Sunday, December 30, 2007
You'll pardon me if I'm really not sure how to "improve the image" of that pack of parasitic pismires.
Seriously, how do you put a positive spin on the Rape for Food incidents in the Congo?
The UN insists on installing the worst violators of human rights on it's Commission on Human Rights -- how are you supposed to put a positive spin on that?
You can at least make fun of the rampant bribery, feather-bedding and nepotism, but the United Nations has been complicit in the deaths of millions throughout the world -- how do you "improve" those facts?
Will they have Spider-man drive the UN ambulance that transported armed Palestinian gunmen and munitions to avoid the Israeli military?
Will they have Captain America throw North Korean defectors out of the United Nations Refugee office in Beijing, so that they may be delivered back to North Korea for execution?
Considering that the comic book is going to be distributed for free to schoolchildren in the United States, we have a sneaking suspicion that this is less about "improving the image" of the United Nations in adults, and more about making the United Nations a familiar part of our children's lives.
After all, why try to fight the current distrust of the U.N., when you can fool the next generation into trusting them?
Something I find to be distasteful in the extreme.
Your mileage may vary, of course.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Tactical advice for those intending to rob the Santa-Claus-outfit-wearing Salvation Army volunteers at shopping malls.
1. In this part of the country, those Santa's are rednecks. Large rednecks. With an attitude to match.
2. When you and your homie stick a gun in Santa's face and demand, "Gimme the bucket!" he might take you precisely and exactly at your word. Literally.
3. As you watch your homie lying on the ground, bucket over his head and Santa stomping it flat onto his (unlovely) features, it's not a good idea to forget that you're within grabbing range of Santa - or to let your gun hand sag to your side.
4. Failure to observe #3 above will result in an infuriated Santa holding your head in an armlock under his left arm while, with his right hand, he beats you heavily over the bonce with his festive Christmas bell. This musical accompaniment, whilst no carol, is nevertheless pleasing to the bystanders' ears. The same might be said about your screams.
5. When passing shoppers stop, gather around and start applauding Santa's actions, it's not a good idea to yell at them that they're mother[deleted] [deleted] and beg them to make this [deleted] stop hitting you. This may - nay, gentle reader, this WILL - encourage some of them to offer to help Santa with the hitting . . . and encourage him to accept their offer.
6. When responding cops arrive, rush up to the scene with guns drawn, and promptly sag to the ground in hysterics while ignoring your pleas for help, it's not a good idea to swear at them in words of distinctly non-festive hue. This will result in their handling the rest of your interaction in a less than sympathetic manner (drawing further cheers from the by now numerous onlookers).
7. As you languish (with your battered homie) in the back of an ambulance, both of you being treated by the medics for bleeding from the head, it's particularly galling to see Santa's now somewhat battered bucket being filled to overflowing by cheering shoppers and the responding police officers, all of whom seem rather in a rather more more festive and cheerful mood now than they did before you made your move.
8. And a merry Redneck Christmas to both of you, idiots. Ho-ho-ho.
As a holiday gift to myself I picked up Col. McLemore's delightful little book, The Fighting Tomahawk.
If you are interested in the social application of the tomahawk, you could do a lot worse than get this book.
Colonel McLemore has clearly done his research on this tool and his instruction is crisp and concise. Any doubt as to what he means is immediately clarified by the artwork.
There is a brief history, followed by a section on 'hawk design, then the good Colonel dives right off into the good stuff. He discusses gripping the weapon, drawing it and using it in conjunction with a long knife. Multiple sets and drills are presented to provide a solid base in the use of this uniquely American sidearm.
There are one or two bobbles of an editorial nature, but the instruction is first-rate.
This one gets the LawDog Paw of Approval.
Now part of the Presidential museum in Odessa, Texas, the home suffered severe damage to the front door, windows and attic.
Investigators have determined that the person or persons unknown spread liquid accelerant on the front door and windows before setting them alight. They are quick to point out that there is -- and I quote:
"no reason at this point to believe it was a political act."
Watch for this story to disappear.
In other Moonbat holiday wishes, we discover that some frothing leftist name of Dave Lindorff is happily running his mush.
His Happy Holiday wishes seem to centre around a Global Warming-fueled flood to drown most of the conservative part of the United States.
In the dreams of Mr. Lindorff, very quickly -- apparently in less than the average 14-year lifespan of the common housecat -- Global Warming will inundate Florida, Louisiana, most of Georgia; South and North Carolina, the "most populated area" of Texas; and most of Alabama and Mississippi.
The upshot -- according to this fanatical little bugsnipe -- is, and I quote:
"So the future political map of America is likely to look as different as the much shrunken geographical map, with much of the so-called “red” state region either gone or depopulated."
For the moment, let us ignore the typical bushwa science exhibited here (sea level rising the 20 feet it would take to swamp "almost all of Florida" in a cat's lifetime? Put down the bong, dude).
No, let us ponder those concepts that are a little more concrete.
When Mr. Lindorff muses...
"The important thing is that we, on the higher ground both actually and figuratively, need to remember that, when they begin their historic migration from their doomed regions, we not give them the keys to the city. They certainly should be offered assistance in their time of need, but we need to keep a firm grip on our political systems, making sure that these guilty throngs who allowed the world to go to hell are gerrymandered into political impotence in their new homes.
There will be much work to be done to help the earth and its residents—human and non-human—survive this man-made catastrophe, and we can’t have these future refugee troglodytes, should their personal disasters still fail to make them recognize reality, mucking things up again."(Highlighting is mine)
... he neglects to remember that, well ...
... we've got the guns.
Of course, we've also got the military training, the military experience, the survival training, the big mean dogs, the hunters and everything else those of his ilk fear and have nothing to do with.
And guns. I did mention that us "troglodytes" have a hell of a lot more guns than Lindorff's Eloi, right?
Just between you and me, if 20 million rednecks with shotguns want the "keys to the city", it's less traumatic and messy to just go ahead and hand them thar keys over.
Put that in your holiday bong and smoke it, Lindorff -- you daft git.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Bright Yule blessings to each and every one of my Gentle Readers.
Please, as you celebrate this holiday season, keep two things in mind:
Memories should be happy, not perfect. In ten years your children, your family, your friends will not remember if the tree wasn't perfect, or the turkey wasn't cooked just so, or if your Significant Other bought whole cranberry sauce instead of chopped cranberry sauce.
What they will remember is whether the holiday was happy or not. Don't sacrifice happiness in search of a perfect holiday.
Secondly, no matter what tradition you are celebrating, this holiday is ultimately about love. Honour that. Kiss your Significant Other like you're still dating at least once this season. Kiss and hug your children, and the rest of your family.
Happy holidays, and I'll see y'all later.
2 teaspoons sugar
1 oz Irish whiskey
Brew your coffee. While the coffee is brewing, fill your mug with hot water and let stand.
Take your cream and whisk it a couple of times. And when I say "a couple of times" I mean it -- you just want the cream to thicken a bit.
Pour the water out of your mug and fill mug about 2/3's of the way with coffee. Add the sugar -- even if you don't drink coffee with sugar, add the sugar -- and the whiskey. Stir.
Now, hold your spoon about half an inch above the coffee, upside down. Slowly and gently pour the cream onto the spoon until you have about three-quarters of an inch of cream floating on the top of your coffee.
To drink, sip your coffee through the layer of cream.
Voila! Irish coffee.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sorry about the lack of posting, but 12-hour shifts are about to kick my fuzzy butt.
Since we all know that my sense of humour is a bit ... odd ... I present this next song. If you have a delicate stomach, or don't want to hear a bit of risque language, then you're probably best off listening to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra piece above.
As for me, well, this one kicked over the old giggle box.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Justin over at TheHighRoad did the actual work of designing the piece, any kudos should go to him. I also understand that Justin isn't averse to doing some freelance graphic designing -- anyone who may be interested, drop him an note at: Justin@thehighroad.org
Unfortunately, during the adding of the new header the Magic Box Elves ate my brag badges -- despite assurances that they wouldn't.
If, in the past, you have sent me a blog brag badge, and you would like to see it back on The LawDog Files, please resend it to:
TheLawDogFiles (at) gmail (dot) com
And I'll have my wizard put it back.
If the new header does not meet with y'all's approval, do let me know.
So. We start.
"Excuse me, run that by one more time?"
"Puppy support. I didn't want this to happen, and it's partially his fault, so I think I deserves some compensation."
I look at Earl's prize bird-dog. She looks back at me intently -- until her left eye starts to track right. I watch in fascination as her left eye winds up looking squarely at her right eye -- which is, I should add, still looking at me.
"Now see here," interjects Bobby -- incidentally, Earl's brother -- "If'n he'd keep that tramp locked up, my old Eustice wouldn't be tempted by just any old tail ..."
"Enough. God, enough. Earl. There is no such thing as puppy support. And even if there was such a thing, it would be a civil matter, and the Sheriff's Office can't help you anyway. Bobby. Keep Eustice locked up, or get him fixed, or something."
"Fixed? Ain't nothing wrong with that dawg." The subject in question is sprawled on a porch thirty feet away, and hasn't moved the entire time I've been here. I'm pretty sure there's a nest of field-mice under one floppy ear.
"I don't care. Now. There will be no fighting, no dog-napping, no drive-by skunk-throwing, no biting, no out-house toppling, no kicking, no tyre flattening, no wrasslin', no possum pitching, no Indian burns, nothing. Am I understood? If your mama calls me because you're fighting over those puppies, I'm going to whip both your butts and throw you in jail. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. 'Dog."
"Yes, Mr. 'Dog."
Five minutes later I'm kiting down the highway.
"County, car 12."
"Respond to 212 Muir Road. The usual."
Heh. I'm always up for homemade cinnamon rolls and sweet iced tea.
212 Muir Road belongs to Mrs. Helen Schenk, widowed the past ten years. It's a huge two-story plantation-style house on the edge of town.
Mrs. Schenk's four kids are married and gone -- Houston, California, Miami, the Army -- and with Mr. Schenk being gone, Mrs. Schenk occupies about three rooms on the ground floor of her house. The other rooms, and the entire second floor, are behind closed doors, furniture draped in sheets and the occasional spider web, dust laying thick about.
Once a month or so, Mrs. Schenk calls the Sheriff's Office, always with the same report: the ghosts upstairs are having a party. This in and of itself, doesn't bother her -- unless it's after their bed-time, or if there are unchaperoned girl ghosts up there with the boy ghosts. When that happens she calls us to come settle them down.
"Car 12, County, I'll be 10-6 at 212 Muir."
As usual, I'm about halfway to the front door, when it opens up and Mrs. Schenk waves to me, happily, the scent of home-made, fresh-baked cinnamon rolls blossoming on the front porch.
"Hello, Mrs. Schenk. How are you?"
“One can’t complain, officer," she pats my arm gently, “You know, I didn’t want to be a bother.”
“I know that, Mrs. Schenk. How are the ghosts today?”
“Well, they’re being very quiet.”
I take off my hat as we step into the foyer, the smell of cinnamon making my mouth water. “Is being quiet -- bad?”
She smiles at me, “I raised three boys. When they’re being quiet is when they’re getting into trouble. Besides, I think I heard a giggle earlier, and I don’t think boy ghosts giggle.”
I smile back at her, “Probably not. I’ll go sort them out.”
I scoot up the steps to the second floor landing and slip into the first door on the front side of the hall, pulling my SureFire off my belt as I do. This was probably a sitting room at one time, smaller with chairs and side-tables arranged about. I circle the room, running my light around the window and checking the dust for new footprints -- nothing.
The two bedrooms are next, I check under the beds and in the closets, as well as the windows. One of these days something is going to jump out at me, and I’m going to embarrass myself -- but today everything is clear. Although the second bedroom window has broken sometime since the last time I was here. I make a mental note to drop by her preacher and mention this.
The end of the hall is a large room, stacked floor to ceiling in furniture. I hate this room -- I’m always afraid I’ll pull something off a stack accidentally and get crushed in the resulting avalanche, but I check the windows and look for the prowlers I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to find. The same occurs back up the hall until I’m in the ball room on the opposite side.
This one is different in that there is no furniture stacked about. I make my circuit -- all clear -- check to make sure Mrs. Schenk hasn’t come up the stairs, and close the door.
I step to the center of the parquet floor, take a deep breath:
“To be, or not to be: that is the question!
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.”
I finish my oratory, bow gently to a room only a complete cynic would consider to be empty and step back down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Schenk has set out two saucers -- each holding a cinnamon roll -- and two tall glasses of iced tea. “You weren’t too harsh with them, I hope?”
“That’s good. Is it true what I heard about the Perkins boy?”
This is also part of dealing with Mrs. Schenk’s ghosts: You have to share the town gossip -- over rolls and tea, of course.
About ten minutes into the chat, and I notice that Mrs. Schenk isn’t eating her roll -- normally gossip gives her a good appetite -- but it’s when she rubs her jaw that I perk up and start to take notice.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, a bit of heartburn, that’s all, but I do wish that I wasn't getting a toothache at the same time. One is bad enough, but both together are just awful.”
“How long have you had this toothache, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, it just cropped up this morning. To tell God’s own truth, it’s the worst one I believe I’ve ever had.”
“Ma’am, if you’ll excuse me for just a bit, I need to call the office.”
Pleased at the prospect of more visitors, Mrs. Schenk perks up a bit, “Of course.”
I step out on the front porch, then break into a jog, heading for the jump-kit in my cruiser.
“Car 12, County.”
“County, would you send a paramedic to my location, please.”
“Say again, car 12?”
Part 2 is at AD's place.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Yes, Gentle Readers, in their mad dash to protect every-bloody-one from every-sodding-thing on this little sticky green dirtball, the Brit Gummint has now made it against the law to "sell", "import" or "hire" a reproduction Japanese sword in Albion.
The mind boggles. It really does.
Two things manged to penetrate that red blur:
1) Apparently, the Government promised those folks who have authentic katanas -- the various dojos, collectors, and all"genuine" martial arts enthusiasts (as opposed to what -- fake martial arts enthusiasts?) -- that their swords would be safe.
I'm guessing in an effort to soothe the waters before they got troubled.
Hey, your buddies are about to take it in the neck, but here's a pat on the head to keep you quiet.
Yeah. Any student of history want to give me an average length of time it takes the average government to go from, "Oh, we're just going to take these, not those" to "We're taking those. Now."
The second thing to leap off the screen was this asinine quote from some anthropomorphic cow wandering around the British countryside attempting to dictate policy:
"[Barbara Dunne] ..."It's an achievement to get the weapons banned. I don't want children to keep seeing them in shop windows and thinking it's normal."
Allow me to re-quote that: "I don't want children to keep seeing them in shop windows and thinking it's normal."
That quote right there, Gentle Readers, is the distillation of why those idiots and I will never see eye-to-eye: To them, an inanimate chunk of metal hanging in a shopkeepers window isn't ... "normal". She is petrified by the thought that some children might not be as pathologically terrified of a lifeless piece of metal as she is.
This is the kind of inbred, gauch-eyed, snot-slinging hysteric who, upon looking out her kitchen window on Ragnarök Day and seeing Arthur ride forth at the head of his Knights to the defence of his beloved England, would have him arrested, committed, and Excalibur melted down into some jackarsed peace symbol because "someone's feee-eelings might get hurt by all that iron-mongery!"
Sod 'em, the lot of 'em.
To my absolute shock, Mr. Pratchett has been diagnosed with a rare-form of early-onset Alzheimer's disease.
The man is only 59 -- and he's got Alzheimer's.
I think karma owes me an explanation for this bushwa.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Saturday, December 08, 2007
For your Saturday afternoon enjoyment -- Mr. Dufour on the old wood and wire, playing his song "Inspirations".
Friday, December 07, 2007
I've never had any dealings with CopWatch -- but I have to admit that I find the idea somewhat interesting. Being filmed by a allegedly neutral third party (more on that in a bit) during arrests seems to me to be somewhat of a godsend.
DWI? Subpoena your CopWatch guy as a witness, and let the jury view your suspect doing the Standardized Field Sobriety Exercises from the second viewpoint of his video.
Resisting arrest charges? Evading? Most of the damned time the resisting and evading takes place out of view of the cruiser dash-cam. With your very own camera dude, this isn't going to happen again. Your arrestee takes a swing, or develops rabbit blood -- that video is going to ensure that his lawyer doesn't get to baffle the DA into a plea-bargain with 'he-said, she-said' arguments. Dude, we've got video!
When a citizen files suit claiming that you were racially intolerant; scared her puppy; tracked mud in the house; failed to say "Good Morning" or any of the hundreds of bushwa civil complaints -- depose the CopWatch person.
Not to mention the fact that his video would be invaluable in a counter-suit for slander, harassment or perjury.
Of course, all of the above is predicated on the assumption that the CopWatch folks truly are neutral third-party observers.
One of their Forum Staff is of the opinion that I -- how did it go?
"He doesn't give a **** about Maxima's safety or Constitutional rights."
"To my mind, this *** is a piece of ****."
Not mention I'm apparently also: "deranged", "schizophrenic", and "unlikely" to "actually be a thoughtful, decent person".
Goodness. And him not even knowing me.
Ah, well. One more bunch of folks on the List Of People What Hate My Guts, But Couldn't Pick Me Out Of A Line-Up.
On to more pleasant things.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Ye tapdancing gods. Any Gentle Readers who may have blood sugar disorders may not want to click upon that link.
I've seldom seen so much fluffy pink cotton-candy-land bunny-dreams in one place.
Do further note that the weight of the environmentally-safe Love Beads adorning the neck of Congresscritter Dennis Kucinich have apparently choked off the blood supply to his last remaining functional neurons -- because he hauled off and sponsored HR 808 in the US House of Representatives calling for the formation of a cabinet-level "Department of Peace and Non-Violence" on behalf of these nit-wits.
I'm not sure what excuse would explain the other 67 cosponsors -- although I do note that all 68 are Democrats. Too many hits off the bong would be my guess, although constant repetition of the chorus to "Kum-Ba-Yah" has been suspected to cause cerebral tissue to ooze out of the ears and hide whimpering in dark corners.
I am happy to report that HR 808 is currently languishing in committee -- unloved and ignored -- and is probably not going anywhere anytime soon.
Which is a Damned Good Thing.
However, I also note that -- if unchallenged -- this kind of sappy, ivory-tower, saccharine bushwa has a nasty habit of being resurrected time and again. As, indeed, this one has in the 107th, 108th, and 109th Congresses -- in addition to the current Session.
If my Gentle Readers would be so kind, would y'all mind spreading the news about this bushwa; keeping a weather eye out for further incarnations; and -- just maybe -- dropping a snail-mail letter to your Congresscritter expressing your concerns?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
I have to admit that I actually enjoyed it.
I didn't realize that it was in 3-D, but I am happy to report that the red-and-blue glasses are no longer being used. The new ones look a great deal like the old US Army "birth control" glasses, and have clear lenses.
If you go see this movie, though, be forewarned: don't put on the glasses during the previews. Matter-of-fact, don't put them on at all until the screen tells you to.
I wore them for about 5 seconds during a 2-D preview, and the resulting strobe effect almost did me in right there.
'Beowulf' got a little over-happy with the 3-D effects -- you can only have things poking off the screen at your eyes a certain number of times before you want to shriek, "I get it already!", but the 3-D did add to the experience.
I got caught up in the story, and the CG effects became unnoticeable to me fairly quickly.
There were some liberties taken with the story, but I was able to overlook them -- which is a nice testament to how immersed I became.
Grendel and his mother do some conversing in Anglo-Saxon, but if you're paying attention, the conversations are quite understandable.
All-in-all, I'll give this one the Paw of Approval -- and I'll probably be getting the DVD when it comes out.
I am the gentleman who was in the line when you cut in with your horde of spawn and the two buggies containing $203.56 of various iterations of processed sugars.
Since I was, in fact, Off Work, Out-Of-Uniform and in my Happy Place, I really didn't mind that you not only hip-checked me out of the way, but did so in the clearly-marked Express Lane 10 Items Or Less Cash Only Please queue.
And when you proceeded to harangue and browbeat the teenager working the register to the point of tears, well, I figure everyone has to learn how to deal with jackasses sooner or later, and this was pretty much a Life Lesson.
Besides, I was in my Happy Place, with my bottle of MetroMint water and my tomato ... which is why I can't understand why -- when you were done with the coupons and the writing of the cheque -- you chose to turn to me and hiss, "What the [deleted] are YOU looking at?"
In my defence you must admit that you did ask.
Bet you won't do that again.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
A couple of days ago, Joe here (being, well, a critter) decided to improve his financial lot in life by relieving a local construction contractor of a ... thingummy. It was a very nice thingummy, as thingummies go, with 18 volt batteries and whole bunch of attachable wozzits and even a couple of doohickies.
Joe attempted to resell his acquired thingummy, but -- unfortunately -- the previous (rightful) owner had etched his name and the name of his company rather flamboyantly upon the side of the thingummy. All of the local item redistributing/financial centres thereabouts know the gentleman whose name was so clearly attached to the afore-mentioned thingummy, and none of them were dumb enough to glom onto the thingummy.
Finally, pushed to the brink of desperation, Joe was cruising the main street and noticed an extremely large diesel pick-up truck with a familiar name emblazoned on the side parked at a local fast-food eatery. The same name, as a matter-of-fact, as the one etched into the side of the thingummy.
Joe ponders for a while and comes up with a plan so cunning, so brilliant, so Machiavellian, as to defy description by lesser minds.
In furtherance of this fiendishly clever plot, Joe parked his 1980-something Subaru Justy punkmobile beside the diesel truck, then leaned upon the horn until such time as he attracted the attention of the construction crew inside.
Once he had their attention, he drew them outside by the wicked tactic of waving frantically from the inside of the Justy. One should point out at this time that Young Joe was smart enough to keep the car in 'REVERSE' in case Murphy should frown upon his crafty machinations.
Foot pressed firmly upon the clutch, Joe waved the thingummy at the construction crew and announced that said thingummy had fallen from the truck some streets back, and for the paltry sum of one hundred dollars American, he'd relinquish possession.
The Head Sasquatch of the construction crew contemplated this generous offer for a moment, then delicately opined that it would be difficult for the thingummy to have just fallen off the truck, considering that it had been stolen from a construction site two days previous.
Joe, no fool he, immediately realized that the game was twigged, and being the debonair gangsta, he made sure to give the gorilla pack a good look at his extended social digit before popping his foot off the clutch.
I would imagine the sounds of the local police dispatch number being dialled into a cell-phone right outside of the drivers side door probably clued him into the fact that Things Weren't Quite Right.
Or maybe it was the gold-toothed grin belonging to the shaved yeti holding the front end of the Justy (and coincidentally enough, the rapidly-spinning front tyres) up off of the parking lot.
Now, a lesser man would have simply folded like a paper hat. Maybe even grovelled a bit, to appeal to the soft, gentle side of the WWE rejects surrounding his ride.
Not our Joe, though. Nope. Our Joe is tough man, street tough. He don't take no [deleted] from citizens. No, sir! Our Joe quickly demonstrated that the proper way to treat such disrespect is to roll up both windows, engage both door-locks and make gang signs and obscene gestures at the foolish wage-slaves, while simultaneously shrieking threats towards those responsible for such outrageous conduct!
Of course, as anyone knows, being threatened with Gang Violence should be responded to by retreating and abject apologies.
Only complete and total savages would don a full-face helmet, fire up a Husqvarna hydraulic saw and commence to convertible-ize the Subaru -- free of charge. An act which was apparently met with lusty cheers and shouted recommendations -- some of which were Not Politically Correct -- from the rest of the cafe patrons.
Ripping both doors off -- by hand -- was a nice touch, I think.
Anyhoo, responding officers report that Joe was found sitting very still in the drivers seat, and detectives announced that they cleared seven burglary cases before they could get him to stop confessing.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
4 cinnamon sticks
1 teaspoon of cardamom seeds
1 large piece of ginger
1 half lemon
2 cups vodka
Break your cinnamon sticks and crack your cardamom seeds; toss 'em into a jug. Give the piece of ginger root a good couple of whacks, zest the lemon half and pop 'em both into the jug; take the rest of the spices and throw them in there, too. Pour in the vodka, cover and leave overnight.
The next day, take:
1 bottle of red wine
1/2 cup of sugar
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Mix the wine, sugar and vanilla in a saucepan.
Strain the vodka, and discard the spices. Add the spiced vodka to the saucepan and heat just until it begins to steam -- any warmer and you'll start evaporating your alcohol.
Voila! LawDog's Bathtub Glögg!
(You may want to add sugar to taste.)
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
And yes, Mom found matching tree lights:For the more faint-of-heart, we have located *gack* cute dragons:"Normal". Hah! I spit upon your normal! Ptui!
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Watching Terry Prachett's Hogfather on the TeeVee, and just as Susan (Death's Granddaughter) and Bilious (The God of Hangovers) head off on Binky (Death's horse) ...
... the picture went right down the khazi.
Something DirectTeeVee neglects to mention in their ads is that if you have heavy cloud-cover, the signal tends to, shall we say -- break up -- on it's way to your dish.
Since it is, as I type, snowing, it's safe to say that we've got heavy cloud-cover.
Great. Just great. And I was so enjoying that movie, too.
A quick run around the Intarwebz reveals that a Hogfather DVD is available. In England. In the PAL/SECAM format.
Since American TeeVees run on the NTSC format, this doesn't perzackly help me any.
Bugger 'em all.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Scully, the author over there, decided to go ahead and shut down, rather than go to the effort of retrieving all of her prose and poetry that was cacked.
This got me to thinking -- usually a Bad Thing.
I don't have any of this saved, except betwixt Ye Olde Ears. Methinks I might ought to do something about that.
Bearing in mind that my computer-ical and internet-ish knowledge compares favourably to that of a Neandertal, anyone got any advice for saving this stuff?
Bear in mind, if you please, that any instruction needs to be along the lines of:
"1)Offer box of KFC Crispy to Magic Box Elves.
2)Mash yellow button.
3)Sit on hands until pretty blinking lights stop."
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
"For food that stays our hunger,
For rest that brings us ease,
For homes where memories linger,
We give our thanks for these."
Happy Turkey Day, everyone!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
"Do you know about any good recorded reading (or should I say storytelling?) of Beowulf? If so, could you point me to the source?"
"I'm like Uke - any source for an audio book reading done right?"
"I'd love to hear Beowulf read by someone who knows what he's doing."
All righty, then.
I'm kind of hesitant to suggest this -- for a number of reasons. The gentleman reciting Beowulf is doing so in the original language.
To me, being familiar with the story, this is fantastic. I am afraid, though, that folks who aren't familiar with Beowulf are going to hear a language they don't quite understand, and will give up watching and listening -- maybe to give up on the story altogether. Which would be a tragedy.
The DVD has an English subtitle option, however, so all may not be lost.
This version of the saga ends too soon. It finishes after the defeat of Grendel's mother -- which, to be fair, is the popular ending. To the best of my knowledge, the gentleman has not done a complete telling of the tale -- something I hope he chooses to attend to in the future.
The gentleman's name is Benjamin Bagby, and he recites Beowulf the way it was meant to be done -- in Old English, with proper flair, and accompanied by a harp when required.
Here is the opening of the saga:
Mr. Bagby's rendition of Beowulf is available from his web-site, or from popular on-line sellers.
I suggest viewing the DVD at night, with the lights off or down low for proper effect.
Monday, November 19, 2007
For those Gentle Readers who may be living under a staircase somewhere, Mr. Horn is the South Texas gentleman who discovered two men breaking into his neighbors house.
He then dialled 911 and had a conversation with the dispatcher in which he told the dispatcher some stuff he probably shouldn't have, before going outside and killing both men.
Now, I'm not going to get into whether Mr. Horn was justified or not in taking those men's lives -- this is Texas, and a Grand Jury of twelve good men and true will determine if Mr. Horn was justified or not.
No, what I am interested in is that during his conversation with Mr. Horn, the dispatcher told Mr. Horn that killing those men "wasn't worth it".
Some folks on the Internet have a bit of a problem with that. There's some thought that this wasn't the dispatchers business.
You know, near as I can tell the only person who has a right to say if it was the dispatchers business to beg Mr. Horn not to go outside ... is Mr. Horn.
Mr. Horn's lawyer and his family state that he "is crushed". The New Black Panther Party and the Millions More Movement are protesting outside of his house. Mr Horn's face is on the TeeVee and in newspapers around the world, where people Mr. Horn doesn't know -- and will never meet -- are calling Mr. Horn a murderer and demanding his arrest.
The local Houston paper reports that their poll finds that 60% of their readers feel Mr. Horn was justified in his killing of the two men.
Sounds good, yes?
60% means that 40% think Mr. Horn wasn't justified.
Two out of every five people he meets think that he is a murderer -- and that's a lot of people. That amount of ill-will can weigh on a man's mind.
Killing another human being is the ultimate taboo. To take the life of some mother's son leaves a stain -- no matter how small -- on your soul.
And everyone -- no matter how foul a critter -- was, at some time, some mothers baby. Don't think that this seemingly irrelevant fact won't jump up and steal your breath in the long hours spent wrestling with your conscience afterwards.
The guilt and self-doubt that can plague a man for even the most justified of killings can be overwhelming.
It is possible -- even likely -- that a man who has been forced to take a life in the most justified of circumstances; circumstances such that no one can find fault in his decision -- it is possible for that man to be wracked by guilt and self-doubt regarding his actions; it is possible for him to spend the darkest hours of the nights torturing his soul with 'What I Could Have Done Differently' questions.
Unfortunately for Mr. Horn, his shooting wasn't so clean. There is some doubt as to his justification; nearly half the people who have heard of this event are finding fault and are naming him 'murderer'.
No matter how stoic you are, each whisper of 'murderer' will lodge itself in your psyche.
Mr. Horn is going to be bombarded with the grief of the dead men's loved ones. False or not, that grief and those tears are all over the TeeVee, and false or not, each tear becomes a burden, if only a tiny one.
Some of the people who believe that Mr. Horn wasn't justified in his actions are going to uncork their vitriol and their loathing for Mr. Horn through phone calls, speech, and the printed word.
His own conscience is liable to replay the faces of those dead men at three in the morning.
Seeing as how these men were minorities, the powerful minority lobbies and national civil rights organizations will probably supply the funding and the lawyers for any resulting Federal lawsuit.
Against these lobbies and these organizations, Mr. Horn will have ... his retirement? Donations from family, friends and strangers?
Whether Mr. Horn was justified in his actions, or not, will be decided by a Grand Jury.
Whether the dispatcher was justified in advising Mr. Horn not to proceed -- is up to Mr. Horn.
And I think his answer today, or next month, or next year might be different than his answer on that fateful day.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Today, Michael posts a follow-up to that story.
Shlemon Warduni, an auxiliary bishop for the Catholic Diocese, performed the first Mass held at that church since it was shut down.
From the article:
Today, Muslims mostly filled the front pews of St John’s. Muslims who want their Christian friends and neighbors to come home. The Christians who might see these photos likely will recognize their friends here. The Muslims in this neighborhood worry that other people will take the homes of their Christian neighbors, and that the Christians will never come back. And so they came to St John’s today in force, and they showed their faces, and they said, “Come back to Iraq. Come home.” They wanted the cameras to catch it. They wanted to spread the word: Come home. Muslims keep telling me to get it on the news. “Tell the Christians to come home to their country Iraq.”
Are there any two words in any language that hold more hope, more comfort, than 'come home'?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Various Gentle Readers have made statements to this effect regarding your Humble Scribe, so I felt it my duty to confirm or deny certain suspicions:
Which Discworld Character are you like (with pics)
created with QuizFarm.com
|You scored as Commander Samuel Vimes|
You are Samuel Vimes! Captain of Ankh-Morporkâ€™s city Watch! You are a knight, married to the very wealthy, noble lady Sybil Ramkin. You often walk the streets at night, and are able to tell where you are by the feel of the cobbles under your boots. You always do what is right â€“ that is, what needs to be done â€“ to keep the city safe, even when it seems bad.
Huh. I always figured myself for Fred Colon, actually.
I've been chasing people around the office, humming the violin part and trying to find the name of the tune.
And, maybe I was getting a little intense ... but it was driving me nuts.
Anyhoo, this evening, after three hours of intense Tafiti-fu, I found it.
Lux Æterna, by Clint Mansell.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
This manuscript contains several pieces: a telling of the life of Saint Christopher; a description of foreign lands and even more foreign animals; a copy of a letter from Alexander to Aristotle; and a poetic translation of the Book of Judith.
What makes it famous is an untitled epic poem from the 8th century which tells the story of a Geatish hero and his slaying of a monster, the mother of the monster and a dragon.
This epic saga is, of course, the story of Beowulf.
Beowulf was originally strictly an oral story, probably told to the sound of harp music. Read from paper, the story of Beowulf is odd and confusing -- most people don't finish the saga.
Recited out loud, by someone who is not only familiar and fond of the story, but well-versed in the tricks of the story-tellers art, Beowulf is thrilling, mournful, haunting, gripping and everything in-between.
I see that Hollywood has taken another hack at this ancient saga. Half of me really, really wants to go see this movie.
The other half of me is terrified that Hollywood is going to turn one of the earliest and finest examples of Western literature into unwatchable screaming drek.
I'm probably going to go see it, but I swear I'm going to be packing a horsewhip and a trout. If that same pompous, illiterate, hack poseur Philistine shows up and kvetches about the "simplistic plot", "lack of personal growth" or even mentions the words "interpersonal dynamics of the main characters" during this movie like he did for 'Troy', I'm going to beat him to death right there in the peanut gallery.
Previous to this, Ronnie Barrett, of Barrett Firearms Company announced that he would no longer sell any of his rifles to California government agencies, nor would he service the rifles currently held by California agencies.
Now, I realize that STI and Barrett are both niche firearm companies. There simply aren't all that many L.E. agencies in California who are going to be buying one of the big .50's from Barrett, and I seriously doubt if many agencies in California Nerf-land will authorize the carry of a cocked-and-locked STI m1911 clone.
No, I imagine that any reaction from the California gummint is along the lines of: "Goody-goody gum drops! That means fewer guns in our Bubble-Wrap Utopia!"
However, this development gives me a faint hope that one or more of the big suppliers for law enforcement agencies -- Glock, SIG-Sauer, Smith & Wesson -- will follow along and refuse to sell or service California government agencies.
A long shot, I admit. But the State of California has been dancing with the gun-control devil for too long unscorched. It's time for them to start feeling the burn.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Anyhoo, I notice that I've got some e-mail regarding a post over at AD's place.
On Oct 29, AD sent me an e-mail telling me that my buddy MattG had suggested that I'd be an "ideal collaborator" on one of AD's "Perspectives" stories, and AD wanted to know if I'd be interested.
Hell, yes. And honoured to boot. Thank you, gentlemen,
Fortunately, AD caught me in a creative mood, and I punted three stories his way for consideration that evening -- before the North Texas Green Mung virus caught up with me.
Apparently, one of them was good enough, and we're a go.
Have patience, though. Creative types like AD are delicate flowers, and if you stress them they go all emo on you -- and when that happens they're just impossible to work with*.
*Oh, I'm going to catch hell for that one. :-)
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
This photo by Michael Yon is a powerful, powerful thing. The short article underneath, while helpful, doesn't have the sheer visceral impact of the photo.
If the Universe is just, this photo -- and Michael Yon -- will become as iconic as others have throughout the decades.
Having been a staff member at a couple of on-line forums who prided themselves on their civility, I can say with some feeling: about bloody time. Sort of.
I am all for a troll filter -- with two caveats.
1) It has to be voluntary. I have no problem with Joe Private downloading a troll filter for his bulletin board, or if A Mega Corp installs a troll filter on their homepage.
I do have a problem with folks insisting that the government start mandating this kind of thing (no doubt "for the good of the children"). Private, voluntary use -- excellent! Government mandated use -- sod off, do.
2) It has to be accurate. Any troll filter needs to be certain that it is, indeed, filtering out the cyber-chaff, and not the wheat. And Goddess only knows that every time you think you've made something stupid-proof, the Universe comes up with Stupid, MkII, Improved.
To this end, the people working on this thing are encouraging the public to help them in de-bugging the software -- very, very cool idea.
If you want to help these guys put together a troll filter, go to their homepage at stupidfilter.org and click on "How you can help".
And since I feel like five pounds of Alpo stuffed into a three-pound sack, I'm going to take my fever-ridden butt back to bed.
Monday, November 05, 2007
In other news, we notice that a 25-year-old teacher, formerly working in Nebraska, apparently decided that she wanted icing on her criminal cake: not only was the boy a mere 13 years old, but he was also an illegal immigrant. And for the trifecta, it seems that the (gold) star-crossed lovers decided to flee to Mexico.
My whole, complete and entire view of that sordid little situation can be summed up quite nicely in the following conversation:
Co-Worker: "You got to admit, part of you thinks that kid is a stud."
CW: "Ya, he's really a bit lucky."
LD: "You've got a daughter in sixth grade, don't you?"
CW: "Yeah, why?"
LD: "So, when the football coach takes her to Canada for some wild and kinky chandelier sex ..."
CW: "I'd kill that mother-[deleted]!"
LD: "And you don't see the irony there, do you?"
We are also informed that convicted murderer and flamboyant bounty-hunter Duane "Dog" Chapman is in hot water over a taped phone conversation with his son in which Mr. Chapman used racial epithets and rather unflattering language to describe the girlfriend of the son.
Welcome to a sharp, sharp lesson in the free market, Duane.
While we here at Rancho LawDog figure Duane Chapman is getting everything he deserved, we can't help but also point out that if Mr. Chapman had chanted his end of the phone conversation over a heavy bass beat and record scratching -- he'd probably wind up being nominated for a Grammy Award in the Rap Category.
The latest news story says that the son with whom Mr. Chapman was having the phone conversation sold the recording of the conversation to a tabloid for fifteen thousand US dollars. The story goes on to say that there's "still some friction" betwixt Mr. Chapman and the son.
No! Really? Who'd'a thunk it?
In other news, it seems that the Hollywood Screenwriters Union has called a strike. The aether is ablaze with dire predictions of no new TeeVee shows until the strike is resolved.
First off, we didn't realize that a lot of today's programmes actually had writing. We were under the impression -- from the quality, you understand -- that the actors were pretty much ad-libbing the whole thing; and secondly:
No new TeeVee shows is bad news ... why?
Ugh. I'm for bed. See y'all later.
* Act IV, Scene II: "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers".
First day of work, I wake up this morning and it feels like my eyeballs are packed in sand. Hot sand.
This evening the headache and the fever hit -- along with the clogged sinuses.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
By way of National Review On-Line we get the above video.
Oh. My. Gawd.
It is, near as I can tell, genuine and un-faked. If anyone has any proof otherwise, please let me know.
I have always known the Brit military as scrappy chaps, but this -- this raises the bar.
Well done, gentlemen!
Almost $12 million in hits, to be exact.
As amusing and gratifying as that is, there are a surprising number of folks protesting the verdict on First Amendment grounds.
One more time from the top, ladies and gentlemen:
"The First Amendment
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."
The Federal Governments only role in this trial was as arbitrator between two private parties -- as it should be.
Was the plaintiff in this case -- the grieving father -- was he actually Congress? Did the Federal Government actually file suit? Provide the finances to sue? Have anything to do with the lawsuit other than to arbitrate?
Then how does the First Amendment -- like the other original ten amendments a check to government power-grabbing -- how does the First Amendment restriction against the government abridging the freedom of speech apply in a private dispute between two private citizens?
When you say that the decision in this case violates Fred Phelp's First Amendment rights, you are saying:
"That private citizen can't sue that other private citizen because Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech"
Read that again.
Whole bunch of people (myself among them) consider that the expansion of certain Constitutional issues to be one of the worst evils of the modern American government. The Interstate Commerce Clause, for example, was never meant to be used as a justification for what it covers now.
On that same note, anyone who complains about the slow creep of the Federal Government into areas that don't concern it -- well, folks, that includes the slow creep of the First Amendment out of government regulation and into private citizen regulation.
This grieving father was hurt by Phelps and -- as provided for in our system of Government -- turned to civil litigation to provide relief.
A jury of his peers listened to his case, debated it and found justification for damages and relief. That is how our system works.
"That private citizen should not be allowed to sue that other private citizen because Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech"
-- and make no mistake, that is EXACTLY what those arguing against this verdict on First Amendment grounds are saying -- not only defies logic, but it goes against the very bedrock our legal system is founded on.
"Your Rights End Where Mine Begin" is a uniquely American sentiment, and Phelps just got tutored on it -- and his First Amendment rights were neither damaged, nor trampled on during the process.
This is good, and I hope every other person who suffered because those pestilential parasites got stupid at their grief sues the whole stinking Phelps clan into the poorhouse.
I went looking through the Intarwebz for a copy of the cartoon to e-mail to him, but alas I couldn't find one.
What I found instead, was one of those little touches that gives me hope for the human race.
In 1982, Gary Larson drew a 'Far Side' cartoon of a bunch of cavemen at a lecture. The lecturer is pointing to the wickedly spiked tail of a stegosaurus and saying, "Now this end is called the thagomizer, after the late Thag Simmons."
As per the usual with 'Far Side' cartoons, this was very funny -- although I really can't tell you why.
Anyhoo, apparently paleontologists have the same sense of humour that I do because those spikes are now commonly referred to as the "thagomizer" in reference books, museum exhibits -- and Discover Magazine.
There may be some hope for people after all.