Coming right up, Folks: Truth, Justice, and the American Way on a White Horse from Washington

Dear Policeman:

"Speaking in general, you are not allowed to kill people,  even if they are black, even if they annoy you, even if you find them unsavory."

Sincerely,
Jim

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The Ferguson, Missouri riots result, proximately, from a cop shooting a black man. If and when we get some clarity about what happened, we'll be in position to offer some judgements about whether Black Man Brown earned his own death or whether  he died at the hands of an evil or troubled man in uniform. Fight with wife. Hangover. Just plain bad mood.  A hitherto well-hidden dime-novel desire to kill his man and carve a tinhorn notch on his Glock.

There are numerous killer-cop possibilities. From the information we have, no reason exists to accept any of them. There won't be until we see the results of a professional investigation.

By the greatest good fortune imaginable, that professional clarity is on the way to Ferguson in the person of one Eric Holder, objective, candid,  incorruptible, and fair-minded to a fault. He even  catches something bothering a number of us ordinary schmucks.


Without directly referencing the video revelation, Holder said he was troubled by "the selective release of sensitive information" surrounding Brown's case...

As well he should be, given his own personal history of candid transparency.

The Republican-led House of Representatives on Thursday voted to hold Attorney General Eric H. Holder Jr. in contempt for failing to disclose internal Justice Department documents in response to a subpoena. 

The documents Holder hid in that case deal with his own part in the bone-headed Fast and Furious gun-running game that eventually killed an American cop. He kept them secret because he wanted to. He was able to do so because his superior officer, Barack Obama, also likes star-chamber government and just happens to have the presumed authority to invoke "executive privilege" when outsiders inquire, "what happened?"

So we all need to shut up and let Holder take his course, secure in our faith that he will discover truth and publish it for all to read, without fear or favor or even the slightest glance at how well his report covers various political asses.

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I am again slightly embarrassed at linking "star chamber" to Wiki. It will seem condescending. On the other hand, a guy still never knows when a member of the public teachers' union will stumble on to his writing, and would be unkind to discombobulate them.

Fresh gun porn

So far, so good.

She's at that awkward stage. Too loose to require heavy percussion cycling, too tight to function without severe muscle. Technically, this is what we pistol smiths refer to as the period during which we  root around for our white polishing compound and gird ourselves for several hundred manual cycles.


Note absence of Dremel. Note presence of brass hammer. It makes a guy feel just like P.O. Ackley. (The tactical scissors are for cutting strips of the abrasive cloth.)

Walter does not dream of Windex and Pledge

A cheery note from the Caspian folks is disrupting my plans.  Some family is visiting this weekend, and I vowed to tidy the place in their honor. But the commanderish slide is en route, scheduled to arrive here at Camp Jiggleview, of which I am Commandant,  in about 40 hours.

I feel a distraction coming on, and if any of  my people are looking for housekeeping lapses, I'm afraid they may find them. It seems more urgent to sort through the parts one more time, calibrate the mike, ensure enough 400-grit emery and jewelers rouge are on hand. And so forth.

Commanders are just so studly. All a sophisticated Boomer needed in his glory days was the short 1911 for everyday wear along with a PPk  for strictly formal occasions.  (The Walther rode nicely in our cummerbunds.)  Bring on the Symbionize Liberation Army. Bring on Goldfinger.

The pleasure will be in the build. No matter how well armed, I am unlikely to be summoned to Double-0h-Seven evil-doers. It is enough to know that if I were, I would be equipped to shoot them through in a stylish, yet classic,  fashion.

Pocketa pocketa pocketa.

Awwww, dammit

I wrote and told her I could whistle, but she never wrote back.