My Cup Runneth Over

I've mentioned the big lead stash and the barrel leading from the first batch of c. 230-grain round-nose bullets. Pan lubrication solved that problem, but a delightful auction has made it nearly moot.  I cannot explain why the gunny crowd let me  buy 1,500 commercial   .452 SWC 200-grainers at exactly one and one-half cents per round.

Geeking it out: A cent and a half for the bullet, three cents each  for the primer and case, just under two cents for the Unique.  I'll be shooting Mister Browning's (PBUH)  big pistol for about  twice the cost of the cheapest  .22 rimfires.

My oracle foresees more and louder bangs in the Camp J vicinity for the next year or so.

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The final 200 commercial cases on hand  are in the tumbler. Loaded with excellent 200-grain SWCs today they'll bring the Colts' fodder inventory up to the strategic reserve target.

(Pig weather rules out pleasant outdoor work.)
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Al Sharpton

The Rev. Mr. Sharpton continues his career of missing the point. He and New York City Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly are holding hands, skip to my Lou, to  get guns off the streets.

A careful reading of the wire story suggests Sharpton is close to concluding that thuggery, with and without guns, is a problem most highly concentrated in a tiny portion of his admiring hordes in Bloombergistan, but he just can't bring himself to say so.

Abortion

I try not to discuss abortion because its spiritual dimension is unrevealed to me.

I will observe that it seems to me to be a particularly cruel and emotionally draining form of birth control. I will make what I think is a practical observation. Laws forbidding abortion create two classes of affected women. Rich girls fly off to Switzerland. Poor girls are found in the  alleys.

Thailand is not the United States, but a grisly report illustrates the problem.  
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