Thursday, December 19, 2013

"Lighten up, Francis" in three ... two ...

While not as beautiful as the preceding song -- and in no way "traditional" to the season -- I have to admit that this one kicks over my gigglebox something fierce, and I think is every bit as charming as any other Christmas music coming over the loudspeakers these days:



Sunday, December 15, 2013


As long time Gentle Readers of ths blog know my favourite Christmas song is "Christmas Eve/Sarajevo" by Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

However, I have recently come across a rendition of "Carol of the Bells" which threatens to knock TSO of of the top of my list.

Without further ado, I give you ThePianoGuys:

One of the things that makes this particular version so appealing to me is not only is a beautiful piece, but the man playing the cello is so obviously enjoying himself that it just sweeps you up into the spirit of the song -- and of the season.

Maybe not everyones cup of chai, but I think it is magnificent.


Wednesday, November 06, 2013

Unsung Hero of the Day

Here's to Nog, the Slightly Bemused.

About 36,000 years ago -- more or less -- ol' Nog was out on a hunting trip, stumbled across an orphaned litter of those four-legged barky things and thought: "Huh. Wonder of the kids would like to play with a couple of these?"

... And things were Never The Same Again.

Hoist a pint to the memory of Nog -- who never knew that dropping a couple of puppies into his pockets for the kids would literally change the world -- and give any doggies in your cave a good belly-scritching.


Saturday, November 02, 2013


Someone took one of my most popular posts and illustrated it!

I'll just be sitting over here feling a wee bit smug.


Wednesday, October 09, 2013

So, let me get this straight:

The same folks who closed down a privately-funded, open air memorial to World War 2 and closed down over a thousand square miles of the Atlantic Ocean because of a temper tantrum ...

... think that it's a good idea to be involved in your health care.


And this is a good idea ... why?

Coercion is coercion. Anyone who'd stoop to holding a privately-funded park hostage for political gain would probably rub his pedipalps with glee at the thought of holding your healthcare hostage for even greater political gain.

But, that's just me.


Sunday, September 08, 2013

Saturday, September 07, 2013

Remember "Kilted To Kick Cancer"

If you like these little posts, go hit Ad's blog, or the Kilted To Kick Cancer website, and donate a little something towards the research of male-specific cancers.

'Allo, 'allo.

Where to start ...

Inmate J from the Swing Shift summation is still trying to get his books that the Chief Deputy denied him; I imagine he’ll keep trying.

River shook down West/8 and had all sorts of fun. We found a pair of sneakers in Inmate X's bunk, with no note in either his Misc Notes screen or his Medical screen; and we found a zip-lock bag of band-aids, triple antibiotic ointment, gauze and all sorts of medical goodness where Inmate Q is bunking, but (again) nothing in the Misc Notes or Medical screens, and no “May Keep In Tank” sticker on the zip-lock baggie. So, of course, we glommed onto them. After Inmate X threw a wall-eyed hissy-fit, I called the nurse to check – I’ll be a sonovagun, both of them have medical clearance for their goodies, although it’s not in their computer records.

Sigh. I must remind Ms. Cleo to start taking my calls again.

In addition to the stuff above, we also found a water-bag cover hand-sewn from a sheet, a woven plastic handle for the water-bag-cover, half of a Diet Coke can, a complete Gatorade bottle, half of a Dr Pepper can, a tattoo pick, umpteen squillion loose staples, a large garbage bag, about twenty feet of fishing cord, a fishing pole, a spare uniform, several extra linens (One of which Inmate T was sneaking in a very personal location, anatomically speaking. Yes, a whole sheet. I was impressed) and the usual flotsam and jetsam.

After the shake-down was through as we were returning the inmates to West/8 Inmate N tried pushing Officer Oldskool’s buttons. Didn’t work so well with the lad, although he’s got enough smarts to not go far enough to earn a Use of Force. We might keep an eye on the mouthy little squab, though.

River did water-checks at 0319.

When we checked the temps, Special Housing Unit was showing between 85 and 86, so I bumped the thermostats down a wee bit and had the purge run. Hour later the temperatures were around the 80-degree mark.

Over at Central, the kitchen lost power about 0045-ish, and got it back somewhere around 0245. Then, it went out again at 0436, came back, went out again at 0447 and came back about 0500. We’re feeding bag-meals to the inmates for breakfast.

Central/North did water-checks at 0458 and shook-down Central/North/1, finding a candle and a tattoo pick.

Central/Female checked their water at 0453.

In other news, Eduardo is proving to be a slippier character than I had thought – he does remain un-flushed at this time. SGT Krunch has gently requested that he be evicted from the control room before her next tour, which I believe to be this Sunday.

Personally, I’m giving hard thought to handing the little bugger a radio and assigning him to the West Tier.

That should be about it.

Nothing but (appropriate) love,

Bugscuffle SO

That's going on the blog.

My lady loves spiky foods. She eats Indian cuisine with aplomb, ploughs her way through your standard Southwestern chilies with her usual verve, and wasabi was conquered a long time ago.

This past week, Sgt Krunch and I met her in Big City at the upscale Mexican eatery where she was being her usual adorable, exuberantly sparkly self.

Our food came, and she spread a little of the pico de gallo side onto her chimichanga ...

... "Aren't dachsie bellies just the cutest thing ever? They just beg for nuzzling, oh, and don't you just hate: 'There is no I in team'? Maybe not, but there are several I's in 'Platitude-spouting idiot'. I mean, seriously?"

And took a dainty bite, followed immediately by, "Holy [deleted]! [Deleted]! [Deleted]! [Deleted]!" -- Pttooey! -- "Holy crap, I think I just bit into Satan's scrotum!"

The following silence in a relatively busy lunch-hour restaurant was ... beautiful.

There was a great deal of water consumed, a lemon wedge rubbed hastily along her tongue, a little more water, and then she blinked and blurted, "Did I yell that?"

Poor Sgt Krunch was laughing so hard, she couldn't take a bite of her own food; and I have to admit that I was trying awfully hard to keep the gigglesnorting under control.

Heh.  Right off the cuff.

I think someone may have planted their jalapenos a little bit too close to their ghost peppers.


Tuesday, September 03, 2013

This seems to be going well.

Today's summation was the introduction of Eduardo, a character who caused me no end of grief -- from all sides -- during his short tenure at Bugscuffle County.


Good morning ladles and germs,

To start out our night at River properly, Inmate B decided to play possum after headcounts. He refused to stir for officer shouts and banging on the door, and when we went into SHU/23, he didn’t respond to shaking, tapping or sweet nothings bellowed into his ear. I was trying to decide if I could creatively articulate getting a response with a drive-stun when apparently his telepathy decided to kick in and he said Bad Things to us. Which is good enough evidence of being alive in my book.

River did water-checks at 0256; and shook-down East/3. We came up empty-handed, which considering that our inmates are not that well-behaved, makes me wonder what new hiding place they’re hiding their stuff in these days.

Central/North did their water-checks at 0106; and Central/Female at 0103. Central/Female also shook-down Female/9 and came up with several extra blankets. However, they also report that while the trusties were in the visitation area during the shake-down, two of them got into each other’s faces. Seems like all is not happy in Trustieland.

Tonight’s medal-winner in the D’oh! Contest is Inmate G in Intake. By all accounts the wee lass got nicked by PD for DWI, was delivered into our tender custody and wound up in Detox/2 for Grand Mopery and Contempt of Cop (misdemeanor). Once there, she proceeded to throw one bee-yoo-ti-ful wall-eyed, ring-tail temper tantrum. As uncle to several sprogs betwixt the ages of two and nine, I can recognize true artistry in fit throwing, and this was One Of A Kind.

She screamed, hollered, beat on the bench, spun in circles on the floor, kicked the door, all the usual, but what elevated this performance to High Art was when she took off her jeans and used them to beat the unoffending cell camera until the picture fuzzed.

The Intake crew, being the unappreciative Philistines that they are, took a dim view of this display and chained her drunk butt to the bench. One would have thought that this would have been the curtain call, but our Intrepid Damsel proceeded to take off her shirt and strangle her-own-self with it. Which got her stripped nekkid and placed on Suicide Watch as well as being chained to the bench. Goodness, I hope that was all worth it.

As I write this, we have some kind of kerfuffle in West/8.

I’m back.

Inmate M has decided to remove himself from West/8. According to Inmate M, Inmate J sent another inmate to Inmate M to inform Inmate M that Inmate J did not want him in “his” tank. Goodness. ‘T’Were I a betting man, I’d lay money that the inmate delivering the message is going to be Inmate T. I may have made a strategic error in moving those two from Central/North/6 a while back. Anyhoo, Inmate M has been moved to West/1, and when I get back to River tonight, I’m going to separate Inmates J and T; with a Separation Notation in both their records. And depending on my mood, I’m liable to see how far I can spread the inhabitants of West/8 around.

In other news, I have discovered that a field mouse has taken up residence in River Control Room. The kids have named it “Eduardo”. While intriguing, I have scotched the suggestion that Eduardo be sponsored through the Basic County Corrections Course; and as soon as I can snag his little butt, Eduardo will probably be taking a “vacation” by way of the Porcelain Express.

Hmm. That’s about it, I think.

In closing,

Bugscuffle SO

Monday, September 02, 2013

First question!

Gentle Reader ExGeeEye asks: "What does it mean 'working out with a water bag'?"

Excellent question.

Bugscuffle County does not supply our inmates with weight equipment.

Matter-of-fact, we don't supply much more than a basketball and a couple of racquet balls.

Inmates, however, are nothing if not adaptable. Given half a chance they steal garbage bags, fill them full of water from the showers, and use those in improvised weight routines.

Given that one gallon of water weights eight pounds, a 33-gallon garbage bag can be a fairly significant amount of weight.

Voila! "Water bag".


Well, maybe one a day.

Since I am posting as many of these as I can on 01 SEP and then using the delayed post function, I'm not sure how my Gentle Readers are taking these little summations. I hope they're being received well. Anyhoo. Remember, if you like what you read here, go hit up AD or the Kilted to Kick Cancer page.



It’s been one fun evening out here at River. Right off the bat Inmate S in West/3 came up with a jolly huge rash, and stated he was starting to have problems breathing. Nurse came out, did some nursing-type stuff and watched him for a bit. He seems to have gotten better.

Right after that, Inmate M and Inmate Y got into a fight in West/4. Review of the video shows that while it may have been mutual combat, Inmate Y instigated it. Both got disciplinary cases, and moved to other tanks. Then Inmate R in West/4 started yelping about having something in his eye. We told the nurse, he said to tell Inmate R to flush the eye with water and try to go to sleep.

Officer Slowyerroll has the sort of radio voice that would accompany a gentle pat on the shoulder and the words, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?” so when he laconically asked if a supervisor could come back to SHU/19, I started grabbing every party favour I could find and hitting the Control Room door at a high lope. Sure enough, Inmate Q had taken both covers off of the power outlet in that cell, and was into the wiring up to his knuckles. I’m here to tell you, that kind of made pointing the Taser at him seem a bit … superfluous. We settled for snatching his butt off the table and scooting him down to SHU/5, which has no interior power outlets for him to muck about with.

Of course, Inmate K was the occupant of SHU/5, and of course he had to be difficult about giving up his cell. Diplomacy wins the day, as Inmates K and Q swapped cells with only minor grumbling.

I was feeling my oats a bit at that time, so I had officers tell East/3 – on the down-low – that they were catching a shakedown, but if they threw out their contraband, the officers would try to talk me into leaving their coloured boxers in the tank. Last I checked the hallway in front of East/3 was ankle-deep and folks in East/3 were offering to trade commissary to East/4 in return for more stuff they could throw out.

While East/3 was unloading their contraband, we hit the kitchen and the laundry. Came up with five chicken quarters, two sandwiches, and two Styrofoam cups of sugar hidden in various places. Then we started on the SHU cells, beginning with Inmate C in SHU/16, since he has a fresh tattoo. When we woke him up, he was wearing a set of white boxers on over a set of coloured ones, and he got kittenish about giving up the coloured ones. I said not to mind, put him in the hall and started searching his cell. Good lord. We got string, a magnet, string, four sparkers, string and I’m pretty sure we accidentally dropped his tat pick into the light fixture trying to get it out. Then we brought him back in, explained that the white underwear made his coloured underwear contraband, and might we please have them?

Inmate C is a bit of an oik. He got a case of the arse, and told us we weren’t getting the underwear. Then he offered to give us a proper thumping if we tried. I demurred, said that I wasn’t leaving the cell without the contraband and Inmate C told me to go get rank. I checked my sleeves to see if I had remembered to put on my stripes, and Inmate C sneered for me to go get “real rank”. Further declared that we would have to go get the Sheriff and that if the Sheriff came out right then and right there told him to give up the underoos, then – and only then – would he give them up.

We got the boxers. Since he had more fishing line, a bit of paper folded into a weight and two notes to and from Inmate F who’s currently two doors down from Inmate C’s solitary cell tucked into the front of his boxers, I’m guessing that’s why he was such a numpty about giving them up. I went ahead and photocopied the page of the Inmate Handbook regarding coloured and white underwear and attached it to the grievance he’s demanding.

River did water and intercom checks at 0339; Central/North did theirs at 0005; and Central/Female at 0158. Central/North also did the needful and shook North/7. Officers advise that they found the burnt stubs of jailhouse cigarettes, but that was about all.

Spreading peace and joy, I remain:

Bugscuffle SO

Sunday, September 01, 2013

Summation: the First

Here is the first of my promised summations. Remember, if you like it, go tap AD or the KTKC page and show your appreciation.


Dear ladles and germs,

To start off the night on a high note, we had water falling from the skies. I have heard the Old Ones speak of such a thing from days past, but I never thought to see it with my own eyes.

There were no leaks reported either at River or Central.

Officers spotted Inmate C. passing something from East/5 to Inmates R. and F. in East/4. Suspecting tobacco, we hit the tank but Inmates F. and R. got to the khazi before we did. We shook East/4 anyway, and came up aces when we found a bee-yoo-ti-ful tattoo pick in R’s property; and a baggie of ink in the general area. To show my appreciation, we moved Inmate R. to West/2 pending a disciplinary case for Possession of Tattoo Paraphernalia; shifted Inmate C. one tank further along to East/6 and left Inmate F. in East/4.

Tier scuttlebutt has it that Inmates R, C and F were getting tobacco from Inmate F2 in East/1.

While we were shaking down East/4, officers spotted West/1 working out with a water-bag, but they had an attack of the dumbs and denied having the contraband. Since I had a surfeit of knuckle-draggers handy, we over-rode the doors in West/1 and retrieved the water-bag. The startled faces in that tank are a memory that I will treasure always.

Inmate H. in SHU/6 got kittenish about chaining up for cell cleaning, I went down and he decided to comply, but when it came time to remove the restraints, he decided to grab an officer's hand and squeeze as hard as possible. That went about as well as might be expected. Then he took out his frustration on the door to SHU/6 – and I am told that the door to SHU/6 oft comes agley when beaten upon. Sigh. So we went back and took him to SHU/10. Surprisingly enough, he went meek as a lamb.

Of course, a scant breath after getting Inmate H relocated, Inmate R (from the tobacco and My First Tattoo Kit incident in East/4) told officers that if we didn’t move him to a solitary cell that he would hurt himself. Despite multiple inmates advising that this was not the course of action he really wanted, Inmate R decided to insist that he would do himself an injury if we didn’t oblige him with a solitary cell. Okay. From the look on his face, I’m thinking that the suicide smock is a wee touch drafty.

The low West tanks started getting annoying about the recent trend of seizing their coloured knickers and accused us of making rules up. I gave them the page number in the Inmate Handbook so they could read it for themselves, but it turns out that none of the low West tanks had any Inmate Handbooks. I printed up one for each of the low West tanks, and – rather kindly, I think – pointed out the page that stated that destroying the Inmate Handbook would result in the tank T.V. being turned off for “an indeterminate time”. They’ve been quiet ever since.

Officer H. managed to reopen a cut on her lip from earlier that bled like God’s Own Water Faucet. We tried to get her to blame an inmate, but she wouldn’t follow-through. Sigh. The nurse came out and got the bleeding stopped.

Once that was done, Officer R. sprinted through the River Control Room with his face a most un-becoming shade of green. Seems the lad ate something that didn’t agree with him, because he spent about ten minutes praying to the porcelain throne. After happily advising him to check for toe-nails, and suggesting that he swallow hard if he felt something round and furry coming up, I told him he could go home. I am here to report that Officer R. is a trouper, and has stayed on.

Intake reports that “Inmate M. came back from the hospital at 0500”.

River did water and intercom checks at 0311; Central/North did theirs at 0151; and Central/Female at 0112. Center/North also reports shaking down North/8 and North/4, but not finding anything of interest.

Bugscuffle SO

In honour of Kilted To Kick Cancer ...

It is that time of year again! Ambulance Driver has announced that Kilted To Kick Cancer has kicked off for its' third year? Fourth?


A fellow officer (here-in after referred to as "Sgt Krunch") has recently unearthed some treasure and has informed me of this find.

Way Back When, a certain newly-minted supervisor reassigned to the Detention Centre decided that shift pass-along should be sent out as e-mails to make sure that every supervisor would have a hard-copy of the events that had transpired on his shift.

Since I am -- well, me -- these e-mails were not the usual dry, bureaucratic stuff one would expect from a government agency.

Oh, no.

My Sheriff now knows that I write this blog, I have gone to the Chief Deputy and asked if it would cause any heartburn if I were to re-post these shift summations for your edification.

He has replied that as long as I anonymise them, there won't be a problem.


I will load up at least one shift summation every other day for the month of September. Maybe more, we'll see.

If my Gentle Readers find these summations amusing, all I ask is that you pop over to ADs site and donate to Kilted To Kick Cancer. (If I can figure out how to post the links here, I'll pin a KTKC button on my sidebar. No promises.)

For those who don't know, Kilted To Kick Cancer was founded to raise awareness of male-specific cancers -- and funds for research of same.

People keep telling me how amusing my writing is, and begging me to write a book.

Here's your chance to put your money where your mouth is: read the summations, and if you like them, donate what you'd spend on a book to do a good deed.

(And you might send good thoughts towards the general direction of my Sheriff and my Chief Deputy for basically telling me that my blog is perfectly okay, and to start writing again.)


Thursday, August 01, 2013

Overheard at Rancho LawDog:

Herself is squeeing over some perfume samples:

"I love this! The patchouli doesn't smell like filthy hippie; more like manky, slightly pongy hippie!"

Long pause.

"Are you laughing at me?"

Nope, darling.  Not in the least.


Saturday, July 27, 2013

Le Derp-phone c'est mort

Well, the cell-phone that my faithful minions have been gigglingly referring to as the "Derp-phone!" has been Officially Binned.

Alas, it didn't take being used as a Distraction Device as well as its' predecessor -- not well at all, come to think -- and never did succeed in receiving e-mails.

Commensurate with my new duties came -- yet another -- firm "suggestion" by the folks what sign my paycheque as to upgrading my personal communication device.


So, this morning I wandered into my local wireless center where a drone with a Corporate Smile looked up my account on the store computer, frowned and murmured, "That's not funny" and summoned the manager.

Said worthy appeared, looked at the screen, frowned, and started hammering keys until I stated -- apropos of nothing: "Yes, I have thrown my phone at inmates."

Both drones looked at me for a loooong time, and then the manager-type looked at his underling. Underling sayeth, "He wants an upgrade."

Manager thinks long and hard before stating (rather firmly, I thought), "Not an iPhone" and buggering off to the back-room. Probably for a cigarette and a soothing shot of booze.

Long story short, I have turned in the Lobotomy Plus™ for a brand-spanking new Samsung Rugby Pro™.

And spent two hours at home, shutting off the superfluous stuff. Kee riced all my tea, I DO NOT want my location continuously updated to various social network sites, thankyewverramuchly, nor do I need suggestions as to restaurants, motels, clothing stores, Points Of Interest, and anything else I might be traveling within half-a-mile of constantly plinging the screen.

Initial impressions are that this thing is a brick. When the drone told me that it had a "reassuring heft" I'm pretty sure he didn't mean that with a proper wind-up, it it may move from Distraction Device right into Less-Lethal territory.

Supposed to be Mil-Spec. We'll see if it's 'Dog-Spec -- which may be a considerably more stringent standard. The jury is out.


Sunday, June 30, 2013

Sandhurst Flagpole Test

There is a mental exercise -- probably used by every military organisation since Alexander -- which was described to me as a sprogling in Deepest Africa by a Rhodesian officer as "The Sandhurst Flagpole Test."

"Sandhurst" being, of course, the British Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, but I've heard various iterations of the same riddle posed to me in the U.S. Army.

Anyhoo, the test is as such: a bright young proto-officer is brought into a room where he faces a panel of instructors. This proto-officer is told that the next exercise is a mental one, that the parameters are that he is the officer in charge of a small unit consisting of a sergeant, a corporal and 'X' number of soldiers. There is equipment consisting of one standard two-piece flagpole, digging implements, various lengths of rope and bags of concrete. The proto-officer is informed that the task assigned is to erect a flagpole on that very spot, and asked what orders he would give to effectuate this?

At this point, the hapless cadet usually begins giving precise details of whom would be ordered to do what, leading to the lead instructor raising a paw and solemnly announcing that the proto-officer has failed the exercise.

The flustered proto-officer is then informed that there is one order, and one order only, which would pass the test, and that order is: "Sergeant, get that flagpole up."

This test is variously cited as being a warning against micro-managing, an exhortation to know thy limits, proper utilisation to talents, so one and so forth.

I have used it through-out my career as a demonstration that senior staff were micro-managing.


I have recently been dragged, kicking and screaming, over to the Dark Side -- by which I mean I have been promoted to Command Staff with a title along with a new rank.

Yay, me.

A great deal of my new duties involve dealing with humor-impaired State-level functionaries and the occasional snoop-and-poop by said functionaries.

We have recently endured one such event, and by the second day I literally almost broke down into screaming obscenities in our living room.

The next day, I was in the middle of going to get ID-10T forms from a clerk that were an inspectable item, when I was stopped by another supervisor.

Said worthy asked what I was about and I told him, then he looked at me and ordered me to hold my left index finger in a crooked position and my right index finger rigid.

He hooked a coffee mug over my left finger, picked up a mug of his own, reached out with his right index finger and activated the phone on the desk. The clerk answered, the supervisor stated, "It's audit time again. We need the forms," the clerk responded, "What, already? Oh, that's why 'Dog's been in my office three times today. Wish he'd've ... on my way!"


As I watched, my compatriot took a sip of coffee, cocked an eyebrow at me over the rim of his mug and opined, gently, "It's not your job to do things anymore. It's your job to give things to other people to do."

At this time I would like to announce to everyone whom I have -- in the past -- sat down and admonished: "You just failed the Flagpole Test" ...

... I like my crow with BBQ sauce.


Monday, May 20, 2013

Colorado shoots itself in the foot ... again.

Well, that was embarrassing.

Apparently the post I had here was the result of a very elaborate hoax.



Saturday, May 11, 2013

ITAR and bloody dafties

Well, someone has done gone and got their knickers into a half-hitch regarding the 3D printed pistol (the fact that the pistol is called "Liberator" brings a smile to my heart) and has used the International Traffic in Arms Regulations to order the plans pulled from the website.


The entirely predictable result -- well, predictable to anyone who knows human nature, the Internet, or has a passing knowledge of the movie/video game/music business in general -- was that a significant number of netizens cocked snooks in the general direction of the Department of State, and about ten squillion copies of the 3D gun hit the torrents about three microseconds later.

I'm pretty sure that today a whole bunch of folks are irritated by having to pick gun designs out of their pirated music and porn downloads, but macht nichts.

The whole excitement involving the 3D gun raised an eyebrow at Rancho LawDog, but not much else. Oh, it's interesting, in a techie sort of way, but anyone can buy a CNC mill (or get access to a machine shop) and do the exact same thing, but in metal instead of plastic, with less chance of explosive disassembly, and pretty much the same bite out of your wallet.

Hell, the original FP-45 was pretty much designed to be manufactured by an assembly line consisting of three trained chimpanzees with hammers, a shop steward who had enough brains to pick his nose without giving himself a lobotomy, and a UPS truck.

The STEN gun was a little more intricate, requiring some familiarity with the location of the nearest plumbing warehouse.

Since I've personally seen a 3rd world blacksmith with a charcoal fire, hand tools, and a donkey make perfectly-functional copies of late 19th Century and early 20th Century rifles and pistols; and a brief search of the Internet will turn up the saga of the gentleman who made an AK47 in his garage out of a shovel and a $30 barrel blank -- well, the whole melt-down over the 3D pistol just goes to reinforce my view that the critters who are allegedly running this country don't know a single bloody thing about history, human nature, smithing, guns in general, the history of guns, or engineering.

Matter-of-fact, this whole sorry episode is going to be another footnote in the annals of history that future scholars will point to and say, "This was the period of time in which the Government of the United States consisted solely of people who didn't have any business running anything more complicated than a lemonade stand without adult supervision."

I swear, it's getting to the point where someone needs to walk into the next session of Congress with a malacca cane, give every single Congresscritter and Senate-critter five good strokes and send them to bed without their supper until they start acting like bloody adults.



Thursday, March 28, 2013

Fun family times

Long time Gentle Readers know that I have a wee problem with tree-rats living in my eaves.  Visions of the scaffy little buggers chewing through an electrical wire and burning the house down around our ears does not make for restful sleeping.


Today the First Tree Rat of Spring stuck its' head out of the eaves for a Bullseye Cosmic Weather Report and took a 20-grain Super Colibri twixt the running lights.

Miss Praline, who knows what the swearing-running-grabbing Magic Skwirl Stick means, was waiting for the little furry bastard and nailed his carcass in mid-air.

Miss Mochi, however, is new and does did not know what the commotion was about ... until Praline smacked her up side the head with a graphically deceased skwirl while making sure the tree-rat was properly Done For in True Terrier Fashion.

I swear, I almost heard the 'click' when the light went on her little dachsie head.

All of a sudden we're having a major tug-of-war between the 15-pound Jack Russell Terrier on one end and the 17-pound dachshund on the other; I'm trying to find a place to lay the rifle and yelling, "Drop it!", the two of them decide that rotating around each other is the best way to frustrate Daddy; and on the deck Chuy rolls over to let the sun warm his belly fur.

Smart dog, Chuy.

Giving up, I lightly (I hope) toss the Henry into a thick-ish patch of weeds (I really should mow the blasted lawn, but it does tend to make nice padding) lunge and grab Praline. Praline, being the sweet-natured little thing she is, drops her end of the skwirl.

This ... may have been a miscalculation on my part.

Mochi is every bit as sweet-natured as Praline, however, Mochi is a guttersnipe. Mochi had a hard, hard life before we got her and Mochi understands that one simply does not give up that much free protein.

She pivot-turned, drew a bead on the entrance to her extensive network of tunnels under the Morgan building and kicked her "skattle, skattle, skattle" into afterburner. And I'm here to tell you -- short as that little things legs are, under proper motivation she can flat move.

Since I am not gormless, I've got a pretty good idea of what's on her mind -- get the goodie into the Dachsie-cave where Daddy doesn't fit and it can be enjoyed at leisure -- so I take about three steps and do a running dive, both hands up and block the entrance.

Knocking the wind out of meself in the process, I might add.

Up on the deck, Chuy gives a sedate sneeze and luxuriously scratches his back.

Mochi bounces off my out-stretched hands, blinks, recalculates, and we're for a full-on sprint around the Morgan building. Somewhere in the third (maybe fourth, it's hard to keep track when you're wheezing that badly) lap she meets Praline coming around widdershins and there's a full frontal collision.

I take advantage, skid to my knees, scoop up Mochi and her prize and ...

... discover just how strong the jaw muscles of a dachshund are.

Chuy rolls over and stretches leisurely.

Somewhere in-between the "Mochi, drop it!" "Praline! Not! Helping!" "MOCHI! Give up the [redacted] rat!" I finally get her jaws parted, and out of sheer desperation I fling the skwirl over the fence.

And there is peace in my kingdom. I stagger to my feet, pet the pups, pick up the Henry, and ...

... In the tree above my head is another sodding tree rat. Shaking his metaphorical fist at me, cursing my lineage until the end of time, and running ...

... for that damned hole in the eaves.

It was a Zen moment. The entire world narrowed down to that squirrel's ear. My weight came down on my right foot, right hand pulling the rifle into my shoulder. Left thumb eared the hammer back. Squirrel bouncing off the end of the tree branch. Smooth exhale of breath. Rifle tracking. Focus moving from skwirl ear to front sight, brief close of right eye -- front sight exactly where it needed to be. Smooth pull on trigger.

The squirrel abruptly cartwheeled in mid-air. Up in Heaven Col Jeff Cooper grunted appreciatively, angels sang sweetly, and the sun shone down on me. Bee-yoo-tee-ful shot. Couldn't have been done better in a Hollywood film.


And then that tiny little voice in the back of my head yelled, "Oh, you're a silly daft bugger, ain't'cha?" as two furry rockets, one ginger coloured and one white, shot past me.

How-ever-the-hell many dusty minutes later, I'm down on one knee. I've got the skwirl by the tail with my right hand, I've got Praline trapped under the deck with my knee and I've got Mochi snaffled by the collar with my left hand --

-- and Chuy scratches himself happily behind one ear, strolls over to the side of the deck, meditatively removes the rather-bloody carcass from my hand and jauntily ambles towards the open door of the house. Presumably towards his very favourite nest on the bed containing Herself's Very Good, Multiple Thread Count sheets and other good linens.



I [redacted] hate skwirls.


Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Dancing monkey dances.

In 1998 the British medical journal The Lancet printed an article by Andrew Wakefield in which he claimed that Autism Spectrum Disorders could be caused by the vaccine for measles, mumps and rubella -- referred to as the MMR Vaccine.

Ben Goldacre later named this article one of the "Three all-time classic bogus science stories" in his book Bad Science.

Andrew Wakefield ignored data, manipulated evidence, presented fraudulent results, and basically lied his arse off for this article -- and apparently all for the sake of a paycheck of less than 500,000 pounds by lawyers looking for evidence to use against vaccine manufacturers in civil litigation.

Wakefield's fraud was discovered -- unfortunately not before a drastic drop in childhood immunisations resulted in severe, permanent injuries and death in children throughout the UK from easily-preventable measles and mumps -- and Wakefield was pilloried, stripped of his medical licence and had to pay a goodly amount of legal costs for other people.

Not nearly enough in my opinion, but there you go.

Any-the-hoo. Researcher lied, kids died, researcher exposed: Truth and Justice win out in the end ...

... except for one dancing monkey on this side of the pond named Jim Carrey -- apparently famous for making his butt talk (how apropos), genitalia jokes, and a rubber face.

Mr Carrey seems to have decided that the medical expertise gained by making ones' butt talk (and medical fraud such as that perpetrated by Andrew Wakefield) should be tied to any fame that he does have for the purpose of scaring parents into not vaccinating their children against easily-preventable, life-altering childhood diseases.

Wrap your mind around that, Gentle Reader.

So, the news that this particular butt-talking dancing monkey has decided to apply the same level and variety of cogitation and rational thought to the Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States as he has to childhood immunisations means ...

... not a whole hell of a lot to me.

If anything the pure chutzpah of a man who is perfectly okay with children getting -- or dying from -- measles (one of the leading causes of death amongst children globally), but is having a conniption fit over me owning an AR-15 is mildly amusing.

I'll wager that the sum total of people killed by privately-held AR15s last year is a fraction of the number of children who died from complications of measles in the same time frame. Yet Jim Carrey wants parents to stop immunising -- saving -- children from this disease.

Yet at the same time he thinks me owning an AR15 is morally repugnant?!


Shut your piehole and dance, monkey.


Saturday, March 23, 2013

Damned global warming

It's North by-Gawd Texas; it's the last of March and I'm sitting here in a flannel robe, heater running to beat all and I'm freezing.

Bloody hell.


Speaking of freezing (and the fate reserved for "journalists" who can't even be arsed to look up simple rules of the language) would folks kindly remind the sodding Mainstream Media that the proper appellation is: "Pope Francis" NOT "Pope Francis I"? He can't be an "I" until there is a "II". Schmucks.

The new pontiff seems to be a good-natured, salt-of-the-earth, unassuming sort. The Vatican might do to keep a weather-eye out -- those salt-of-the-earth folks have a nasty habit of turning your whole world up-side down in spite of your best efforts, and frequently before you know what's happening (see Pope John XXIII [oops]).

Governor Hickenlooper of Colorado seems to be hell-bent on following the kamikaze model in his political career, at least I hope so. The State of Colorado is already panicking a bit over the prospect of a boycott of hunting and/or fishing in Colorado -- a boycott I am considering throwing my weight behind -- and Magpul is making good on its' promise to remove revenue from the State of Colorado if Hickenlooper got stupid.

Which reminds me -- I need to order something from Magpul.

I note that the POTUS has been taking a guided tour of Petra. Gorgeous place, and one that I'd like to visit my-own-self someday -- but doesn't the President have a sodding job to do?! Sequestration, and all that?! Sweet haploid Christ on a flaming pogo stick -- you're getting paid good tax-payer money to tend to this country. ACT LIKE YOU'RE ACTUALLY CONCERNED.

Speaking of, does anyone have access to a comparison of the numbers of vacations and the cost of each between Presidents Bush and Obama? I ask, because I have a distinct memory of the Media, and liberals in general(but I repeat myself) lambasting President Bush over his vacations. Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander and all that. If Bush was a meanie for taking too many vacations, and deserved the scorn of the Media, then if President Obama has been taking a similar number of vacations then he deserves the same amount of scorn.

Yeah. That's going to happen. *spit*

Russia is making cooing noises with China, while giving us the old cold shoulder. Seems the President Obama's promise of "more flexibility" after his election isn't impressing the Russians. I'd insert a massive "DERP!" here, but it just doesn't seem sporting. Fish in a barrel, don't you know?

Senator Dianne Feinstein seems to have gotten her knickers into a bit of a knot after an object lesson in political liabilities and realities. "Stormed from his office"! Wow. That's what I like to see in my elected officials: The emotional stability and maturity of a tantrum-throwing three-year-old. It's a set-back. Deal with it, buttercup.

Took the fur-children in to the V-E-T yesterday. Chuy is about 18 pounds (unknown how much of that is blue-jay); Mochi is a svelte 17 pounds; and Miss Praline is at the lower end at 15 and change. I must have looked a bit startled, because the V-E-T assured me that "Dachsies are just more ... dense ... than Jack Russells."


Not sure, but is "dense" something like "big-boned"?

Ah, well. Off to have fun in Oklahoma later.



Wednesday, March 06, 2013

06 MAR 1836

2200 hours, D-1, one hundred and seventy-seven years ago General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna ordered that the artillery barrage which had fallen upon the Alamo Mission near San Antonio de Bexar for twelve days be halted.

As he suspected, the exhausted defenders soon fell into a deep sleep, for most, the only sleep that they had managed during the course of the siege.

Just after 0000 hours, 06 MAR 1836, 1800 hundred Mexican infantry troops formed into four columns. 500 Mexican cavalry rode into position around the besieged mission, to prevent the escape of, well, anyone -- be they Texan defenders, or Mexican troopies.

At about 0530 hours, the three Texan sentries posted outside of the walls were silently killed, followed by the music of the Mexican bugles sounding the charge. This woke the defenders, and for the next fifteen minutes it really sucked to be a Mexican soldier. The columns they were arranged in only allowed the front line of troops to fire safely. Those firing muskets from any position behind the front line, often as not fired through the front line of Mexican soldiers. Their own artillery behind them inflicted massive blue-on-blue casualties, while the defenders opened up with their own cannon -- loaded with nails, chopped horse-shoes and even the hinges from the doors of the building.

Not to say that they were all ineffective. Colonel William B. Travis was killed during this time by a lucky shot to the head as he stood on top of the wall to get a better shot into the massed formation below him with his shotgun.

Pushed on by their reinforcing elements, the Mexicans mounted three different assaults, finally getting General Juan Amador over the wall, where he got a postern door open, which allowed the attackers to swarm the Mission.

One band of defenders -- Davy Crockett for certain, and probably his frontiersmen volunteers -- took up a position behind a low wall in front of the chapel, and made the Valkyries earn their overtime pay. When the Mexicans pressed too close to reload, the frontiersmen swung their rifles as clubs or switched to tomahawks and knives and exacted a terrible toll before being overrun.

An American slave named Ben, who was a cook for the Mexican army during the attack, states that Crockett went down swinging his rifle and was found surrounded by sixteen dead Mexican soldiers.

For the next hour or so, the Mexican army discovered exactly how bad Military Operations in Interior Urban Environments sucks, as they fought room-to-room in the Alamo. Just the attempt to replace the Texas flag on the roof of one building cost four Mexicans the ferryman's fee, before the fifth finally managed to replace the flag of Texas with the flag of Mexico.

Room by room, in the dark and confusion, the Mexicans died, but replacements kept coming, sparing no defenders. Colonel Jim Bowie, too sick to rise from his bed, still managed to kill three or four Mexican troops with his pistols and famous knife, before being shot and bayoneted.

At about 0630 hours 06 MAR 1836, the last 11 defenders of the Alamo were killed manning the pair of 12-pounder cannon stationed in the chapel.

Surveying the scene after the bullets stopped banging and the bodies quit bouncing, General Santa Anna remarked, "It is but a small affair." Hearing this, a staff officer stated, "Another victory like this, and we'll go to the devil."

When Jim Bowie's mother was informed of his death, she very calmly announced: "I'll wager no wounds were found in his back."


189 defenders of the Alamo died this day 177 years ago. They took a full third of the attacking force with them.

When news of the Alamo got out, men flocked to the Texas army, and on the afternoon of 21 APR 1836, Texas remembered the Alamo, and took a full 18 minutes to toad-stomp the crap out of  the Mexican army at the Battle of San Jacinto, taking General Santa Anna prisoner in the process.

We still remember the Alamo.


Monday, February 25, 2013

Good read

By way of Lady Tam, I discover the blog of Chris Hernandez and found myself lost in his archives.

Good man, writing well. Well worth the time.


Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Michael Z. Williamson nails it.

Go. Read.

I wish I could write that well.


Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Oh, dear.

I have apparently struck a nerve with at least one Nony Mouse -- maybe two, I'm not sure yet -- in regards to yesterday's post.

The first of such takes umbrage at my assertion that LAPD had murdered three people (so far!) in the manhunt for Chris Dorner. My bad.

To be fair, the Los Angeles Police Department only managed to wound one Hispanic woman with two shots to the back from vehicle ramming range, and injure her septuagenarian mother by way of broken glass...

... do keep in mind that Chris Dorner is neither Hispanic, nor female. Not in his 70's, either, come to think ...

... multiple officers, multiple gunshots -- two non-fatal (so far) GSWs to the back.

Well played, sir. The LAPD did not, in fact, kill those two people whilst multiple officers were Swiss-cheesing their car. At ramming distance.

The sheer number of "Only Imperial Stormtroopers are this precise" memes and posters springing up around the Internet would be making my inner science-fiction nerd giggle if the circumstances weren't so sad.  And quite frankly, unnecessary.

The third person (so far) not only wasn't killed, but it wasn't the LAPD who did the shooting. Apparently it was Torrance PD who rammed a truck driven by a white dude (Dorner is male, however he isn't exactly pale of complexion) and then opened fire, giving the driver a shoulder injury and a concussion, according to his lawyer. None of which were bullet-inflicted.

So, I am mistaken. LAPD has NOT murdered as many people as Dorner has during the manhunt.

"It's two Hispanic females! Delivering papers!"

"It's Dorner!" BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM ... ad infinitum.

"Oh, it's not. Ah, well. We didn't kill them."


Very well, oh Anony Mouse of the Internet, you have caught me out. Consider me chastised.

The second commenter seems to ... well, I'm not sure.

He seems to have a laundry list of things he wants out of me -- mostly he seems to want me to respect people -- and he'll generously not lump me in with Chris Dorner. I think.


New around here, aren't you?

Tell you what. Over on the left of your screen there are several years worth of archives. A lot of those archives deal with me interacting with people on a professional basis.

Why don't you read those archives before you start nattering about respect. That way you won't be (metaphorically speaking) stepping on your wedding tackle in front of the average Gentle Reader who has been reading me from the start of this blog, and -- I hope -- already knows what sort of person I am.

Take your time, there are a lot of them. You can start with this one.

Nothing but love,


Monday, February 11, 2013

I take offence ...

... at the assertion that "We are all Chris Dorner".

Dorner is a critter who got a case of the arse towards the man who represented Dorner while Dorner fought his termination from the LAPD -- unsuccessfully. Dorner then decided that his case of the arse was best settled by murdering the man's daughter.

Allow me the re-state that: Chris Dorner felt that his advocate did not did his best to defend Dorner against termination. So Dorner butchered the daughter of that advocate.

This may sound like a laudable act to some sodding numpties out there, but I -- unlike Dorner -- am a man. If I have a problem with another person, that problem is between me and that other person -- I don't slaughter that other person's children.

So don't you
dare state that I "am Chris Dorner."

You think we're all Chris Dorner? You think Chris Dorner is someone to be lauded? Go to hell.

I realize that the LAPD is a bunch of trigger-happy cowboys who have managed to murder just as many innocent people during the manhunt as Dorner did to start the hunt, but that just makes the LAPD officers responsible just as bad as Dorner -- it doesn't make Dorner anything other than the cowardly murdering scum that he is.

"We are all Chris Dorner". How dare you?

How dare you justify the murder of a 28-year-old woman -- who had absolutely
nothing to do with her killer's dispute with her father -- because you don't like the LAPD? Or cops in general?

Who the hell are you to identify "We" with a man who would callously gun down a woman and her fiance in their car with no way to defend themselves -- just because he was mad at her father?

You think this is a good idea? You think this is praiseworthy? You think that this is something to be cheered? Feted? Something that we should all aspire to, since "We are all Chris Dorner"?



Monday, February 04, 2013

For the love of all that is holy ...

I understand that the National Anthem is a difficult song to sing.

Tune being lifted from a British drinking song -- To Anacreon in Heaven, point of fact -- probably means that it wouldn't hurt to be slightly liquored up before attempting to sing it.

However, it is the National Anthem -- a symbol of this great land -- and as such, is not a song one should "Put some stink on".

Sing the bloody thing properly and with reverence, or don't sing it at all.

If you want to add some flourishes, or vocal pole dancing, find another song to embellish. There are plenty out there.

Thank you.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.


Edit:  I am lovingly informed that the correct term is "Put some stank on it".  My bad.


Thursday, January 31, 2013

Gun-Free does not equal Violence-Free

Another tired meme of the anti-gun folks is that no-one really needs a gun because we have peace officers.

The theory is that since we have this enthusiastic group of folks who dedicate a career to looking for, and dealing with, criminals that we should hand over all responsibility for our individual protection to these folks. In other words: "Only Police and Military Need Guns".


Anyone who sits down and actually thinks about this for a moment can easily see the multiple flaws in this argument, but the primary and biggest flaw is that nobody has their own cop. If you are lucky, there may be one officer for every thousand citizens. If you are Citizen #198 having a Dynamic Interpersonal Episode with Citizen #745, and the cops are busy dealing with Citizen #394 ... well, you're on your own.

Much as I hate Bumper Sticker arguments, the old saw that goes something like: "When seconds count, the police are only minutes away" really does come into play here.

I see that some of my newer Gentle Readers haven't got their minds wrapped around this concept, so let us indulge -- for the sake of argument -- in a mental exercise.

Let us say that you are in a building literally crawling with peace officers of every stripe; even so far as to posit that there are particular officers who are assigned to the very part of the building you are in. Let us state that this building is the Ultimate Liberal Safe Area: absolutely NO-ONE except for peace officers can have a gun in this building, and there are peace officers around just about every corner.

As part of this hypothesis, you are a woman with an abusive ex-boyfriend. This ex of yours has abused you to the point that you have gone to this building and applied for an Emergency Protective Order.

Long time Gentle Readers of this blog know how I feel about Paper Armour, but I digress.

Anyway, you have put your faith in Society, in the Justice System and the police, and are Doing The Right Thing, the Civilized Thing, in a courtroom, in a Courthouse just brim-full of cops.

Watch this video. Be sure to enlarge it to full-screen, because I wouldn't want you to miss a punch.

Not only were the police minutes away, they were seconds away. Just outside the courtroom door, if I don't miss my guess.

What's the count, Gentle Readers? One grandmother hammered into a wall and five? Six? Eight good punches on the ex-girlfriend?

And that's in the middle of a courthouse full of cops.

Can you imagine this scene just down the street? How many punches before the police arrive -- if they arrive?

Can you imagine this scene after he kicks in the door to her house at two in the morning?

That woman is not as strong as her attacker. Blatant physical fact. She is not as fast, either. In the matter of physical violence she is not his equal ... except when Colonel Colt is with her.

God made men. Colonel Colt made them equal. That goes for women, too.

And when it comes down to brass tacks, the individual is the only person ultimately responsible for his -- or her -- own safety. Part of that responsibility involves being able to defend your own self, with appropriate tools.

Gun control is denying you those tools in exchange for the nebulous assurance that the police will "do their best".

"Doing their best" oft involves putting a toe-tag on your corpse and finding the guy that killed you so that he can plea bargain his way out of an extended sentence, but that's gun control for you.


Wednesday, January 30, 2013

I am happy to report ...

... that my vote was one of many that helped Rafael Edward "Ted" Cruz become the junior Senator from the great State of Texas in the last election.

This letter reaffirms my belief that I made the proper choice at the ballot box.

The mental image of a spittle storm impacting the walls of Chicago City Hall brings a tear to my eye and a smile to my lips -- to say nothing of the five minutes of evil snickering as I sit here at the keyboard. The quote:

"In the future, I would ask that you might keep your efforts to diminish the Bill of Rights north of the Red River"

just flat kicked over my giggle-box.

I look forward to many other such jewels from my Senator.


Sunday, January 27, 2013

Thank you

The subject of the post that was here has been handled honourably, and to my complete satisfaction.

Let us not speak of it any further.

Thank you.


Friday, January 25, 2013

A repost

"We cannot negotiate with those who say, 'What's mine is mine, and what's yours is negotiable.'"

-- John F. Kennedy, Address to the American People, 25 JUL 1961

Most people tend to substitute the word 'compromise' for the first 'negotiate' in that quote, and it does tend to fit the current circumstances.

Once again the anti-gun people are starting to trot out the tired and hackneyed meme of "compromise" in the "national gun conversation".

One of the more highly linked of my posts is the one about the "Gun Rights Cake" analogy, which I will now re-post and expand a bit:

I hear a lot about "compromise" from the gun-control camp ... except, it's not compromise.

Allow me to illustrate:

Let's say I have this cake. It is a very nice cake, with "GUN RIGHTS" written across the top in lovely floral icing. Along you come and say, "Give me that cake."

I say, "No, it's my cake."

You say, "Let's compromise. Give me half." I respond by asking what I get out of this compromise, and you reply that I get to keep half of my cake.

Okay, we compromise. Let us call this compromise The National Firearms Act of 1934.

This leaves me with half of my cake and there I am, enjoying my cake when you walk back up and say, "Give me that cake."

I say -- again: "No, it's my cake."

You say, "Let's compromise." What do I get out of this compromise? Why, I get to keep half of what's left of the cake I already own.

So, we compromise -- let us call this one the Gun Control Act of 1968 -- and this time I'm left holding what is now just a quarter of my cake.

And I'm sitting in the corner with my quarter piece of cake, and here you come again. You want my cake. Again.

This time you take several bites -- we'll call this compromise the Clinton Executive Orders -- and I'm left with about a tenth of what has always been MY DAMN CAKE and you've got nine-tenths of it. 

 Let me restate that: I started out with MY CAKE and you have already 'compromised' me out of ninety percent of MY CAKE ...

... and here you come again. Compromise! ... Lautenberg Act (nibble, nibble). Compromise! ... The HUD/Smith and Wesson agreement (nibble, nibble). Compromise! ... The Brady Law (NOM NOM NOM). Compromise! ... The School Safety and Law Enforcement Improvement Act (sweet tap-dancing Freyja, my finger!)

After every one of these "compromises" -- in which I lose rights and you lose NOTHING -- I'm left holding crumbs of what was once a large and satisfying cake, and you're standing there with most of MY CAKE, making anime eyes and whining about being "reasonable", and wondering "why we won't compromise" as you try for the rest of my cake.

In 1933 I -- or any other American -- could buy a fully-automatic Thompson sub-machine gun, a 20mm anti-tank gun, or shorten the barrel of any gun I owned to any length I thought fit, silence any gun I owned, and a host of other things.

Come your "compromise" in 1934, and suddenly I can't buy a sub-machine gun, a silencer, or a Short-Barreled Firearm without .Gov permission and paying a hefty tax. What the hell did y'all lose in this "compromise"?

In 1967 I, or any other American, could buy or sell firearms anywhere we felt like it, in any State we felt like, with no restrictions. We "compromised" in 1968, and suddenly I've got to have a Federal Firearms License to have a business involving firearms, and there's whole bunch of rules limiting what, where and how I buy or sell guns.

In 1968, "sporting purpose" -- a term found NOT ANY DAMNED WHERE IN THE CONSTITUTION, TO SAY NOTHING OF THE SECOND AMENDMENT -- suddenly became a legal reason to prevent the importation of guns that had been freely imported in 1967.

Tell me, do -- exactly what the hell did you lose in this 1968 "compromise"?

The Lautenberg Act was a "compromise" which suddenly deprived Americans of a Constitutional Right for being accused or convicted of a misdemeanor -- a bloody MISDEMEANOR! What did your side lose in this "compromise"?

I could go on and on, but the plain and simple truth of the matter is that a genuine "compromise" means that both sides give up something. My side of the discussion has been giving, giving, and giving yet more -- and your side has been taking, taking, and now wants to take more.

For you, "compromise" means you'll take half of my cake now, and the other half of my cake next time. Always has been, always will be.

I've got news for you: That is not "compromise".

I'm done with being reasonable, and I'm done with "compromise". Nothing about gun control in this country has ever been "reasonable" nor a genuine "compromise", and I have flat had enough.


Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Larry Correia on the Huckabee Show

I've known Larry Correia for ages -- although only on the Internet so far.

He is an articulate and intelligent man, as amply evidenced by his appearance on the Mike Huckabee show:

The referenced blog post can be found here.

I am proud to say that I know Larry Correia.

Well done, sir. Jolly well done.


Saturday, January 19, 2013

A question from a Gentle Reader:

From a Gentle Reader:

"Mr. Dog, I have a question for you. Not being a smartass, I'm truly looking for a more rational response to the Sandy Hook shooting than "arm the teachers", "take away all the AK-47s" or "make it harder to buy and register guns". If I understood the reports correctly, none of those would have helped much. A teacher having a gun and taking a basic firearm safety and usage course doesn't make them a good shot. Frankly, if someone put a gun in my hands my students would be in more danger than whomever I was trying to shoot at, and I'm not alone. (I can aim and shoot a crossbow or a longbow, but a gun? I'm hopeless.) Those weapons were legally owned, registered, and used by Lanza's mother. That her son would steal them, murder her and then to go the elementary school was perhaps predictable, but only in hindsight.

And yet these sorts of atrocities are happening more and more. What is currently being proposed seems like over reaction on both the anti and pro gun sides, but what would you suggest?


The simple and honest answer? These sorts of atrocities are not happening more and more.

The Curry School of Education has a paper up called "School Violence Myths", in which Myth #4 states that school homicides have been trending downwards from a high of 42 in the mid-90s to two in the most current statistics.

Even MSNBC -- no friend to the Second Amendment -- points out that schools assaults have dropped "by nearly half in the past decade". has an article up titled: "Five Facts About Guns, Schools, And Violence", with embedded links and video. also has an article up which directly addresses your concern, titled: "Are Mass Shootings Becoming More Common In The United States?" with a very good graph.

Mass shootings are not on the rise, and haven't been for ages. What has changed, however, is the sheer amount of coverage these atrocities are garnering (deliberately, in some cases) leading to the incorrect perception that they are happening more and more.

Which is a whole other post.

Hope that helps,


Wednesday, January 16, 2013

I would like to cordially invite ...

... all of those liberal commentators -- both here and in meat-space -- who have sneeringly and/or patronizingly informed me in the past that President Obama isn't anti-gun:

Pack your bums with salt and go wee up a rope.

Bloody weasels.