

'Round about 10-ish in the A.M., a Concerned Citizen calls 911 and reports a couple of suspicious men hot-footing it down her alley.

PD sends a unit who locates these suspicious men, who immediately decides that these men strongly match the descriptions of the amscrayed State critters.

Now, pay attention, because this is the kind of thing I have to deal with everyday: the officer asks the two men what their names are. Both men give false names.

The officer chats for a bit more, then asks if it would be possible -- rules, you understand -- for him to see some form of ID?

The critters totally understand, this is the way of the world these days, can't be too careful, and they hand over their
State-issued Prison Inmate ID cards. With their TRUE names on the front, beside the mug shots.


Officer promptly skins his shooting iron, and Critter #1 prones himself out with all the grace and technical expertise you would expect from a life-long critter.

#2, being of somewhat sterner stuff, promptly shags it towards a local creek ahead of back-up, hits the water, and heads for the bottom in hopes of confounding pursuit.

Since this is Texas -- in September -- this means that about eight inches of the inmate were sticking out above the inch-and-three-quarters of running water.

He was stealthily creeping his way downstream -- slithering slowly from pebble to pebble in the North Texas sunshine-- when about two metric tons worth of PD officers, SO deputies, and Texas Ranger landed on his back.



Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Oh, boy! Hate mail!

Not only did I get a couple of nastygrams, but the authors of such actually took the time to find my e-mail address! That's some dedicated ire, right there.


To the HotMail author who decided to take me to task regarding my post on "Booby Blogging" and what that post revealed about my views of women and personal relationships:

Darlin' -- and I write that with as much condescension as is possible to heap upon one small word -- the thought of actually clicking on the links described as "boobies" and "tits" never entered your pretty little head, did it?

If you had, you would have discovered that the link for "boobies" goes to a short video of a nesting pair of blue-footed boobies.

Those are a kind of bird, sweetie.

Likewise, "tits" is a link to vid-cam footage of a nest of fledgling blue tits -- also a kind of bird.

Not only are there no mammaries, boobs, breasts, or sweater kittens in either video, there is a completely appalling lack of the female of the human species in whole, or in part, in both videos.

These are visual examples of the kind of low humour known as "puns". I'm sure that as soon as your seminar on sexist oppression lets out for the night, someone will be able to explain "puns" to you.

Bimbo. (Or himbo, let us not be sexist here.)

To the Gmail author who has decided that I hate Muslims:

Bite me, you insignificant posing hack. If you're a muslim, then I'm the heir to the throne of Ankh-Morpork. What you no doubt are -- besides a boil on the arse of humanity -- is a mono-synaptic, pimple-faced, uber-veggie, hemp-wearing, deodorant-avoiding, eco-conscious, midget-zipper-trout with delusions of adequacy; currently attempting to defend Islam because it's the cutting-edge, ultra-speed, radical-chick-attracting thing to do these days.

If you had truly read my posts at TFL -- other than the one necessary to get my e-mail addy, you brain-damaged baboon -- you wouldn't be stepping on your own wedding tackle in front of strangers.

Tell me, do: Isn't your mam getting a little tired of finding you on the front porch, face-down in a wad of chewing gum, and you with that terminally confused expression on your face?

You schmuck.


Monday, September 18, 2006

Riffing on religion, part 2.

Last week, Pope Benedict was giving a speech, the subject of which was that violence is incompatible with the nature of God.

In this speech, he quoted a 14th century Christian emperor who remarked that spreading Islam by means of the sword was inhuman and evil.

And, as might have been guessed, radical Muslim groups promptly called for the execution of the Pope, demanded he be tried in International Court for hate speech, promised to suicide bomb the Vatican and swore to kill any Vatican inhabitants who didn't convert to Islam.

Way to make his point, you sodding morons. "We're a religion of peace, and we'll by GOD kill, burn, bomb, beat, behead, imprison and tax anyone who says differently, so there!"

In response, the Pontiff said -- and I'm paraphrasing here -- "I am sorry that you got your panties in a wad."

I like this guy.

Again -- as might be guessed -- the more radical of Mohammeds followers promptly promised to behead the Pope, burn alive any Christians they could find and probably arranged for the brutal murder of a Catholic nun who was, believe it or not, actively engaged in helping the local Moslems.

I wonder if the Children of Mohammed realize how how they look to the rest of the world?

On one side we have the Pope, white robes, benedictions and always smiling -- and on the other paw we have the metaphorical equivalent of a pack of Alka-Seltzer chewing chihuahuas; little turbans flying off their heads while they spew foam in their berserk barking fury.


I'm going to give the Moslems out there a bit of advice, free of charge:

Y'all need to get your radical nutbars under control, and you need to do it sooner, rather than later. If your Militant Squirrel Brigades manage to hit the Vatican, stuff is going to go south in a big, bloody hurry.

And God forbid if one of your frothing idiots manages to twep the Pope. That Crusade y'all've been wetting your knickers over? Yeah.

I suggest that it would be in your best interests to take anyone who's seriously considering a hit on the Pontiff out behind the camel barn and smack him firmly about the head and shoulders with an axe.

Just my two cents worth. Take it or leave it as you will.


Riffing on religion

Oh, Happy Campers, Things Have Been Fun around here.

For those of my readers who may be less than knowledgeable concerning the version of the Protestant faith that dominates in small town Texas, let me attempt to explain in two words:

Shi'ite Baptists.

The local bunch and I have a long-standing history, and we have reached an unspoken agreement: they pretend I don't exist, and I don't give them the opportunity to grok the entirety of the sentence "A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine."

Mother feels about the locals about the same way I do -- mainly due to Shi'ite Baptist activities at the funeral of my father -- but since Mom is considerably more diplomatic than I am, and given that Granma's family features in the history of the Texas Shi'a Baptists, Mom has pretty much been immune to any crap.

Hoo boy, has that changed.

The local Shi'a Baptists have been sending a list of names home with the children after Sunday school. Most of this list are names of people who are sick, who have died, or who are on missionary duty, and it asks the child to pray for these folks.

All well and good.

The very first group of names, however, does not ask for prayers, nor does it ask for happy thoughts or anything else; it is merely titled: "The Lost".

Guess in which section my mother's name is prominently placed?

Lost, huh? Funny, I've got a pretty good idea of exactly where she is ... OHHH -- the other kind of "lost".

Listed beside my mother are a couple of the atheists in the town, a Hindu family and the local flamboyant homosexual.

Goodness. Sunday school no less.

I think I'll just stop right there.


Sorry about the lack ...

... of posting, but my ISP let me think I had a problem with the Magic Elf Box, when they actually spent all of Sunday Paws Up.


Anyhoo, Gentle Reader, we're back.


Friday, September 15, 2006

By way of Randy in Arizona

I give you:

The Heart Attack Grill

Apparently, this is an eatery located in Tempe, Arizona where you can get served french fries that have been deep-fried in genuine lard, beer, and burgers with mind-blowing (not to mention heart-stopping) quantities of meat and cheese.

The half-pound burger is called the Single Bypass, which is what they claim you'll need after finishing one off, and the menu goes through Double Bypass all the way up to Quadruple Bypass (two pounds of patty goodness), for the really brave.

In keeping with the name, the cook is dressed like a surgeon, the waitresses are dressed like Nurse Nasty, and if you finish the Triple- or Quadruple Bypass, they put you in a wheelchair and roll you to your car.

You know, I don't often contemplate a two-state road-trip just for a meal, but Lord have mercy ...

Anyhoo, the whole thing seems to be done in the spirit of fun -- unless you happen to be an Assistant Attorney General for the State of Arizona.

Seems that, and I quote: "5 or 6 complaints" have been filed with the Arizona regarding the use of the word "nurse" vis a
vis the waitresses. Seems there's someone out there who is concerned that the waitresses at The Heart Attack Grill might be confused with actual medical personnel.

Now, I don't know if this is five or six people filing one complaint each, or one person filing five or six complaints, but I'd guess the latter.

You can read the notification letter.

On one paw I've seen pictures of the outfits that the "nurses" at the grill wear, on the other paw I'm more than familiar with what real nurses wear -- and folks, you simply aren't going to get one mixed up with the other.

Unless, of course, there's a hospital out there where the nurses
do wear micro-mini-skirts and fishnets, in which case please e-mail me a map of the location of this hospital and an employment application for the local Sheriff's Office.

Is it possible that there might be someone in Arizona who is smart enough to work a Form 1040, but can't figure out that the waitresses at The Heart Attack Grill probably aren't real nurses? What are the chances of that?

It is, at most, six people with complaints. Six. Hell,
every business has at least six complaints for one thing or another -- that just a Fact Of Business Life.

When you get six hundred complaints, you have a problem.

Personally, I figure that if the Arizona Attorney Generals Office has the time, funding, or staff to concern themselves with this "case", then they've either got 1) too much time on their hands, 2) too much money to play with, or 3) too many bored staffmembers looking for trouble -- all of which represent money out of Arizona citizen's pocket-books.

You Arizona taxpayers might want to keep that in mind next election.

Anyhoo, on to more pleasant thoughts. Anybody out Tempe way actually eaten there? If so, how's the food?


Wednesday, September 13, 2006

This is what I'm bloody well talking about!

You must pardon me while I attempt to experience an aneurysm.

See if you can follow me on this one.

In Afghanistan, the Taliban are recovering from us stomping a mudhole in their collective butts and then walking it dry. They are, in a nutshell, becoming pains-in-the-arse -- again.

Given this, don't you think that the opportunity to reduce the majority of the Taliban HMFICs into itty-bitty pieces flying past Allah's crapper at blast-wave velocities just might be too good to pass up?

There they were. Packed cheek-to-jowl and nut-to-butt in one nice big open area, and us with a Hellfire-armed Predator drone accidentally stumbling by. The ultimate Afghani Target-Rich environment.

And we didn't do a damned thing about it, except watch the little goat-molesters scamper back into the hills.

You know why we let them go?

Because they were in a cemetery, and it might be bad P.R. to disassemble a cemetery just to kill 190 TALIBAN PISMIRES!

Are you [deleted] me?! It's a CEMETERY! Hell, use enough explosive and you can kill the little bastards AND bury them, all at the same time! It's a Public Service!

Think of the financial favour we'd be doing for their relatives -- gravediggers don't come cheap.

This is what I'm talking about. We've got 190+ Taliban -- certified Bad Dudes -- in an area with not a whole lot of innocent by-standers, said area also coincidentally containing an veritable truck-load of gravestones which make absolutely wonderful shrapnel in the presence of high-explosives; and what do we do?

We just watch them gambol off into the hills, with nary a care on their homicidal little minds.

What the [deleted] kind of war is this?

Yes. They were in a cemetery. Yes, high-explosives do Bad Things to cemeteries. Damn the luck and you may fire when ready, Gridley.


I despair, I really do.


Col. Cooper

Word around several gunny forums is that Colonel Jeff Cooper has had some recent nasty health issues.

I hope that's just an Internet rumour, but it probably wouldn't hurt if folks lit a candle or two, or let fly with a prayer.



Anonymous said...

Having a war and a simple good/evil us/them worldview is apparently what's needed to get Americans all going in the same direction. Americans don't see shades of grey... Only black and white, and WE are allways wearing the white hat, no matter what.

What direction are we going, LawDog?

Here is part of the problem: everyone I talk to says a variation of the same thing: Americans don't see shades of gray.

Horse hockey.

All that we see these days is shades of gray -- and it's rendering us completely impotent.

Let me correct that: all that the Mainstream Media sees is shades of gray, and that's what they feed to American households with every news broadcast, and every written word.

Don't believe me?

Watch the evening news and then honestly answer -- Israel: Good guys, bad guys, or just not quite as bad as Hezbollah?

Watch the evening news. For the purpose of this we will postulate that Terrorism is black. Now ... America's use of secret prisons to hold high-level terror Bad Guys: Good idea (White), almost as bad as the terrorists (Gray) or just as bad as the terrorists (Black)?

Abu Gharib prison? Black, White or Gray?

WE are allways wearing the white hat, no matter what.

When was the last time the Media showed us wearing a white hat in this? When?

Was it during the screams for War Crime Trials after the gun camera footage of the AH-64 Apache killing a pack of insurgents burying rockets in a field and hiding under trucks?


Was it when the Media insisted on showing a photo of Iraqis executed by insurgents, but labeling them as the victims of American Marines?


The last time we wore the white hats, we deliberately created a firestorm in the city of Dresden and burned between 35,000 and 100,000 civilians into cinders. C'est la guerre.

Now, some backstreet Baghdad beggar child gets nicked by a ricocheting round fired by an American dogface, and the Media goes into heart palpitations.

The last time we wore white hats, we introduced not one, but two Japanese cities to the wonders of their own, personal plasma fireballs. Invasion would cost American lives, so we punted the Japanese half-way back to the Big Bang. C'est la guerre.

Now, gun camera footage of an F-16 dropping a 500 pound go-to-hell message on a pack of rioting insurgents rushing American positions causes the Media to just about wet their purty pink panties.

I don't know about you, cowboy, but anyone who thinks our own Media has been portraying America as wearing the white hat needs to wake up and smell the tabouleh.

Do I think we need to nuke some cities again? Hell, no. Do I think we need to create a firestorm in a populated area again? Hell, no.

What I
do think is that we -- and by "we" I mean the Sheol-be-damned Media -- needs to grow a thick skin. We are in a war. Period. Full stop. End of debate. War.

War is hell. People who didn't deserve it are going to get injured in a war. Innocent folks are going to die during a war. This is a Bad Thing, but the time to feel sorry about it, the time to apologize for it, is
AFTER the war is over.

I feel sorry for the kids who catch ricochets. Let America do all it can to amend for this -- as soon as the Bad Guys are dead. Not before, and not during.

I feel sorry for those folks whose houses get blown to kindling by American arty. We should help those people -- just as soon as the last terrorist in that area starts his dirt nap. Not before, and not during.

We're a kind and generous nation. We rebuilt Germany, we rebuilt Italy and we rebuilt Japan -- after we finished the war.

Same rules apply -- we will rebuild Iraq and Afghanistan, but that rebuilding should wait until
after the war.

What direction are we going, LawDog?

I don't have a clue. I can tell you what direction I'm afraid
that we're going:

The Media is going to continue to tell the American people that if we hurt anyone we're just as bad as the terrorists. They'll continue to tell the American people that we can't risk the lives of American military.

So, we'll pull up our skirts and leave Iraq and Afghanistan.

And -- with no handy place for budding jihadists to go die in -- they'll wind up in America.

Probably right over the southern border that the Media keeps telling us that it's racist and a violation of rights to enforce.

And they'll start dying here.

For those of you who don't believe me, see World Trade Centre, 26FEB1993 -- less well known as World Trade Centre Attack #1.

And, in retaliation, American will do the only retaliation that is Media-approved: We'll use Tomahawk cruise missiles. Probably on another godsdamned aspirin factory.

And the Media will tell us how surgical, and good, and enlightened, and caring we were in that attack.

And they'll hit us again. And we'll slam another 20 million dollar missile into another ten dollar [deleted] tent. And the Media will tell us again how righteous this response is.

And sooner or later, a stolen Russian nuke (or a donated Iranian nuke) will go off in a port city -- SanFran, San Diego, Houston, you name it.

And America will want to crush those who would dare -- but those who would dare won't be lining up in Iraq anymore. And those who would dare won't be dying in Afghanistan anymore.

They'll be in Quebec -- where we can't send troops. They'll be in Mexico City -- where we can't cluster bomb. They'll be in Madrid -- where the 4th ID can't patrol.

They'll hit us with big stuff at will. And because the Media has given them enough time to get entrenched in the cities of our allies, we won't be able to bomb their riots -- we'll have to arrest them. They'll ram our skyscrapers and kill thousands -- we'll shoot one of them while he's resisting arrest. They'll crack freighters loaded with poison gas in our port cities, kill and maim uncounted innocents -- we'll arrest three of them.

Since you asked: THAT is the direction that I'm afraid we're going.


Monday, September 11, 2006


As I stroll through Blog World, I notice that today is a day for memories. Today is the day to tell the world about the things you were doing five years ago.

This action of remembering is -- I'm guessing -- cathartic. It helps folks wrap their minds around a concept that shook their very world-view.

I can understand this, and I can approve of this.

My worldview didn't change any, so I doubt that me telling you that I was driving to Austin that day is going to do either one of us any good.

What I'd like to ruminate upon, is not what
I was doing five years ago, but rather, what the United States was doing.

America was locked in political bi-partisan bickering. The Main Stream Media didn't believe that George W. Bush was legally President of this nation, nor that he deserved a seat in the Oval Office.

Congress was mired in mud-slinging and back-stabbing.

We were negotiating with radical fundamentalist states; the Taliban was routinely hanging women in soccer stadiums for showing ankle, or being out after dark without an escort, while simultaneously ignoring two United Nations Resolutions to cease supporting terrorism and to extradite Osama bin Laden; Saddam Hussein was gassing Kurds, massacring his own population and cocking the snook at the United Nations and its 14 -- FOURTEEN -- resolutions to Stop Doing That;
Osama bin Muhammad bin Awad bin Laden and Ayman al Zawahiri hauled off and signed a fatwa in the name of the World Islamic Front for Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders commanding The Faithful to kill Americans where ever they be found -- and we decided they just needed to be understood.

Any jihadist who wanted to take a crack at America had to settle for blowing up our unsuspecting USN ships; blowing-up our embassies or murdering our citizens a few at a time.

Then came Sept 11, 2001. Islamic terrorists hi-jacked four airplanes, and flew three of them into the World Trade Centre and the Pentagon. Islamic terrorists managed to murder three thousand-odd people at one fell swoop.

Jihadists finally got a chance to die on American soil that day, and the results were better than anything they could have dreamed of; better than anything their leaders could have dreamed of.


We came together as a nation that day. We supported our leaders and we pledged to avenge that act of wanton murder, and to insure that those people who could conceive of such a plan would be wiped from the face of the Earth.

We went into Afghanistan and started killing Taliban, until they ran and hid.

We entered Iraq, and dug the one of the most powerful and prestigious Islamic leaders out of a filthy hole in the ground, occupied a central location in the Islamic world, and then gave every two-bit would-be jihadist a place to go and die -- far from the shores of America and her civilians.

Five years later:

America is locked in bi-partisan bickering. The Main Stream Media is actively opposing anything the President does to fight terror, up to and including distortions and out-right in-your-teeth fabrications -- complete with photo-shopped evidence to back up their lies.

Congress is mired in mud-slinging and back-stabbing.

We're negotiating with Iran, Hamas and Hezbollah; who are both cocking the famous snook at United Nations resolutions while simultaneously demanding that Israel follow U.N. resolutions; and (American) intellectuals/Media are demanding that we stop killing critters who have Evil Intentions toward us, and instead, to solve our differences without bloodshed.

They want us to stop killing terrorists in Iraq and Afghanistan, never mind the fact that if jihadists don't have an Iraq or an Afghanistan to go to die in, they'll come to the U.S. to die instead -- as they did on 9/11/2001.

In other words: The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same.


I hate to think that the deaths of those three thousand-odd people was in vain, but I have the awful feeling that in a year or so, the deaths of all three thousand innocent men, women and children will have been for naught.


Friday, September 08, 2006

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

With complete, total and abject apologies to Mister Shakespeare.

Anyhoo, today on The LawDog Files your Humble Correspondent brings two extra-special examples of the Criminal Mastermind at Work.

Ladies and gentlethings, I give you Critter #1. For simplicities sake, we'll call him "Richard".

Now, although Richard has an extensive amount of documentation as to his status as a juvenile delinquent, Richard is still fairly young. He has, to his dismay, discovered that the ability to beat your mother senseless does not count for quite as much as he thought it might here in the criminal corrections system.

Damn the luck.

So, Young Ricky has decided that he must gain some street cred whilst in County. He must prove -- beyond a doubt -- that he is hard in order to avoid becoming someone's Bestest Buddy In The Whole Wide World, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Somehow, Ricky has decided that he requires a tattoo to properly display his chops.

The story that is being held to is that Ricky has come to this conclusion all on his ownsome, however Reno and I are of the mindset that the sum total brainpower possessed by Richard consists of one solitary neuron weeping all alone in the empty darkness behind his eyes. In other words, Ricky had some coaching to come up with this tattoo idea all by himself.

Anyhoo, where was I? Oh, yes. Young Ricky, full of enthusiasm regarding the respect he shall gain by way of this tattoo, approaches one of the lifers in his tank and requests that the lifer "ink him up."

The critter meditated upon this, and asked Ricky what sort of ink he wanted.

Ricky responded that he wanted a cross, right in the centre of his back.

Nae problemo, responds the critter, and they get right to it.

Richard thereupon spends some time being inked. There is hissing; there is gnashing of teeth; there is the plain and simple fact that Richard is getting stuck multiple times in the back by a staple that has no doubt been bled upon by every-stinking-body in that tank.

Ah, well, the things we do for respect.

Anyhoo, at last, it is done! Richard thanks the lifer, shows the tattoo to the tank, strikes a pose: there is applause!

Flushed with the happy knowledge that He Has Cred, Richard goes to his cell to examine this princely work of art in the mirror.

Yet ... there is something ... not quite right. Matter-of-fact, the cross embedded in the skin of his back doesn't quite look like ... that's not a cross-bar ... it actually looks a lot like ... a cannon? Or maybe two cantaloupes in a sack, draped over a pipe?

And the the Awful Truth dawned: Rather than the cross requested, he had received a depiction of the -- how can I say this -- defining anatomy of the male of the species? In magnificent, rampant glory. In ink. In his back.

Young Richard immediately exited his cell, impugned the character of the tattoo artiste verbally and at length, and then attempted to extract recompense from the hide of the lifer.

"Attempted" being the operative word, because that long-term resident of the Texas Penal System proceeded to stomp a mudhole in his butt and walk it dry.

Which led to deputies ... enthusiastically ... breaking up the squabble, followed shortly thereafter by the lifer, Richard and Richard's new tattoo getting tossed bodily into solitary.


Critter #2 is a member of a criminal street gang which has been tear-arsing around the county seat, pulling drive-by shootings, a knifing or three, and stealing everything that isn't nailed down (and if you can pry it loose, it wasn't nailed down).

Anyhoo, the locals got a belly-full of this bushwa and proceeded to file a Gang Injunction against the most prolific of the gang -- to include Critter #2.

As soon as #2 received his copy of the injunction, he decided that Da Law was keeping tabs on him, to include taps on his phone, pager and cell-phone surveillance, etc., etc.

In this, he is faced with a truly troublesome dilemma: he is forbidden from associating physically with his homies, yet he wishes to link-up with his buddies in order to cock a snook at the judge who issued the injunction.

How to do this, without tipping off the eavesdropping fuzz? How?

By using his MySpace account, duh.

So, he gets onto his MySpace page, he posts the details and waits for his posse to log-on and link up.


Plans are made. Op-orders are written. Involved discussions ensue on the best way to avoid getting nicked.

And voila! They show their defiance to the judge by taking pictures of themselves in a large group. One of them has the bright idea to write scurrilous opinions regarding the judge on a handy piece of paper and to hold it for a group photo, while simultaneously giving the camera multiple International Peace Signs.

Wait! This is not good enough! How to properly chastize the judge? How?

Of course! One gang member gets a copy of the paper and turns it to the headline about the injunction, and they pose for another picture, holding the paper high and proud and flashing their gang signs.

Take that, minion of the law!

And what better way to immortalize this deed of derring-do, than to post the pictures on that very same MySpace page?


Did Critter #2 remember to make his MySpace page -- not to mention the flagrant and obvious confessions to violations of the injunction -- private?

What do you think?

These are the criminals I have to deal with. Where is my mastermind, dammit? Where is my Lex Luthor?

Dr. Doom wouldn't have left a confession on his public MySpace page.


Oh, well. If they were smart, I'd be out of a job.


Thursday, September 07, 2006


By way of Lady Tam and PDB I discover that the inclusion of certain ... things ... in your blog is a sure-fire way to increase your hit count.

*blink, blink*

In the interests of science, let us run an experiment to see if the number of hits here at The LawDog Files does increase:

Voila! One pair of boobies.

This practice is apparently referred to as "Tits For Hits".

*scratch, scratch*

In honour of that apt description here is a bunch of young tits by way of a hidden camera.

I foresee some difficulty in getting them to read news or opinions, but since most of you just want to watch, I guess that's not really a problem.


(I am so going to hell for this one.)


Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Oh, well

One of the first e-mails I received when I got on-line involved Nathan Radlich, his sister, and the late, unlamented Hoochie.

When Nathan Radlich's house was burgled, thieves left his TV, his VCR, and even left his watch. What they did take was "generic white cardboard box filled with greyish-white powder." (That at least is the way the police described it.) A spokesman for the Fort Lauderdale police said "that it looked similar to cocaine and they'd probably thought they'd hit the big time." Then Nathan stood in front of the TV cameras and pleaded with the burglars: "Please return the cremated remains of my sister, Gertrude. She died three years ago."

The next morning, the bullet-riddled corpse of a drug dealer known as Hoochie Pevens was found on Nathan's doorstep. The cardboard box was there too; about half of Gertrude's ashes remained. And there was this note. It said: "Hoochie sold us the bogus blow, so we wasted Hoochie. Sorry we snorted your sister. No hard feelings. Have a nice day."

Since we have determined that my sense of humour is a wee bit to the odd side, it should come as no surprise for the Gentle Reader to discover that I find this incredibly funny -- and since the average criminal mastermind is dumber than a box of rocks, I honestly figured this was a true story.

Alas and alack, I was bipping through the Snopes site this evening and discovered that one of my all time favorite crime stories is an Urban Legend.

Aw, nuts.

Oh, well. It's still funny, even if it didn't actually happen.


The Lebanese Magical Ambulance

I don't know if my Gentle Readers have been following the Red Cross incident in Lebanon, but it's been kind of fun to watch the crawfishing, subject-changing and spin involved in this one little story.

In summary, folks Who Ought To Know Better are claiming that during the recent dust-up in Lebanon, an ambulance carrying wounded was deliberately targeted by Israeli forces, who hit it with a missile.


For your enjoyment,
may I present this video
; feel free to pass it along to any Doubting Thomases.

Tip of the Stetson to Zombietime and The Jawa Report.


Deja fu*

*The feeling that somewhere, somehow you've been kicked in the head like this before.

Mexico has a new Big Cheese. Sort of.

Seems like Mexico wound up with an election that was a skosh too close to call.

As these things do, it went to the Supreme Court -- Mexican in this case -- and they named Felipe Calderone as new Chief Bottlewasher by about 0.56% of the vote.

Calderone's opponent, one Lopez Obrador, promptly threw a temper-tantrum which has left two-year-old children throughout the world in absolute awe.

Young Master Obrador states that he "does not recognize the new government", and vows to physically block President-elect Calderone from taking office. Obrador has further promised to form a "parallel government and rule from the streets". Until his mom calls him in to supper, of course.

His supporters are calling for armed revolution, and have -- among other actions -- invaded, occupied and secured toll-booths for use by friendly forces; bum-rushed the stage where the current El Jefe was to deliver the State of the Union (heading happily down the khazi, why do you ask?) Address, forcing him to deliver it via TeeVee; prevented election officials from recounting ballots; blockaded Mexico city's financial district to the tune of about 23 million USD a day; not to mention innumerable clashes with Mex police --always loads of fun in a barroom brawl kind of way.

Things look to be really,
really interesting for Mexico's new Numero Uno Jefe-in-Charge.

I'll give you three guesses as to which side of the political spectrum Young Master Obrador embraces, and the first two guesses don't count.

For those of you who guessed "LEFT", give yourselves a pat on the back.

No word yet on whether or not their norteAmericano cousins are taking notes for our up-coming election season, or simply weeping in jealousy.



Is there some fine print in the holiday contract that requires a certain amount of Smack Your Significant Other events?

Out of twelve arrests in a six hour period, seven of them were for domestic violence -- why is this? What is it about the holidays that causes some folks to feel the need to haul off and dot their wife/husband/shack-up/random relative one in the eye?

And it's over stupid stuff: Critter is cooking steaks over the grill. Brother-in-law doesn't like his steak well-done, so when his designated steak looks about right, brother-in-law flips it off the grill onto his plate, and wanders off to a shady spot to eat.

Critter follows brother-in-law to shady spot, and when the brother-in-law sits down, critter stabs the meat fork through brother-in-law's hand.

Now, I can understand a little prod to remind folks to keep their booger-hooks to themselves, but when you show up at the scene, and there's some guy with the handle of a meat fork sticking out of the back side of his hand and four inches of tines sticking out through the palm, Friends and Neighbors, you done passed 'prodding' and are well on the way through 'nailing' territory.

And I am here to tell you, once you call 911, it's not a "family problem" any longer.

Yes, I understand that Vlad the Impaler is your husband. Yes, I understand that Ivan the Forked is your brother. My understanding of those two points is in no way going to change the fact that your snookums is still going to the hoosegow.

In related matters: if you are drunk enough to think an old Jeff Foxworthy joke about crime scene chalk and outlines is funny enough to reference while the paramedics are loading an unconscious Mr. Forked into the ambulance, then you are most probably too bloody rat-arsed to be attempting to negotiate with Johnny Law.

One would think this would be common sense, but one has been wrong before.

Oh, well. On to more cheery things.


Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Somewhere out there...

...there's some crocs who really, really want to have a 'talk' with a stingray.

Stephen Robert Irwin

22FEB1962 to 4SEPT2006

Requiescat In Pacem


Monday, September 04, 2006

Happy Labor Day

I hope that you and yours had a day of ease.

And, if you had to work -- like Your Humble Scribe -- I hope it was a nice, quiet day.


Sunday, September 03, 2006

Ask, and ye shall receive:

Reader Janean posts:

"Oh, LAWWW DOOGGGG! Where's the recipe for DeepFried Twinkies??? LOL"

The recipe for Deep Fried Twinkies a/k/a Death on a Popsicle Stick:

6 Twinkies
Popsicle sticks

1 cup milk

2 tablespoons vinegar

1 Tablespoon oil

1 cup flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

The recommended amount of cooking oil for your fryer.

Take your Twinkies and impale them on the popsicle sticks. Leave enough stick protruding from the twinkie to make a decent grip and bung the twinkies into the freezer over-night.

On the day of the deed, mix your flour, baking powder and salt. In a separate dish, mix your milk, vinegar and oil. Once the liquids are mixed, whisk them into the dry mix and mix until smooth. This is your batter, toss it into the fridge.

Heat your fryer to about 375.

Once the oil is at the proper temperature, take your twinkies from the freezer, dust lightly with flour, and swish through the batter mix, making sure to coat evenly and fully.

Holding your twinkie stick with some tongs, dunk it into the oil. It's going to try to float, so hold it under the surface until it turns a nice golden brown -- usually about three to four minutes.

Toss twinkie onto a paper towel, allow to drain, and consume.

If your cardiologist finds out you've been eating these, I didn't post this, I wasn't here, and you must have gotten the recipe from my evil twin, Skippy.


Saturday, September 02, 2006

Snarky? Us?

Well, my little sister is in the process of establishing a presence upon the Internet.

The Copper Camel
"We Spit on the Ordinary"

People who know us have remarked that even when we're selling stuff, the family sense of snarky humour shows up.

Don't see it myownself, but go have a look-see for yourselves.

Bellydancing. How cool is that?


Friday, September 01, 2006

Two years ago today

I'd like to introduce y'all to a sewer-dwelling little catamite by the name of Shamil Salmanovich Basayev, a/k/a Abdallah Shamil Abu-Idris. Or what's left of him, anyway.

September 1 two years ago, a bunch of armed pismires invaded a school in Beslan, North Osseta, Russia and took about 1,300 hostages, mostly children.

During the takeover, several people managed to escape and notified the Russian authorities. Police responded and wound up in a fierce firefight with the sewer rats, killing one, but at the cost of the lives of five of the police officers. Not the best of trade-offs in general opinion.

As the police regrouped and yelled for reinforcement, the terrorists drove the hostages into the gym, picked twenty of the strongest male hostages and executed them in front of the children. Other hostages were forced to toss the victims out of the building and children were made to clean up the blood.

The terrs then mined the gymnasium with explosives and set trip wires throughout the building.

Forced to stand, denied food or water, the children began to suffer terribly.

On day 2, 26 nursing mothers were released, about half of whom had more than one child. Those mothers who had more than one child were made to choose which child to take with them, the rest of their children being forced to stay behind in the gym.

Later that evening, as stress, sleep deprivation and drug withdrawal pushed the terrorists even further into instability and borderline hysteria, the terrs fired two RPG rockets at security forces surrounding the gym.

On Day 3, God blinked.

Sometime after noon, local time, the terrs agreed to allow emergency crews to remove the bodies of the murdered victims from the school grounds -- unfortunately, the Terr HMFIC forget to clear this agreement with some of his trigger-happy bunch of jackasses, and when the forces got close to the building the terrs opened fire and killed two of the emergency crewmembers.

At the same time, one of the terrorist sewer-swimmers got (even more) stupid and stumbled through his own goddamned trip-wire, setting off a bomb in the gym.

When the bomb went off in the gym, the Russians decided that they'd had enough of this [deleted], and breached the walls and roof of the school with RPG anti-tank rockets and RPO-A thermo-baric rockets, then went thundering in.

Unfortunately, the hostages -- children -- inside had been forced to remain standing for three days with neither food nor water. They were unable to move, either to take cover, or to escape through the gaping holes in the walls, as the terrs detonated the rest of the explosive booby-traps in the gym.

A whole bunch of Russian papas -- also having had a belly-full of this and being heavily-armed theirownselves -- hauled off and jumped into the fray with all four feet.

Two hours later, the Russians controlled most of the school, with some terrs and hostages having relocated to the basement.

Neither the terrs in the basement, nor their hostages, survived the subsequent rescue attempt.

During the battle, about a dozen terrs attempted to escape by disguising themselves as emergency workers. The disguise got them as far as a two-story building next door to the school before their cover was blown. And then so was the building they were hiding in, because the thoroughly pissed-off Russians used a couple of T-72 main guns and a whole bunch of the disposable RPO thermo-baric rockets to simply drop the whole sodding building on top of the terrs.

Pity about the building.

Three suspected terrs were snatched at the scene. One was taken into custody for a grand total of about two minutes before a pack of enraged Russian daddies lynched his dumb arse in front of a SkyNews crew.

The second was taken to a local hospital for treatment of his injuries, which turned out to be a waste of time, effort and supplies because the daddies who missed their chance at Captured Terr #1 showed up at the hospital and beat Captured Terr #2 to death -- probably with his own bits and pieces, if I were to guess.

Captured Terr #3 got dragged out from under a truck and was about to engage in a spirited dialogue with a whole bunch of hob-nailed boots, when he was liberated from the tender mercies of that mob of Russian fathers by the soft-hearted Russian special forces.

He was later tried, found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison.

In all, 344 civilians died at the Beslan school two years ago. 186 of them were children.

11 members of Spetsgruppa 'A' and 'V' were killed at Beslan, including the commanding Officer of 'A', the highest casualty count ever suffered in a single engagement by those forces; an estimated 8 policemen died alongside them.

Over 30 more special forces soldiers were injured.

What has this got to do with the six-foot stack of fungus scrapings mentioned at the beginning of this article?

Well, on September 17, 2004, said pile of pig parts issued a statement claiming responsibility for the attack on the school and informing the world that his own personal Martyrs Battalion did the deed.

Not knowing when to keep his mush shut, the moron went on to claim that his rump-rogering little pals were in heaven, while the children were in hell; that the operation cost about 8,000 Euros, and he thanked his old buddies Abu Omar al-Sharif and Abu Zaid for their financial assistance.

Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

In February 2005, Abu Zaid "accidentally" blew himself to hell after being surrounded by Russian Special Forces.

In November 2005, Abu Omar al-Sharif "accidentally" blew himself to hell after being surrounded by Russian Special Forces.

In July 2006, guess what happened to our little buddy Shamil Basayev?

If you guessed something to do with explosives and acccidents, you get the kewpie doll.

According to his surviving retainers, Shammy was driving along in his staff car, when it hit a pothole and "accidentally detonated" some explosives in the trunk.

The Russians are sticking to the story that while they did, indeed, have Special Forces in the area, they were just keeping an eye on ol' Shammy.

That's the story I'd tell, too.

(As an aside, an autopsy performed on what was left of the mortal remains of the Shamster found that a large amount of barbed wire had been high-speed embedded in the carcass, however rumors that the explosive had actually been gaffer-taped to the face of Shamil the Sheep-Shagging Sodomite have not been confirmed.)

Remember the victims of terror, not only here in the United States, but everywhere.

Honour their memory by staying the course.

And -- whenever possible, wherever possible -- avenge them.