In Search of Class

TMR tends toward the rustic. Guns made of steel and walnut.  Dead oak trees turned  into fuel. Barely sentient critters such as politicians and leopard frogs.

This sometimes shames me, and I yield to the urge to offer urbane content.

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Government Gropers

An idle thought: Once in a while you'll still see a woman tastefully dressed in tightish skirt. So, when she opts out of pornscan, how does the TSA manage its 360-degree grope of each leg?

The Sentient Pistol

Tam has a piece on a Virginia nincompoop who shot himself while groping in his pocket for beer money. The judge rapped him and ordered his Glock destroyed.

Punish the gun. Fine idea. Damned guns can get willful.

I recall, but can't find, a  c. 1968 Chicago Tribune cartoon by St. Bill Mauldin. An enraged mob is watching a handgun in a noose, hanging from a gallows or lamp post. The thug in the foreground chuckles, "They decided to let me go and lynch my gun."

The Great Pheasant Shoot-At (AAR)

The clan and friends have dispersed, and I am recovering from sensory overload, a happy man to have had the fun again.

The worst imaginable hunting weather closed us down Saturday, so consumption began earlier than usual, culminating in a birthday party for my daughter which strained the capacity of my small quarters.

The grandpa gave the lad a plain-Jane pump 20 gauge as a belated birthday gift.  It is meant as a spare for days when he doesn't care to take his nice double afield. He  graciously acknowledged it on Facebook, and I can hear the shrieks of my lefty friends now. OMG, you gave a GUN to a CHILD?  (The last I saw of the child, he was nonchalantly at the wheel of a Suburban while my child relaxed in the passenger seat.)

The end of the fest pleased the pheasants, I'm sure. The noise of being shot at must be terribly annoying.