Neck Knife

With respect for the gentle and competent Marko, I question the practice of carrying a  knife around the neck. Securely sheathed, it may not pose much of a cutting threat to the carrier, but, then again, it might.

The  paracord necklace bothers me more. My philosophy of life holds that anything around a guy's neck should have the breaking strength of a Girl Scout handicraft project, say, a string of beads on three-pound mono.  Why wear a garrote, handy to the bad guy and to any random snag when you go off balance?

Nevertheless, he has worked out the risks and rewards to his own satisfaction. If he's content, I'm content. Not so one of his commenters.

I suggest you drop by  Marko's place to see what I mean. The guy wonders what the knife is +for+ and then answers his own question by speculating the most likely use is crazed and bloody revenge on some innocent nun who fails to step aside for you on the sidewalk.  I am amazed at the tolerance Marko shows for the  person.

H/T Tam.

Sidebar on my youthful loves

The courtship of Margie did not prosper.

Not long after classes began in September, she entered into a relationship with with a much older man, guy by the name of Rex, about 16,  who had curly hair and one of the coolest cars around. Funny,  I can't remember if it was a c. '50 Ford two-door or a '50 Merc. Either way, it was lowered in back and had frenched headlights.

The blow to my self-esteem was devastating, and riding past her house on my Whizzer* brought no solace.

I yearned for a better world, a nation governed by men devoted to fairness and equality, a power structure which would have required Rex to share and share alike. Imagine, a law giving me ownership of that rod --and hence, presumptively, claim to the company of the lovely Margie  -- on alternate Saturday nights.

While it comes too late to spare me a life of regret, it is heartening that the egalitarian forces of President Obama are working so hard to spare other stricken lads such pain.

*

Note from a former exploited child

When 14-year-old Margie Rabbit walked out of the girls' changing room at the Expo Park pool, wearing the daring two-piece suit, I was pleased to have been a victim of human trafficking.

I belonged to a crew of young teens under the thumb of a slaver who hauled us from  field to field where we toiled in the hot sun, cleaning corn and cockle burrs from the soybeans for the profiteering ogre who owned the land. No sooner had we satisfied one such parasite than the crew master trafficked us off to another, hoes chopping and machetes swinging.

I was free to quit only if I was willing to forgo a Saturday afternoon ritual, the ceremonial distribution of envelopes containing money.

I hated the work. On the other hand, it was my best opportunity that July for wherewithal to invite  Margie for Sunday swims and hamburger-and-malted dinners afterwards. All on me. Damn the expense.

It's funny how easily the capitalist power structure was able to exploit my weaknesses, and I, for one, welcome the social advances  of the 21st Century where  
agents of my government conspire to spare young men such inconvenience and   (Dare I say it?) indignity.

It's from Stranded in Iowa, and for my money the post of the week, at least.

Listen up, Kemosabe

According to Jinglebob, tribal wisdom of the Dacotah holds that upon discovering you're riding a dead horse you are well-advised to dismount.

Government has not absorbed this truth and instead believes it should respond by, among other things ...

1. Buying a stronger (and more expensive) whip.

The whole thing makes a good read, although a bit frightening for its truth.