Sometimes you shouldn't read below the fold.
In the high Colorado Rockies a bunch of cows sought winter shelter in a cabin and froze to death. Their frosted corpses are worrying the game wardens who are thinking of converting them to pink slime via dynamite or C4 or something. It's a big controversy. Fer krissake. Since they're still frozen, why not get local radio to announce "Free beef; first-come, first served; don't forget your rechargeable recipro saws."
In New York the guardians of our morals have been confiscating the working girls' condom inventory. It's evidence, don't you know, that they intended to profit by violating the Seventh Commandment as it is interpreted by the pure souls in Albany and Gracie Mansion. (if you dare utter "Huh? Spitzer? Weiner?," you are a cynical anti-government sorehead and should lose your free-speech rights.) The hooker-rubber controversy is costing millions, generating ill-will among the joy-for-pay set, and stimulating the AIDS contagion. How about a moratorium, say for ten years, on all government cervix oversight? If it creates a hole lot of trouble we can always return to a program of sex-by-official-permit only. (Yes, whoredom can be a sleazy empire, just like New York politics. If that's important to you, you should, in fairness, agitate to outlaw both.)
And don't even get me started about a few million the feds spent on a top-to-bottom study of gay men's penis sizes.
Maybe the Victorian-era British Colonial Ministry had the long and the short of it. Perhaps some countries are not ready for self-government.
Apr 16, 2012
Pistol-packin' Pippa
Lay that pistol down, Babe...
What is it about leggy but not very bright Brit royalites that gets them into so much trouble when they go to Paris?
To be fair, Pippa herself is not accused of waving a semi-auto around in Paris traffic. It was her pal, the guy driving, who is said to have "jokingly" pointed the pistol at the paparazzi. Still, the Fleet Street tabs have pretty much convicted her of unseemliness while in the vicinity of a firearm. I think that's an actual crime in the Sceptred Isle, but it may be merely a social faux pas in La Belle France.
Thank God for the Surete. We will get to the bottom of this.
What is it about leggy but not very bright Brit royalites that gets them into so much trouble when they go to Paris?
To be fair, Pippa herself is not accused of waving a semi-auto around in Paris traffic. It was her pal, the guy driving, who is said to have "jokingly" pointed the pistol at the paparazzi. Still, the Fleet Street tabs have pretty much convicted her of unseemliness while in the vicinity of a firearm. I think that's an actual crime in the Sceptred Isle, but it may be merely a social faux pas in La Belle France.
Thank God for the Surete. We will get to the bottom of this.
Peril from the skies
My proletarian birds, mostly blackies and robins, have fled in panic. Perched in a high burr oak branch hanging over the guest cabin, watchful as a sober Secret Service agent, the predator lurks -- or did until I scared him off trying for a photo.
It's a sparrow hawk. They're not uncommon in the woods and fields around here, but this is the first time I've spotted one hunting the Camp J grounds.
I hope he hangs around. This is one of the years when I need to trim up the no-mow zone, and he'd be handy for helping control the creepie-crawlies displaced by the tidying -- the field mice, the occasional garter snake, and maybe even the village zoning czar whom I believe lurks there, fiddling hopefully with his video camera.
It's a sparrow hawk. They're not uncommon in the woods and fields around here, but this is the first time I've spotted one hunting the Camp J grounds.
I hope he hangs around. This is one of the years when I need to trim up the no-mow zone, and he'd be handy for helping control the creepie-crawlies displaced by the tidying -- the field mice, the occasional garter snake, and maybe even the village zoning czar whom I believe lurks there, fiddling hopefully with his video camera.
Apr 15, 2012
Tam strikes again
Pocketa, Pocketa, Pocketa, Mr. Mitty.
It's just you and a couple of girls heroically engaging the 82nd Airborne and at least one MEU, the ladies with their right-way Smiths and wrong-way Colts, you with whatever banger that most tickles your tactical gonads.
After many adventures you are victorious. America is restored to liberty and prosperity, and the Fred Waring Singers warble Over the Rainbow as the females vie for your heroic affections.
The reality might vary a smidgen from that.
What disturbs me is how many of the "I bought a Century Arms AK and a case of ammo; let's get iton!" crowd talk like they're looking forward to this because, I don't know, it means no more mortgage payments, or they won't have to go in to work on
Monday.
It is one thing to expect an Obama or Romney or successor to fiddle away America's last burning days. It is something else to hope for it, even with oodles of charged magazines, a basement full of canned tuna, and 50 MREs in the bugout bag.
The odds do not favor our run-of-the-mill Armageddon Arnie as the alpha warlord in a real world of total collapse, his daydreams to the contrary notwithstanding. I suspect about the best he could hope for is being the sergeant in charge of burning the civilian corpses. (Put the little kids in this pile, Corporal. Stack the rest over along the creek. Send a detail for kerosene. And detail a private bring me my gas mask.)
It could come to that, and to ignore the possibility is foolish. Preparation -- the equipment and supplies and attitudes to preserve the people you love -- is not foolish. But that is plan B or C or Z.
Plan A is to keep scrabbling, even if it means continuing to vote. To keep talking, even if it means discourse with statist idiots. We might even win. Meanwhile we can always side with that old poseur Winston Churchill. During the leadup to the Suez crisis he was chided for not being sufficiently belligerent and replied:
"To jaw-jaw is better than to war-war."
It's just you and a couple of girls heroically engaging the 82nd Airborne and at least one MEU, the ladies with their right-way Smiths and wrong-way Colts, you with whatever banger that most tickles your tactical gonads.
After many adventures you are victorious. America is restored to liberty and prosperity, and the Fred Waring Singers warble Over the Rainbow as the females vie for your heroic affections.
The reality might vary a smidgen from that.
What disturbs me is how many of the "I bought a Century Arms AK and a case of ammo; let's get iton!" crowd talk like they're looking forward to this because, I don't know, it means no more mortgage payments, or they won't have to go in to work on
Monday.
It is one thing to expect an Obama or Romney or successor to fiddle away America's last burning days. It is something else to hope for it, even with oodles of charged magazines, a basement full of canned tuna, and 50 MREs in the bugout bag.
The odds do not favor our run-of-the-mill Armageddon Arnie as the alpha warlord in a real world of total collapse, his daydreams to the contrary notwithstanding. I suspect about the best he could hope for is being the sergeant in charge of burning the civilian corpses. (Put the little kids in this pile, Corporal. Stack the rest over along the creek. Send a detail for kerosene. And detail a private bring me my gas mask.)
It could come to that, and to ignore the possibility is foolish. Preparation -- the equipment and supplies and attitudes to preserve the people you love -- is not foolish. But that is plan B or C or Z.
Plan A is to keep scrabbling, even if it means continuing to vote. To keep talking, even if it means discourse with statist idiots. We might even win. Meanwhile we can always side with that old poseur Winston Churchill. During the leadup to the Suez crisis he was chided for not being sufficiently belligerent and replied:
"To jaw-jaw is better than to war-war."
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