Sunday Morning Sidewalk

Not that I have a sidewalk, and I certainly don't wish I was stoned.  Guess I just liked the song  from the days when it was fashionable to have  a bad case of   young-guy angst.

A Sunday run around the top of my blog list shows Roberta's going shooting, Tam's trying to figure out what the Hell Ruger is up to (me too); Xavier is shooting more than respectable Black and White, one of Abby's sergeants won a promotion to staff.  

Me? A nearby  auction this afternoon offers to escalate my lethality potential handsomely.  The stunningly pretty (and stupendously ignorant  and disorganized) girl who writes up the auction ads  promises

 "...military bayonet; 36x50 Bushnell scope; British Enfield 303 gun w/sling; 12 ga. shells; gun books; dog tapestry; hunting clothes; 2 tanned deer hides; pheasant afghan; Arctic Cat ladies jacket sz. medium; camp stove; rods & reels; manual ice auger; deer tree stand; deer decoy; life jackets; skiis..." 

There's more gunny stuff in other paragraphs -- Mec. 600, lots of 7 1/2 shot. Not to mention several largish tools I might covet. The conclusion is that I need to take the old F150 to this  one, not the wimpy little van.

I love small-town auctions. I might buy the Lee-Enfield, but more likely I just enjoy watching a couple of clowns bid it up into the high three figures.

New ammo source

To become a more lethal American, clean out your car and pickup. My take:  couple hundred .22 LR;  three 9mm hand loads that look more or less like my 115 gr. JHPs usually stoked to c. 1150 fps;  couple of rounds  .45 ACP, GI issue; handful of miscellanous brass; old tin of Daisy BBs (genuine, destined for the collectibles box -- trade stock).  The little tools I've been looking for since 2007 were just a bonus.  

Tam says:

"Meanwhile, General Motors is announcing a joint venture with Frito-Lay..."

And if those ten words aren't enought to justify a month's net connect cost I'll kiss your arse in Detroit  City Square and give you an hour to alert the remaining city residents, if any.

(Some kind of  warning would be nice, though -- just a headsup to swallow the rest of that mouthful of Coke.)

If God doesn't weep, he should

The Holy State of Iowa spent yesterday ablither and ablather about the  human suffering  of one year ago when ICE busted a few hundred illegals for being illegally hired by a big-time entrepreneur in the kosher meat racket. He's a real jerky sort, but that's another story. (You can learn more than you want to know by googling Postville Raid.)

The lead hand-wringer seemed to be  a Prince of the Church, who thusly spake:

"As proclaimers of God's word, it is our duty to sound a call for justice. It is our privilege to welcome the stranger," Archbishop Jerome Hanus told a packed interfaith service at St. Bridget's Catholic Church. "It is our challenge to bring good news to the poor. This, my friends, is our time. This is our moment. This is our year of favor."

It happens that I have some fairly personal experience with a couple-three bishops. One of the salient facts is that, all by their pious selves,  each scarfs  enough deep red and luxuriously marbled protein a day  to keep two or three third-world families alive.  So one assumes Archbishop Hanus is already routinely exercising his privilege to welcome the stranger. I picture him joyfully sharing his personal table with the sad victims of  The Great Federal Raid .  In fact, I'll just betcha that day and night he strides the back streets and alleys of Postville and Dubuque, filling his limousine several times a day with poor and downtrodden strangers, taking them to his heart, his personal  table, his spare bedrooms. Surely his private  actions are Christ-like as his windy archbishophorical rhetoric.  

Important Note #1:   We have nothing all all against  religion in general  or any of the sane denominations, do we? But we can all identify  pretentious, self-serving, self-righteous, hypocritical  bullshit, can't we?

Important Note #2: Despite being ledeth into temptation, I was very careful to avoid the dropped-letter typo as I pecked out Jerry's name.