Sunday, August 31, 2008


Bad Guy: "Next time you have the opportunity to kill someone, don't hesitate!"


John McClane: "Thanks for the advice."

That's about the only time I can think of where advice from the enemy has been any good at all.

My wonderfully well-written (if not significantly less good-looking:) Elder Brother hashed out a thorough fisking of a Democrat who thinks McCain should have picked someone else.

You're gonna love this one.



Friday, August 29, 2008


Law-abiding citizens of New Orleans, I beseech you:

Remember what your lives turned into three years ago. Remember your escaping Mother Nature's wrath with your life somewhat in tact, only to have it further ripped apart not by the rampaging gangs of criminals, but by your own elected government who sought and succeeded in preventing you from defending yourself.

Remember having roving gangs of various police/military going door-to-door to collect your firearms.

Remember all of your emotions, both primary and secondary, that you felt as your homes were invaded and your property confiscated.

Remember all of that and call it up again. Because you'll need it.

Also remember that alongside you the nation brought attention to your plight, and fought hard to make sure it never happened again.

But, and perhaps most importantly, remember that you are law-abiding citizens. You don't have to worry about the government taking your guns away from you this time. You can rest easier knowing that you have a significant fighting chance if criminals attempt to take advantage of the chaos.

Remember, as law-abiding citizens, to abide by the law. Know when and how you can use your weapons in defense. Take care to exemplify just why the United States wholly needs the Right To Keep And Bear Arms.

Because the world is watching. Every city, every state that enacted Emergency Powers laws to keep guns in private citizens' hands will be watching the aftermath of Gustav through a microscope. The media will be waiting to pounce on the first hint of the law-abiding gone astray, and the results of such a scenario will be overwhelming and far-reaching.

Know your laws and ordinances. Remember The Four Rules. Carry and wield your weapons with conviction, but also with temperance. Do what you know in your hearts to be right.

God be with you when Gustav makes landfall. God be with you thereafter as well.

Good luck.


Thursday, August 28, 2008


Some lights just shine brighter than others. I've got one for you today that you couldn't miss with your eyes closed.

Miss Brigid hits one that hasn't landed yet.

Go, read.


Wednesday, August 27, 2008


Stupid, stupid me.

I was just getting home this afternoon, when my next-door neighbor was also just arriving from work. I discreetly removed my pistol from my car and stuffed in my jeans at the small of my back (when it stays in the car, it does so in a soft nylon holster, not my carry leather) and talked with my neighbor for a few minutes.

Mid-conversation, his wife comes down the street. I figured that, even though they know I carry, it'd still be better off concealed. So I untucked my polo shirt and tried to keep the pistol/holster in place while I did it.

I tried, but failed.

My pistol fell out of my jeans and landed in the flowerbed next to their house. My neighbor spotted it and with a grin said, "You don't wanna leave THAT lying there. I may have to find a good use for it!"

Embarrassing enough, true. I'm glad it didn't go any worse. I've got to be more conscious of concealed.


Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Beaten by a #$!%@ Five-Year-Old

So I'm getting The Little Girl ready for bed tonight. She wants me to carry her back to her room, so I pick her up upside-down and make my way. She's laughing and carrying on, and screams, "That's not right!!!"

Funny enough.

So I lay her down on her bed with a bounce (she loves that), and we're laughing as I cover her up.

As I tell her goodnight and get ready for "I love you," I tell her she's goofy.

So sayeth my daughter to her long-haired father: "Daddy, you look like a WOMAN!"

How do you come back from that from a friggin five-year-old?!?!


Sunday, August 24, 2008

Politically Correct

"The whole world's comin' to an end, Mal."

- Mickey,
Natural Born Killers

I am losing my mind.

I have never been, nor will I ever be, politically correct. According to Merriam-Webster, which defined the word in 1936:

politically correct (adj.): conforming to a belief that language and practices which could offend political sensibilities (as in matters of sex or race) should be eliminated goes on to mention that political correctness is codified by a "typically progressive orthodoxy" on such issues.


I've had it with political correctness. It's crap. It's just another way to sugar-coat and bubble wrap a harsh and unforgiving Reality, which serves only to create a world of candy-asses who will never in a million years be prepared to face a real-world crisis. Political correctness is the last nail driven into the coffin of thousands of years of evolution that made mankind the top of the food chain in the first place.


So I was reading up on Frank Marshall Davis after seeing his name come up in the latest Day By Day cartoon, when this phrase stopped me dead in my tracks: "Beginning at age 17, he was educated at Friends University and later at Kansas State Agricultural College without taking a degree."

Think about that for a minute. Davis went to what's now Kansas State University and was educated without taking a degree

Fucdat. He's a college dropout. Saying he was educated without taking a degree carries as much weight as going to high school without taking a diploma. And furthermore, when you go to college, you don't TAKE a degree, YOU FUCKING EARN IT. The only way you can go to college and 'not take a degree' would be to refuse it when they hand it to you at the graduation ceremony.

This is what the world is coming to. You aren't a dropout, you just didn't take a degree. By that same rationale, you aren't selling illegal guns, you are an unlicenced gun dealer. You aren't a drug dealer, you are a non-certified pharmacist.

I will call a panhandling homeless person a bum. I will call the lady in the store who runs into me without apologizing a bitch. I will call an African-American male a black guy. I will call those who seek refuge from a hurricane refugees, and I will tell Oprah Winfrey
to her face that she's a racist piece of shit.

I will refuse to call a murderer who uses a gun a gunman. I will refuse to call a gang member a disenfranchised youth. I will refuese to call a socialist a progressive democrat. And I sure as hell won't call a college dropout a guy who was educated without taking a degree.

I will call an ace an ace and a spade a spade. If it walks like a duck, swims like a duck, flies like a duck, and quacks like a duck, I'm calling it a duck. I will respectfully disagree with anyone right up until they start looking down on me, and then I will tell that person they're a fucking idiot and hand them their ass in a debate.

I will stand my ground in the face of doubt, despair, or doom. I will defend myself, my family, my friends and neighbors from harm, and I will do it with the most politically incorrect item at my disposal if I must. I will stand against an oppressive government just as I stood against an oppressive bully, against unimaginable odds, and I will not stop fighting until the fight is over.

I will have words with anyone who would challenge my dignity, honesty, integrity, or ability. I will fight to preserve my good name, and hand out a severe beating to anyone who is dumb enough to step outside to receive it.

I will walk away from a fight, but I will never run.

I will say words like "fuck" or "shit" a lot, and I will try real hard not to in front of a lady.

Friend or not, if you ask my opinion, I will give it to you. I will not be hateful, but I will not lie to you. I will tell a coworker that I've known for years that he's fucking up on the job, and will tell my wife if I don't like what she's wearing (if and ONLY if she asks;).

You can be politically correct, or you can be honest. There's no in-between. Politically correct is just a half-step above liar.


Friday, August 22, 2008

High Larry Us

Last night has to be one of the funniest nights in blogosphere history. Folks from all over were just knocking it out of the park with the one-liners; some with just two mere words. Several times I found myself stifling laughter to keep from waking up family members.

This is some serious funny.

Things got off right entertaining with a most disturbing link to a personal ad provided by Officer G (who provided the link, not the ad:)

The next laughs are from way out in the Granite State. Bruce, in a fisking over more ingenious "gun show loophole" asshatery, mentions a couple other loopholes that may need more attention. Look for them shortly after Bailey's Law.

Then from our home office in North Carolina, pdb is drunkblogging again. I swear, I'm gonna drink with this guy one day. I
need to laugh this hard more often. In the fifth installment of Thursday Night Ethanol Action, pdb gets hungry.

South Park Pundit, our poor friend way out west in Teh Badnes Stayt, just about killed me right in my chair (or at least my keyboard) with the title alone. The rest was gravy, but it was really good gravy.

What a night. That's some serious funny right there.


Thursday, August 21, 2008

How The Mighty Have Fallen

"I take music pretty seriously; you see that scar on my wrist? You see it right there? You know what that's from? I heard the BeeGees were getting back together again; I couldn't take it, OKAY!!!"

-Denis Leary

Some of my earliest exposure to heavy music was in the late 80's. Back then, bands knew what heavy music was all about. A band had to have a super-technical drummer, a high-speed hyper-melodic guitarist (or two), and a bass player that was at least as good if not better than the guitarists. The lyrics had to be as heavy as the music; no "I broke up with my girlfriend" music here.

Arguably, one of the greatest bands of that era was Metallica.

I could list my favorite songs by this band, but one could save a great deal of time and just read the liner notes of
Kill 'Em All, Ride The Lightning, Master Of Puppets, and ...And Justice For All. Throw in a few tunes from their self-titled album for good measure (a point at which metal purists mostly agree that the band turned for the worse. Also the same time they started working with producer Bob Rock. Coincidence?)

I was thrilled in the mid-90's when they released the back-to-back
Load and Reload albums, and tried very hard to remain a die-hard fan despite the commanding lack of actual metal on these metal albums.

I picked up
Garage, Inc. mostly because it contained all the material from all the previous Garage Days E.P.'s (remember those, anyone?) that I couldn't find, and it was good for a little new material (for a double-album of cover songs...).

I thought they had the keys to the world when they announced S & M, a collaboration of Metallica and the San Fransisco Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Michael Kamen. Mr. Kamen had taken a collection of songs from Metallica's repertoire and written in support of a full orchestra. While the idea was absolutely brilliant, the execution was marred by James Hetfield's tendency (by this point, habit) of 'singing' the lyrics he was so famous for, well; the man used to sound like he gargled with gravel. The man had a throat for screaming. Singing Master Of Puppets just makes it sound fake. Combine that with the "making of" documentary that was frought with primadonna-ism from both Hetfield and drummer Lars Ulrich, and the world pretty much had a bird's eye view of what to expect from the band from then on out.

After a while I'd lost most of my faith in Metallica (it had NOTHING to do with Napster. I believe music should be bought, not stolen), and then something threatened to happen. They made a new album, and promised to deliver the music that the fans had come to love so dearly from the earlier years.
St. Anger was a drink coaster. That album sucked. And for the first time in years, I intentionally did NOT buy the new Metallica album.

Well, buckle up folks. They've completed yet another compilation of songs. It's called
Death Magnetic, and it is preceded by its first realease, "The Day That Never Comes."

I heard the single for the first time today. I hope I never have to hear it again. It is absolutely awful.

Anyone out there who loves Metallica when they all had enough hair to actually headbang would do well to change the station if the song comes on. It will only serve to dissappoint.

Cliff Burton must be rolling over in his grave.


Tuesday, August 19, 2008


I have some information that I feel like sharing today. I'll call it a Tidbit. Maybe this will give me some blog fodder next time I'm having a post-drought.

Today's tidbit came to me while watching the Olympic Games. It happened while watching a medal ceremony that had the U.S.A. on the top with the gold medal.

Every time I hear The Star Spangled Banner, I get a frog in my throat. If it's done well (and when I mean well, I mean Marine-well; most certainly NOT Whitney Houston), I choke back tears. If I hear the whole thing (entire first verse, as adapted as our National Anthem) done with a full wind ensemble, massive fanfare, and explosive percussion, I have tears rolling down my face before it even ends.

I do this every time I hear our National Anthem. Not just at home, or when I'm by myself. I do it around friends. I do it in public places.

That song brings tears to my eyes. Every single time I hear it.

In fact, I'm nearly welling up right now thinking about it.

Personally, I like to think that says a lot.


Saturday, August 16, 2008


There comes a time in a man's life. A time when he must cast aside common sense and better judgement. A time when he must place himself in a situation unguarded. A time when he only has his wits about him.

Fellas, when you find yourself the only male at a table of seven, you are officially in one of those times.


Last night I finally got to a meeting that was several months in the making. You see, Miss HollyB makes a yearly pilgrimage to Canyon Lake, TX for a week of full-blown vacationing. Never should she find herself alone, however, for this trip is made amongst friends. Along for the good times is The Fabulous LaPhlegm Fatale, Flying Flo, and the non-blogging Miss Gina, in from the lovely Pacific Northwest.

Add into that The Wifey and The Little Girl, and that leaves Yours Truly as the sole creature that can write his name in the snow...

Hell, even the two dogs (Phlegmmy's new doglet and Miss Flo's beautiful Sheltie) are females.

During their week in Canyon Lake, the ladies happened upon this wonderful little Cajun dive on the north side of the lake called Plooky's Cajun Boiling Pot. Miss Holly's description is here. So it was decided that this was our meeting place, since they had every intention of eating there one more time before they left town. WOW. Loved it. Anyone who finds themselves on FM 306 and likes real good cajun food from a menu with maybe a dozen items on it could do a LOT worse than to stop there.

I asked how hot they could make my crawfish. They said they could make it hot. I asked if they could make it hotter than that. Miss Jodi said yes. I asked if she could make it a little hotter than that. She looked at me like I was barking mad, but she happily obliged. I should have had another beer brought out with my food. Burn, baby, burn, but it was worth it.


So we stayed there for another hour or so after dinner was served, all the while the seven of us having a ball. Jokes, stories, catching-up, major-league cuteness from The Little Girl and a general good time was had by all.

Since we collectively promised The Little Girl during dinner that we'd go see some puppies after dinner, when we were finished we headed over to the ladies' condo. Quaint little two-bedroom two-story, with a couple of very happy canines contained within. More good times. The Little Girl was up for a while with the dogs, and when that wore off she was introduced to the Disney Channel and a comfortable bed (nighty-night!).

We had a blast. Got to see Miss Holly's current carry pistol, JPG's lightweight Officer's ACP with the new Crimson Trace Lasergrips on it (loved it! WANT!), and her gorgeous Browning Hi-Power (also WANT!).

We finally gathered ourselves and called it an evening at 0130 this morning. It was a hard 45-minute drive back to my little town from the lake, as I haven't stayed up that late in a very, very long time. I also learned that gas stations, like fast-food restaurants, keep their coffee at flesh-removing levels of heat to mask the fact that it tastes like shit. No more gas station coffee...

Miss Flo and Miss Gina, it was a bonafide pleasure to meet you both. Miss Holly and Miss Phlegmmy, it was wonderful to see you again. T
he three of us had an absolutely wonderful time with y'all last night. I can't wait to do it again!


Wednesday, August 6, 2008

How Not To Obey The Law

When driving, it is important to minimize distraction. This can reduce one's likelyhood to be involved in an accident. This should particularly apply to things that will take your eyes off the road for longer than a split second, such as texting.

If texting from behind the wheel cannot be avoided, one should not do so on a major highway interchange, where Yield signs are popular.

If one must text on a major highway interchange, one should pay close attention to the giant white van in front of him, lest he runneth into (a.k.a. rear-end) the van.

If one does choose to do the aforementioned items against all better judgement, then one should pull over after the collision for damage checks, making sure no one's hurt, because it's the law, etc.

The proper response, without even a flashing moment of doubt, is most certainly not to Run Like Hell.

It appears that if I had written this post sooner, perhaps The Little Emo Kid That Couldn't may have been spared the events following his decision, which were of the fleeing persuasion.

I am quite sure that when TLEKTC fled, the last thing in the back of his tiny little emo kid mind was that the driver of the giant white van (Yours Truly, as it were) would wish to talk to him and, thusly, turn on his emergency flashers and give chase.

For about four miles. Likely the only thing that stopped him from attempting to dissappear into the sunset was that he drove right up the interstate into a spot where there's pretty major construction putting him right in behind a small group of cars travelling at the perception-altering speed of 50 m.p.h.

What Luck! There just happened to be room next to TLEKTC, now prevented from further escape forward and blocked by concrete barriers on both sides. It was here that I made my first successful communication with TLEKTC (something to the effect of Pull It Over NOW). In true emo kid fashion, this communication would, of course, have to be met with a degree of angst. This was not unexpected.

He did realize at some point that he was not getting away, so after the construction zone ended he pulled onto the shoulder. I pulled around him and parked in front of him, having visions of pulling up behind him, getting out, and him hitting the gas. It didn't happen.

What did happen, however, started in the van at precisely the moment we realized that TLEKTC did not wish to stop and discuss the events that place him under my rear bumper. Yes, I said "we", as in myself (driver's seat) and an off-duty Sheriff's Deputy (passenger seat), who called the Hit-and-Run in to his SO. They dispatched the proper authorities who arrived about 10 or 15 after we finally got TLEKTC stopped.

It's what happened
before the police officer arrived that is of particular mention.

I got out of the van,
at this point unsure of the gender of the other driver, and stopped about halfway between my van and his car. He then got out and met me between the vehicles (both of which were still running. I was taking no chances on this dude taking off again). I decided that I had no need to start something. He would do that for me.

He did.

TLEKTC: "I don't know what your problem is! There's no damage to your van!"

Speakertweaker: "That's not for you to decide. My body shop will be the judge, and on your dime. You've got bigger problems that that, boy. You hit my van, and you ran. That's called a 'Hit-and-Run'. I don't care what your opinion of the damage is, you flat broke the law when you took off..."

*Off-Duty Sheriff's Deputy is coming around the van and up behind TLEKTC. His wallet is credentials are coming out.*

ST: "...and your problems are about to get alot worse. Guess what?"

TLEKTC: "What?!?"

*ST points to the now exposed badge*

ST: "That's a badge. He's a cop. One that you performed a Hit-and-Run on."

TLEKTC's angst (and most of the color in his face) disappears*

ODSD: "Take your hands out of your pockets, son."

The conversation that followed was held at normal conversational levels (given that we were on an interstate shoulder). There was no screaming, no cussing. Last thing I need is to present a Texas CHL to a cop while explaining why I was screaming and cussing at what was likely an 18-yr-old stupid kid. The conversation did, however, include a thorough tongue-lashing delivered by me in which I called him selfish, irresponsible, immature, and stupid.

He probably wishes it had ended there.

I stepped aside to call into my office to let them know what was going on and that I'd be late to my install. The conversation couldn't have lasted five minutes. By the time I got back,
TLEKTC was doing the other thing (angst being the first) that emo kids do best.

He was crying.

Seems that my partner-in-crimefighting (hah!) has taken this opportunity to curb TLEKTC's attitude into something a little more, eh, entertaining?

Telling him that there may be jailtime in his future apparently trigger the awe-inspiring Emotion that Emo is derived from; the kind that begs and pleads talking about how this is the first time this has ever happened, how it's totally out of characther for him, how he justs wants to go, etc.

I told him that if I were in his shoes, I'd want to go, too.


That's about it. The only other thing that I found strange was when I handed the officer my driver's license and my CHL. He looked at my driver's license, looked at my CHL and handed it back to me and said, "I don't need this." I thought that was a little weird at first, but later decided that he clearly wasn't bothered by someone who would lawfully carry a firearm.

And that's a pretty good feeling, when a cop isn't bothered by me being armed.


Monday, August 4, 2008

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid

Here we go again. I saw something that was supposed to be funny, and had a fit about how not funny it was.

Allow me to show you the following video:


If you laughed at this video because you thought it was genuinely funny, please go have your head examined, and please NEVER pick up a firearm. Ever.

If you laughed because you thought the video looked staged, that's okay.

If you have steam coming out of your ears, welcome to the club. We have t-shirts.

This guy left his wife alone with (what looks to be) a rather nice 1911. Who knows what information he gave her about the gun or how to handle it, but the chief point to note here is that she asked to see it.

Since she apparently has a regular habit of laughing at her husband - probably because he's a world-class idiot and fucks up regularly enough for it to be laughable - he decided it was time to pay her back. So, while she's on the porch alone with the 1911 he sneaks up behind her and sets off a handful of fireworks, causing her to nearly drop the pistol and stomp off mad.

I can't say I'd feel entirely bad if it had been loaded and she turned around and drilled him. I really wish she'd dropped it on the concrete porch and broken a grip panel or something at least.

Well, aside from a few nights' sleep on the couch (or worse), he did get one thing: a woman who was interested in guns to never want to have anything to do with them ever again. She could have gotten her own gun, started carrying, taken up competitive shooting, who knows.

But not anymore. Now, her only memory of handguns is the one where her stupid husband played a nasty prank on her.



Save teh Bewbz!

Seriously, though, I'm proud to be a part of spreading the word on a raffle for this:

I see it pretty clearly: you buy a raffle ticket for $5 US (get them at FBMG in Utah, or call 'em up at 801-571-1160), and ALL PROCEEDS go to breast cancer research. At worst, you gave five bucks towards finding a cure for breast cancer. At best, you may actually win this Stag 15
custom Duracoated by Gundoctor (gunsmith at Fuzzy Bunny Movie Guns).

Larry Corriea has some more pics up at his place. Check 'em out. Then buy a ticket. I'm getting one. I'd be more than happy to take a pink camo'ed AR to the range. 'Speacially one that only cost me five bucks.


Sunday, August 3, 2008

All Aboard the Failburban!

These are actual pictures taken by Yours Truly of a GMC Yukon XL* parked, er, balanced in a most interesting fashion.

For another angle featuring the perfect balance that susupended the right front and the left rear about a foot, held the right rear barely touching the ground, and full compressed the left front suspension, I give you angle #2:

Special thanks for the (de)motivational poster generator they've got up at It's good for countless hours of entertainment.


*Thanks to JayG for pointing out my Nomenclature Fail. It's not a Chevy Suburban.