No more back packs at St. Johns. They are the terrorist book bag of choice, also favored by kids who require a clandestine comic book against the chance of an especially boring geography lecture.
Seems to me school bosses are stopping too far short of absolute security. Why not transparent pockets in the kiddies' jeans and pinafores? And mandatory Lucite wallets, particularly useful in nabbing randy (and probably futiley hopeful) sixth-graders who carry a pack of those elastic things you get at the drug store.
An old-time school prank was floating a firecracker in a toilet bowl and lighting it off. Guys who got caught earned a paddle session and maybe a three-day suspension, but no one thought it a great reason to make Flossie Fine, the curve-breaking hall monitor, carry a see-through purse.
What happened at St. John's, you wonder? Nothing, actually, unless you quake at a couple of notes found in a rest room.
H/T Tam
Jan 7, 2014
Bunny Porn, Gun Porn
Yesterday was a savage bitch. In a fit of compassion at minus-17, I fed Peter Rabbit a little of New Dog Libby's chow. The ingrate still refused to pose while I was outside. So this. The window was clean for a change, but double pane glass still fools the focusing fairies in my 3-volt cockroach.
Today, at last dark of morning, I awoke to rising temperatures, all the way up to three below. Time to celebrate with Savage pleasure and with gratitude to that fine company for its findy sickle answer to Winchester levers -- especially the 1895.
She's been hanging on pegs since joining the family a few weeks ago, casually wiped down a time or two but still begrimed of long storage. (Well-oiled storage, however; thank you, Mr. Previous Owner.) Since there was nothing good on the internet, I decided to run her through my exterior detail shop.
Takedown was limited to pulling the Weaver K2, Redfield mount, and forearm. A little elbow grease with fine steel wool and brass brush left her shiny everywhere I could reach. The stock got a facial with Johnson paste wax, still my favorite cosmetic for oil-finished walnut.
She's from the 1950s in .300 Savage.
My never-sell-a-gun pledge remains in force, but I suppose I'll carry her to my next loophole table to explore trading opportunities. She ought to be even-up for a not-too-bad Garand or M1 Carbine. Maybe even a snazzy AR15 clone with a Pickiepickie rail, but I'd turn that offer down. I respect others' rights to own plastic, but, personally, I have my pride.
Today, at last dark of morning, I awoke to rising temperatures, all the way up to three below. Time to celebrate with Savage pleasure and with gratitude to that fine company for its findy sickle answer to Winchester levers -- especially the 1895.
She's been hanging on pegs since joining the family a few weeks ago, casually wiped down a time or two but still begrimed of long storage. (Well-oiled storage, however; thank you, Mr. Previous Owner.) Since there was nothing good on the internet, I decided to run her through my exterior detail shop.
Takedown was limited to pulling the Weaver K2, Redfield mount, and forearm. A little elbow grease with fine steel wool and brass brush left her shiny everywhere I could reach. The stock got a facial with Johnson paste wax, still my favorite cosmetic for oil-finished walnut.
She's from the 1950s in .300 Savage.
My never-sell-a-gun pledge remains in force, but I suppose I'll carry her to my next loophole table to explore trading opportunities. She ought to be even-up for a not-too-bad Garand or M1 Carbine. Maybe even a snazzy AR15 clone with a Pickiepickie rail, but I'd turn that offer down. I respect others' rights to own plastic, but, personally, I have my pride.
Jan 6, 2014
Poor Rahm
Hizzoner Emmanuel may appeal, but if he doesn't -- or if he tangles with appellate judges who have read the Constitution -- citizens will be able to purchase a gun in Chicago.
Well done, Judge Chang. Well said, too.
"...a fundamental duty of government is to protect its citizens. However ... it's also obligated to protect fundamental rights named in the Constitution, including the right to keep and bear arms for self-defense.
There's a happy little side note here. His Ineptness appointed Judge Chang to the bench at a time when Duh Mare was still Obama's chief of staff and thus in tactical charge of advancing all Obama dreams.
I like schadenfreude so much that I'm hoping Rahm tosses and turns all night, yammering "wudda, cudda, shudda." The president, too.
Bwa-ha-ha.
Well done, Judge Chang. Well said, too.
"...a fundamental duty of government is to protect its citizens. However ... it's also obligated to protect fundamental rights named in the Constitution, including the right to keep and bear arms for self-defense.
There's a happy little side note here. His Ineptness appointed Judge Chang to the bench at a time when Duh Mare was still Obama's chief of staff and thus in tactical charge of advancing all Obama dreams.
I like schadenfreude so much that I'm hoping Rahm tosses and turns all night, yammering "wudda, cudda, shudda." The president, too.
Bwa-ha-ha.
Tit for Tat
President Obama got off the airplane without his spouse and faces a few lonely nights in a bachelor bed. Who knows if it is the First Lady's residual rage over his Mandela-funeral selfie with
If it is, an opportunity exists for those of us who love symmetrical justice. All it takes is an alert news photographer on hand when Michelle, on the loose in Hawaii, shoots a selfie with, for instance,
Do it Michelle. We don't care if he does throw one of his inept tantrums. At least your subjects will get a grin in return for the added cost of your few happy days on "separate vacation."
That should be the end of this post, but my fingers have been taken over by an evil muse of history who wonders if FDR personally footed the bill for Lucy Mercer's room just down the hall in Hot Springs. Probably not.
If it is, an opportunity exists for those of us who love symmetrical justice. All it takes is an alert news photographer on hand when Michelle, on the loose in Hawaii, shoots a selfie with, for instance,
Do it Michelle. We don't care if he does throw one of his inept tantrums. At least your subjects will get a grin in return for the added cost of your few happy days on "separate vacation."
That should be the end of this post, but my fingers have been taken over by an evil muse of history who wonders if FDR personally footed the bill for Lucy Mercer's room just down the hall in Hot Springs. Probably not.
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