Okay, deep breath...
So Ted Cruz made a very mild jab at Joe Biden this last week. "Joe Biden... no punch line necessary"
And now has apologized since Joe recently lost his son to brain cancer.
WHY?
The jab in no way denigrated the son, brain cancer, or Joe's loss. It took aim at a legitimate public figure. (MY first thought when I heard the son died of brain cancer was, "the kid must have inherited that organ from his mother...")
Moreover, Joe himself has NEVER wasted a chance to capitalize on a political opponent's misfortune in his entire political career. This guy is the definition of "creepy old guy," and regularly makes tone deaf remarks along the lines of Marie Antoinette's "let them eat cake."
Remember during the post 9/11 scares, when then VP Cheney was at a 'undisclosed location' to protect from terrorists? After the first scare when Joe was Veep, he told a dinner party where the location was. HE ENDANGERED HIS OWN LIFE, along with those assigned to protect him, and forever removed that site from such use. This cost taxpayers millions because Joe had to be the big man at the party. He is just clueless.
This list goes on and on, ranging from the inane to the plain stupid ("[when attacked by an intruder,] get a double barrel shotgun, and shoot both barrels into the air from a balcony" Which disarms the home owner, is illegal in most municipalities, and assumes the EVERYONE HAS A BALCONY to retreat to)
BUT because Biden is a Demo-rat, and we no longer have real journalists in the Main Stream (liberal) Media, Ted must apologize.
Had the remark gone the other way, no apology would have been necessary. No one would have cared that a conservative was smeared, unfair or otherwise.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Monday, June 1, 2015
The Crime of Banking While a White Republican, and how Race is involved
Everyone know the story of former Speaker Hastert, who was being blackmailed for something in his past that may or may not be a true crime in the state of Illinois.
He is under indictment for... uhm, taking his own money out of his account in amounts our federal overlords do not approve of, and not telling the FBI why when asked. Note that this occurs while the Clinton openly are taking huge bribes while nothing is said.
In fact, this obscure law seems to be invoked as a gotcha today, for when the government want to a) take a citizen's money when no crime has been committed other than making deposits or withdrawals from your own bank account, or b) pursue a political opponent. For examples, google 'civil forfeiture abuse' and read a few stories for option a), and google 'Tom DeLay campaign finance trial' for option b).
What I cannot believe is that no one has played the go-to card of the day. The media is discussing this story based in the context of the Patriot Act expiring, and because he is Republican. No discussions about the blackmailer, or his possible crimes that led to the blackmail. No talk about motives or anything.
So how did we just have a discussion without throwing in any reference to race? I thought ALL topics were related to the race and bigotry of the parties (white ones, anyway) involved.
Well, we can’t have this. Someone has to point out the elephant in the room.
IF any minority was involved, the answer is self evident.
However, Hastert may or may not have perpetrated whatever acts he committed only on white people. It is to be assumed that these victims benefited in some way, since they did not rat him out (except for the one enterprising citizen to whom he paid millions, that is)
But IF minorities were EXCLUDED from the benefits being a victim of Hastert’s ‘indiscretions,’ that makes him a (wait for it……)
RACIST!!!
Gee, visiting the mindset of the race baiting crowd makes me feel scummy… now I need a shower!
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Tinfoil Hat or Common Sense?
So my daughter got flu this spring. The doctor said that the flu shot is only 23%
effective this year in North America.
The 'NORTH' part intrigued me.
I research things routinely on the Internet. Last night I read up on what the CDC has on
flu strains and how vaccines are created.
It turns out that vaccines are regional, based on flu strains expected
in that region. So if type A strain H1N1
("swine flu") is expected in in North America, that will be included
in three or four strains included in that vaccine.
The problem is that the predominant strain showed up in
late August and September, after production started. This is a H3N7 variant, which can cause more
deaths statistically than the ones in the vaccine, 'extra' deaths. Not only that, it suddenly appeared in
geographically diverse locations at the same time.
This variant is well know to scientists, and has been
tracked for years. In fact, it WAS
included in the cocktail for another region... Central and South America. In other words, this deadlier strain was
expected this year in that region, but not here.
So how did it get here?
In the late August and September time frame?
Who came to this country at that time from that
region? The illegal immigrant
children! They were then dispersed
across the fruited plain by the Administration.
Does this mean that the extra deaths from this flu season
can be traced to the politics of the regime?
Or did I just qualify for my tinfoil hat?
Thursday, May 14, 2015
The Chevy Chevette Clutch
Growing up we did not have lots of ‘extra’ money: we were
not starving (dad was a public school teacher in Texas, which is still today not a get rich
scheme) and did not consider ourselves poor, but we did not eat out every
night, or have expensive electronics like today. I wore Sears Rustler jeans, when Wrangler and Jordache were the style.
My first vehicle was an old 1968 Chevy pick up. This truck was two tone: algae green and
rust. Zero to sixty in 50 seconds, if
you pushed her. But made of steel and relatively
safe for an inexperienced rural driver. I was
allowed to sell this truck to get cash for a new(er) used car. I also borrowed most of the money from my
grandmother (thanks Mimi!) who did not want interest on her investment.
I bought a 1979 Chevy Chevette 5 speed manual transmission much
like the one shown above. This car had
literally been used by the proverbial little old lady to go to church on
Sunday, and had the scratches on the passenger side door where her lap dog
rode. The scratches were there because the
dog put its head out the window. Why was
the window down? This car did not have an
air conditioner. My truck did not have AC
either, so I was used to riding with the windows down anyway. This car had the smallest domestic engine to
date: a 1.6 liter 4 cylinder. This all meant
I would get 35 miles per gallon, though.
I installed a heavy duty stereo system (I could not outrun
anyone to the party, but the party started when the music and beer showed up
anyway, and I was the music.) and had a very efficient form of transportation
that fit my minuscule budget. I also
worked every day from before dawn to after sunset to pay that car off between
my junior and senior years.
Being a teenager, though, I still lacked the brain cells to
avoid many stupid stunts in my new car.
While I might be outclassed on the highway by the average soccer mom (I
could offer to race the Amish in their horse drawn buggy, but that would be rude), on
dirt county roads too much engine was a liability. Like European rode rallies, control is more
important than horsepower. In fact, my
friends with the horsepower did not need to learn control (they thought) and
thus visited the ditches of rural roads regularly, allowing my little modest granny
mobile to carry the day.
I learned the roads in our county, planning out the possible
race courses in advance. I learned where
I could ‘drift’ around a turn to keep my momentum high, and where it was better
to slow down instead. I even learned how
to manipulate the hand brake, the clutch and gas to spin a 180 degree turn
around (a ‘drug runner’s turn’) so that I could meet my opponent on the way
back (that always got to them). I am not
saying that I won every time, but I should not have won at all given the
disparity in vehicles.
This turn involved hard breaking, working the clutch,
steering wheel, and hand brake together to make the car spin, then counter
spinning the steering wheel and shifting into first while feathering the clutch
to move the other direction. Gravel goes
everywhere, and you are moving the other way faster than if you used the brakes
to stop your suddenly reversed momentum.
That point is important later in this story.
Now, the things we did on the roads give the parent in me chills today,
and today is a different world where such antics would land you in jail, but in
that time and place the local law practiced a ‘no harm done, no foul’ policy as
long as they did not see us with other (adult) witnesses. If we took out a fence, we fixed it. Most of my friends were kin to almost every
land owner so no one even thought of not owning up to property damage of that
sort. (We used to say that our parents
would know where we were if we traveled through town on the highway at midnight
going 60 miles per hour with the windows rolled up: that was how efficient the gossip
network was)
My friends without cars would (of course) ride to parties
with those who did. Since I had the
least cool ride, I often traveled alone.
However, several friends got curious as to how they could see me take
the turn ahead, then be coming the other way so quickly. I explained that I did not stop to turn
around. So one of them rode with me to
see what I did. He was impressed enough
to talk it up at the next party.
That was how I got talked into loading five big teenage boys
into a car made for three (two front seats and a tiny back seat) to show how
this stunt worked. (Did you feel those chills?
Parents reading this all just cringed, and childless dead physicists rolled
in their graves)
You see, I had not taken several variables into account
(those undeveloped brain cells, no doubt).
I had never done this stunt with more than one other person and they
were always in the front seat. High
school physics did not cover the concept of center of gravity, leaving me
ignorant of my folly. I had also never
done this on a paved road. You see, the skid I was to induce depended on
the dirt and gravel under my wheels; oh, it could be done on pavement, but I
had never tried before, a little fact which escaped me in the heady high
created by peer pressure (never underestimate the stupidity of teen boys in
small groups.) I did not have a ‘feel’
for the surface, which is important to timing the required maneuvers.
Let me digress a moment to describe the road we were about
to attempt this upon. This was a paved
county road, going down a gentle grade into a cross roads. The crossroads widened enough to make such a
turn, and was my target area. The cattle
fences on each corner of the crossroads were braced at 90 degrees, to support
the fence in both directions, and to survive careless drivers who might miss
the turn and destroy the fence. These corners were stout: railroad ties with
angle iron bracing, sunk deep into the earth by ranchers who wanted to be sure the malefactor did not drive away from a wrecked fence.
So I picked up speed down the hill, being goaded by my
friends in the timeless manner of all teens raising a hoorah, and therefore hit
the intersection with a bit too much momentum.
When I started the skid, I immediately knew I was in trouble. The tires did skid, leaving rubber behind,
but the three 180 pound boys in the back seat threw off my control. NOW the fight began. We passed the first 180 and continued into a
360, followed by another 180 degree spin.
I managed to regain control enough to stop the spin facing the right,
reverse direction, but doing so used up all my cushion, and that fence corner
loomed large in my rear-view mirror. I jammed
the car into first gear and popped the clutch, causing the transmission and
tires to howl in protest as we left the road and crossed the right of way
(thankfully there was no ditch) and drifted to a stop with the rear bumper
kissing the fence. Rubber smoke was
laced with another peculiar smell I had encountered during road racing but
never so strong. The car was very quiet
(the extra spin scared my passengers) as I attempted to head back up the
road. The car kind of leaned forward and
refused to move. This identified the new
smell: burned clutch plate. No clutch,
no motion. I explained to my friends
that they were pushing and I was steering back to their cars, and that I needed
a tow to Alvin’s shop, our local mechanic.
Not sure what my dad thought about a burned out
transmission, but he did not say much: I paid for the repair, and these things
had to be replaced every so often anyway, so maybe he figured it was just time. I was out a car for two weeks, since Alvin
worked tractors first (he knew who paid his bills with steady work, and it was
not a 17 year old with a granny mobile!)
I lost that car on my 18th birthday when I was
broadsided by a semi-tractor trailer, but that is another story.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
ISIS and Texas
ISIS came calling to Texas last weekend... it did not go well for them
Second, the reason this conference was in Obscuresville, Texas (and not the group’s home state, NY) is THAT TEXAS DOES NOT PUT UP WITH THE BS that, say, New York or California would. We had armed police protection with the right attitude in place. We have armed citizens who remember an incident in a Luby’s several decades ago, and have vowed never again. (no offense to Garland… I used to live near there and think it is a great town)
Third, this was stopped by a 60 year old traffic cop with a pistol. The terrorists (and make no mistake about what they were) had rifles, body armor, the element of surprise, and a car to hide behind which would have stopped most pistol rounds… and were dead within 15 seconds. Garland Police are serious about gun range training… they tend to hit what they shoot at. Notice the low crime statistics in Garland (and most of Texas) to see if criminals are aware of this as well.
Fourth, rifles against pistols, and you lost that bad? I HOPE jihadis from ISIS are all this brain dead stupid. ROTFLOLWMP
Fifth, if this does become a thing, I will be dipping my bullets in lard, just to make sure they are disqualified from an afterlife on their own terms.
The moral of the story, is send more ISIS troops to Texas. We can take care of their need to see the afterlife.
What I find interesting is that ISIS is claiming this utter failure, making the point that ‘they thought we could not reach them in Texas.’
First, ISIS did not reach into Texas; two SJS wanna-be AMERICANs did this.
Second, the reason this conference was in Obscuresville, Texas (and not the group’s home state, NY) is THAT TEXAS DOES NOT PUT UP WITH THE BS that, say, New York or California would. We had armed police protection with the right attitude in place. We have armed citizens who remember an incident in a Luby’s several decades ago, and have vowed never again. (no offense to Garland… I used to live near there and think it is a great town)
Third, this was stopped by a 60 year old traffic cop with a pistol. The terrorists (and make no mistake about what they were) had rifles, body armor, the element of surprise, and a car to hide behind which would have stopped most pistol rounds… and were dead within 15 seconds. Garland Police are serious about gun range training… they tend to hit what they shoot at. Notice the low crime statistics in Garland (and most of Texas) to see if criminals are aware of this as well.
Fourth, rifles against pistols, and you lost that bad? I HOPE jihadis from ISIS are all this brain dead stupid. ROTFLOLWMP
Fifth, if this does become a thing, I will be dipping my bullets in lard, just to make sure they are disqualified from an afterlife on their own terms.
The moral of the story, is send more ISIS troops to Texas. We can take care of their need to see the afterlife.
Monday, April 20, 2015
BB Gun Wars (or "Why my wife is overprotective of our kids")
As I have written about before, my cousins, brother and I
were somewhat unsupervised in rural Texas in the early 1980s. Our parents worked several miles away, and we
were watched, in the early years, by teen babysitters who were, shall we say,
less than motivated to execute their assigned observational duties in the
strictest sense of the term. We
frequently wandered the country side to entertain ourselves, with whatever came
to hand.
One thing that was ‘at hand’ was our little brothers. These kids were only guilty of wishing to tag
along, to join us in our tree house, and bask in the ultimate levels of cool
pre-teen older brothers exude in the eyes of younger siblings. And as we became good at giving them the
slip, they annoyed the babysitter enough to bring down parental edicts to ‘play
with the little kids.’ This is how it
came to be that one of our babysitters was labeled with the nick name
‘sandwich.’
Sandra was a typical teen girl, likely 17 or 18 at that time
(‘old’ from the viewpoint of 10 and 11 year olds) who stayed with us during the
day on summer vacation. My aunt’s house
sported a window unit AC in the living room, which usually could drown out a
reasonably sized thunderstorm, and thus let us make all the noise we
wished. One favorite activity was the
awesome tree swing at Jerry’s house, with a rope that went up 20 or 30
feet. Of course, another parental edict
was to share a tree swing with the siblings, so we took turns pushing each
other on the 20 foot high rope swing.
The goal, of course, was to see how high you could go.
One sweltering Texas day in July, Jerry’s
little brother Bo refused to give up the swing.
After tiring of attempting to reason with someone of obviously diminished
mental capacity, Jerry and I thought up a cool twist on the game: we took a one
by eight and ‘paddled’ him on each pass of the swing. See, he was standing up in the swing to keep
it going (against yet another parental edict; but to be fair, he was not the
first to do so) and so presented a great ‘target of opportunity’ on each
pass. If he leaned his nether regions
out to gain momentum, we got in a swat, never mind that our contact was limited
by the fact that our swing had to catch up to him as he went by: he presented
no target on the return arc. This was
brilliant on our part (so we thought): we got to paddle him unless Bo stopped
swinging.
Meanwhile, Bo was caterwauling
at the top of his lungs for quasi adult intervention. Did I mention that it was a hot day? That the window unit was blowing like a jet
engine, drowning everything from the yard into the house in white noise? That we took that into account in our
nefarious plan? So Bo was yelling
“Sandraaaaa!” and “OW!” every pass, we were laughing so hard we really could
not land a solid blow, and Sandra continued watching ‘The Young and the
Restless.’ At one point Jerry got a
particularly good hit and Bo yelled for “SANDWICH!!!” which pretty much broke
up the party, as none of us could stand up, being helpless on the ground
gasping for air.
Anyway, a few years later we were no longer supervised at
all (!) and had heard of the concept of Paint Ball. As you can imagine, this captured the
imagination of 13 and 14 year old boys: running around the woods, setting
ambushes for the enemy, and shooting each other. The problems were a) paintball guns and ammo
were very expensive, b) it required safety equipment we did not have, and c) we
were broke.
Not to worry: we had
baseball catcher’s equipment and BB guns.
However, we soon discovered how hot running through the woods in
catchers equipment was, so settled on just the BB guns. What could go wrong?
Another problem was lack of arms. Jerry had his pump up BB/Pellet rifle, and I
had a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. Note that
I quickly learned to keep my distance from Jerry, as his gun hurt on the rare times he hit. This advantage was negated by the fact that
my Red Ryder could shoot much faster (if less powerfully and accurately: it
still stung), which precluded a rush attack from Jerry. For all of the ammo we expended, we never did
hit each other much.
One exception was
at the old cattle tank. A cattle tank,
for you urban readers, is what you might call a pond, if a muddy hole in the
ground infested with turtles, frogs, snakes, various bugs and random thirsty
bovines meets that definition. This
particular tank was ‘seeded’ with fish which were hand fed by Jerry’s father,
in the futile hope of catching fish one day. Why futile, you ask? You see, one of the wonders of BB guns and glass bottles (everything was in glass bottles those days: mayo to shampoo to ketchup) is that bottles
float, and you can sink them with
said BB guns. Aluminum cans were harder
targets requiring Jerry’s rifle, but they too offered sport. Sometimes almost empty cans or jugs of household chemicals fished out of the
trash substituted when glass or soda cans were scarce, having already been sent
to a watery grave. My uncle never could
figure out why that fishing bit never seemed to take off…
Jerry got peeved at me one day when I did not go along with
whatever plan he had just dreamed up (by age 13 I was learning about Jerry’s
plans, and the consequences I paid that he somehow escaped) so he took a shot
at me with his rifle. He missed and I
quickly was on the other side of the tank, which he would not cross (we knew
what was on the bottom of that tank, and it was chest deep). So he shot at me across the tank. And the BB went plop into the water by my
side of the tank.
Time to digress.
Texas boys in those days learned many useful things from their fathers:
how to skin a deer, squirrel or dove; not to urinate into the wind; not to talk
back to their mother; the finer points of college football; and how to skip a
flat stone across a body of somewhat still water. You take a relatively flat rock (think deck
of cards or thinner) between the size of a fifty cent piece and the palm of
your hand, grip it like you would a hand gun (trigger finger around the curve
of the rock) and sidearm throw it at a low trajectory angle to the water. If the angle and power of the throw combined
with the spin imparted to the stone just so, the stone would bounce off of the
surface of the water, more than once if you were particularly skilled. We had contests to see how many skips a single
throw would produce (no smart phones in those days).
So when Jerry’s shot fell short, I realized my lower powered
gun would never reach him. Unless I could skip the BB! Surprisingly,
this worked better than I could have dreamed.
Physics dictated that all my shots were between his ankle and the middle
of his calf, but they were bona fide hits.
Jerry also had to reload (22 shots to my 600 plus) giving me time to
pour it to him. He left the field of
battle that day a bit the worse for wear, having worn deck shoes, shorts and no
socks on our outing.
My aunt never did
figure out where he got all of the tiny bruises, and nowhere but on his lower
legs. Much to my delight, she made him
go to his room to strip for a health inspection while I almost vibrated off of
the couch with suppressed laughter.
Nor did she understand why he wore a long sleeve shirt in
the late summer after another such encounter.
On an unsupervised weekend (!) Bo insisted on joining the action, and
prevailed in his petition with the threat of parental disclosure of the
(supposedly unsanctioned, who was gonna ask?)
BB gun combat. His terms specified
staying in the yard (Bo had learned not to get alone in the woods with Jerry
without some means of defense) and equal time to shoot. I observed that Bo did not have a BB gun,
which seemed to nullify his argument until Jerry threw me under the bus. Since my
Red Ryder shot faster, Bo and I could be on the same team.
NOW I had motivation to shoot Jerry, and a highly motivated
ally with which to do so. So we began
the stalk. Bo and I had to stay
together, which at first limited cover possibilities until we started baiting
traps for Jerry. This involved
presenting Jerry a target to induce him to revealing his position to the armed
comrade. Bo got popped a few times
before we abandoned that strategy (you did not think I was gonna be bait, did
you?).
Then Bo got a great idea: we
could climb up the TV antenna to the roof of the house, and shoot down on Jerry
anywhere on the yard, as long as we used the peak of the rook for cover. This violated yet another parental edict, but
if you are already doing what you suspect any sane adult would frown on, you might
as well chuck all the rules. This
worked until Jerry holed up on top of a long unused dog house against the trunk
of a large oak tree, where he could punch through the leaves while our lower
powered gun could not. We countered with
hiding behind the chimney, which gave us an unimpeded shot. We were now well within the ‘ouch’ range of
Jerry’s gun (his shots nicked brick dust and shrapnel onto us) until I realized
that he had a delay between shots, to pump up his rifle.
At his next shot, I jumped out and nailed him
there on the dog house, causing him to take refuge behind the tree trunk. At short range I was a crack shot with my
Daisy, and could fire several times in succession. So we traded shots for a while, Bo and I
waiting for his shot and him ducking back behind the tree to power up.
Then I made a discovery: the tree was too
small to cover his arm while pumping the rifle.
Between his shots his arm was briefly visible from the other end of the
chimney! So I timed my next shot to his
pumping and got him on the elbow from my new vantage point. In the heat of battle Jerry did not think,
just adjusted his position so he was covered… and exposed his arm to Bo who had
remained in our original position. Bo quickly got the Daisy from me and plinked
Jerry from that angle, again around the elbow.
This went on for quite some time, as Jerry was convinced he had us
pinned while we gleefully nailed his arm once or twice between his shots.
Thus it was that the next day, Jerry insisted on wearing a
long sleeve shirt to church (to cover the bruises), telling my aunt he was cold
(in 80 degree weather.)
And Jerry got back at me years later by telling my future
wife of our exploits as kids, during those unsupervised summers. My kids rarely get to do anything good outdoors.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
How times have changed
I had a thought
on how our society has changed. Or perhaps the change is in me?
My grandfather
grew up on a farm, using a homemade slingshot during the depression era (in
Texas, that era lasted from 1920 to 1945, it seems). They had guns, but could
not afford bullets as much. He wandered pretty much where he wanted and no one
minded.
My dad grew up
around farms and in rural areas, and ran around unsupervised with a .22 rifle.
He shot bullfrogs, turtles, and probably anything else he wanted to aim at. We
are talking about a pre-10 year old, if I understand the stories right. And it
was okay at that time: low population density, lots of space and lingering
pioneer attitude, I guess.
I grew up with
BB guns. We did not buy pellets very often, and the first BB guns did not fire
them anyway. (But my dad did not let me have one myself pre-10 years old: Jerry’s
dad did <wink>) We shot anything that moved, and quite a few things that
did not. Including each other, when the best gun we had was the Daisy Red Rider
spring gun. I’ll get into those stories another time. We also wandered wherever
we could walk to.
When my son
turned ten, he had never, to my knowledge, fired a sling shot, a BB gun, or a
Pellet gun, much less run the countryside with one. (He HAD fired a .22 and
various pistols, rifles, and shotguns, but never unsupervised) The only gun we
left to his discretion is a water pistol, and not in the house!
Is it me, or
have we gotten so protective that some great experiences are now lost? Sure,
society is more crowded, and in this era when anyone sues for anything we have
to be more careful, but why do I have a vague sense of loss about this, for his
sake?
Yes, I was
considering giving him a pellet gun for Christmas, but it would be locked away
unless he is supervised. It is to teach him proper gun range technique and safe
gun handling, not for him to range the woods like I did at his age. Of course,
we do not have access to land like I did growing up (not that small matters
like property ownership, vicious dogs, barbed wire fences, or armed residents
ever slowed my cousins or me down…)
Maybe I simply
know what CAN happen now, and that stops me from telling him to run free. I
dunno. I just have a vague sense of loss over the whole situation.
Monday, April 13, 2015
A Bad Start to the Day
from August
28, 2006
I had a
really bad day when I commuted 30 miles into San Antonio by motorcycle, and
thought I might brighten someone else’s day by sharing it.
—————————————
Got up this
morning early to get a good start on the work day. Helped the wife get the kids
dressed, fed, etc. and ready for school.
Oldest child
(9) was so tired I gave him caffeine to wake up; the youngest (4) drank most of
the Dr. Pepper I gave the oldest.
Yes, sugar
and caffeine will wake up a four year old. Getting her off of the ceiling is
another matter.
Went out to
start the motorcycle: noticed a strange glow from the bike barn.
I left the
motorcycle tail light on all night, draining the motorcycle battery. However,
the battery is new, so the bike starts. As I warm the bike up, I note that gas
is a bit low, but should be more than enough to make town and the gas station.
Three miles
from edge of town, traffic is stopped cold due to a short cycling traffic
light. (Why do they put traffic lights across US freeways anyway? Isn’t that
why God invented overpasses? Oh yeah, TxDOT does not believe in God.) Go into
reserve tank while in traffic.
Traffic moves
one car length at a time, causing cramps in my clutch hand. I use neutral and
coast to massage my clutch hand against my leg. (Motorcycle riders know what
I’m talking about)
Half an hour
later when I cross the light, I note that I can still make work in time even
though I need to stop for gas.
Run out of
gas in heavy traffic at 65 miles per hour. You have not LIVED until you
navigate a dead motorcycle across three lanes of traffic while coasting. No
longer need caffeine to wake up at this point: pure adrenalin, baby. (Note to
self: a half hour in traffic will drain motorcycle reserve tank)
Gas station
is still a mile away, uphill. Call my boss to ask for help. Boss is stuck in
traffic and is bumming a ride in any case; suggests I call my coworker, who we
will call Fred as I am sure he does not want to be associated with this story
in any way.
Fred goes off
looking for a gas can to buy and fill with one gallon of premium (never use
anything else in a motorcycle!) gasoline.
Although my
bike is four or five feet from the actual traffic, I opt to sit on the concrete
barrier that separates the freeway for the access road. The blazing heat from
the morning sun is cooled by the steady breeze created by hurling semi-tractor
trailers just missing the narrow shoulder I am sitting on.
As I keep
watch for any inattentive drivers who might make me hurdle the concrete barrier
to avoid bodily injury, I notice that several ants are attempting to climb said
barrier. They get so far, and then the wind from a passing truck knocks them
back to the bottom of the barrier. They never stop climbing, even though there
is nothing at the top of the barrier that could conceivably interest an ant. I
try not to ruminate on possible parallels with my work at the office. (Just
kidding, boss!)
An hour
later, Fred comes walking up the freeway with the gas can. (How can they charge
$12 for a 1.5 gallon plastic container?!?). Fred assumed, quite correctly, that
it was unsafe to pull a car off of the road where I have been sitting, and so
parked up the access road. As we assemble the nozzle to the $12 gas can (I
still cannot believe the can cost more than the gas!), I notice the can claims
to be spill and leak proof.
The gas can
leaks…
…and does not
pour out gas when inverted.
After much
exclamation, I note that the now gasoline-soaked sticker on the can has a small
‘peel here’ arrow. It won’t peel, of course.
Finally,
instructions are revealed under the sticker, along with many warnings of all of
the dire things that can happen when you buy a gas can at a convenience store
at 7:45 am. Ignoring the warnings (what else can go wrong?) we find out that
THIS gas can is for cars only, and you have to perform surgery on the nozzle to
seal it to ‘prevent possible leakage.’ So we attempt to follow the directions
while any part we happen to set down are blown into traffic by those hurling
semi-trucks. We also discover that you have to pull back on the nozzle valve
(as if you were inserting the nozzle into a car gas tank) to get the gas
flowing. On a more positive note, this 1.5 gallon gas can boasts a ‘two gallon
per minute flow rate!’
So I get the
now not-leaking can into position and pull back the nozzle valve.
Two gallons
per minute into a three inch deep metal hole produces one heck of a splash. I
am now covered in gasoline along with my bike, the freeway, and Fred. Fred
happened to move my helmet away from the bike just before this (thanks Fred!)
so one item I will be wearing does not stink of gas.
The
motorcycle still does not have any gas in it. We figure out how to rig the
silly thing well enough to fill the bike, and Fred takes the gas can back up
the road with my profuse thanks and the cash contents of my wallet to
compensate him for the trouble and expense.
I make it to
the gas station, where I fill the bike and go inside to clean up. The door to
the Men’s room is locked, so I wait. My exposed skin is burning from the
gasoline when, 10 minutes later, a lady approaches with a key that says ‘Lady’s
room’ and unlocks that door.
I get the key
to the Men’s, (strangely enough, attached to an 8 by 10 picture frame) and
clean up.
I am now over
an hour late for work. I get back on the freeway… and notice that traffic is
stopped again. Not wasting any thoughts on the ironic fact that my former
squatting spot is now not getting any breeze, I duck off down an exit ramp, and
take an alternate route to work.
At work, my
boss, who sold me the bike, razzes me about him owning that motorcycle for 13
years and never running out of gas… I refrain from committing homicide by
reminding myself that killing your boss will most likely get you fired.
And the time is now 9:30 am. Boy, can I not wait to see what else
happens today…
The
rest of the day went well, since so many have asked…
Thursday, April 9, 2015
I AM NOT AN IMMIGRANT
It would seem
that certain ‘people of indefinite nationality’ would like to assert that the
United States, or large portions thereof, belong to a certain ethnic group, and
the Caucasians should leave, or at least shut up. We are just immigrants, they
say, and stole the land for the true owners, the ‘native americans.’ These
folks want much of the United States to be returned to Mexico (who has done
SUCH a good job with what they have already… /sarcasm)
Yes, my
great-great-blah blah grandparents came to this country as immigrants, but
their children were NATIVE American Citizens. Not native American as in teepees
and buffalo hunts, but in terms of citizenship in the United States of America.
If you want to
start the game of saying that makes ME an immigrant, we can do that too.
It all just
depends on how far back you wish to go…
My family
started showing up in the 1600s.
Most Hispanics
have European blood from Spain starting back in the 1500s: that makes them
immigrants to the entire new world just as I am.
According to
the Smithsonian, the ‘Native Americans’ (Incans, Aztecs, Apache, you name ‘em)
invaded the new world via land bridge around 7,000 years ago, and were not the
first to do so. They were Asian Steppe people (for the most part) following the
wild game; those already here (Clovis people, with European skull
characteristics) were either destroyed, enslaved, or died out.
The Clovis people
arrived as much as 12,000 years ago, and could still be considered immigrants,
since man ‘evolved’ in Africa and NOBODY originated in the new world!
Since 99.999%
of the Hispanic and Indian inhabitants of the new world have ancestors showing
up as recently as 7,000 years ago, they are also 'immigrants by this standard.'
Heck, the Arabs
and the Jews are STILL arguing over land disputes from 5,000 years ago: who is
an immigrant there?
Back on point:
What does it matter if your family arrived in America 400, 600, or 7,000 years
ago? We are not talking about ancient history, but about civilized nation
states, who sign treaties, make war, conquer, or cede land to each other.
Mexico gave up
her rights north of the border when she scrapped the Treaty of Guadalupe
Hidalgo, telling the INVITED gringo Mexican
citizens in Texas that they were no longer citizens and had none of the
rights promised them when they moved there. You see, the gringos were asked to settle in
Texas, because they would be loyal to Mexico and were industrious. Ads were placed in newspapers along the east
coast to bring them in.
Yes, they were
lured in, granted citizenship, developed infrastructure and farms, but suddenly
must leave or be subject to lawlessness by
the Mexican government. That action
led directly to the loss of Mexico’s northern provinces (remember the Alamo?),
and is binding to this day. The Mexican
regime of that time showed a substantial lack of good faith in dealings with
other nations, and (like many other nations before and since) paid for their
arrogance.
Let’s look at
each side of the border today: deserts to the north bloom, highways promote
commerce, and the rule of law (mostly) protects the innocent. South of that border? Not so much.
Deserts are still arid wastelands.
Gangs kill without consequences, many times with the blessing of the
corrupt government. Citizens are serfs,
and the rule of law is a joke. And groups
like La Raza (and how is a group
calling itself ‘the race’ not racist?) want to return whole states to that
system…
The great
Southwest is far better off with the border where it is.
And the
‘norteamericanos’ (aka ‘gringos’) will fight to keep it that way.
Rural Problems You Likely Don't Have
Okay, I had to get this one out this morning... too good to sit on.
Normally I write stories offline and paste them here, but this will be the exception.
Living Rural has advantages and disadvantages. Sometimes the advantage can become a disadvantage.
So my father lives in a place so remote that maps show roads that no longer exist. UPS truck drivers get lost, and he does not get mail delivery. When he still had a land line phone, it did not work when it rained.
Well, he broke his one and only toilet. Don't ask, too long a story, just accept that it is unusable. The advantage is that he has plenty of privacy on his 20 acres, so digging a cat hole to do his business is not a problem. Of course, 'number one' does not require more than stepping into his yard, which is really pasture land anyway. The other business, what we will call 'acts of congress' require a stroll away from the house into the woods, where he has pre-positioned little holes for the purpose, as sometimes 'acts of congress' have a sense of urgency, especially when a pot of morning coffee comes calling.
This morning, at just after Oh-Dark-Thirty, congress is 'in session,' so to speak, when a "hissing growl" comes from six feet away under a cedar tree. Needless to say, a motion for a recess was entertained after urgent business was hurriedly concluded. The advantage just became a disadvantage: wild animals tend to leave suburbanites alone.
While the offended animal species remains a mystery, speculation by anonymous sources familiar with the location run from feral house cat, through pissed bobcat, and on up to cougar (mountain lion.)
When congress reconvened an hour later to continue business, certain precautions had been added to the 'legislative routine.'
Dad reports that performing an 'act of congress' while holding a shotgun complicates an already delicate operation.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Christmas in Rural Texas
Every Christmas growing up in Texas we had some traditions that are somewhat rare these days, even here:
·
We eat Mexican food (technically Tex-Mex) on
Christmas Eve, usually enchiladas (but I think that is just my father’s
preference.) I do not know where this
came from, but know of many Texans who follow the same tradition. I did find a story on the Web that says this
derives from the Mexican tamale making family event called la tamalada, wherein the
families caught up, resolved arguments, and aired differences prior to the
meal, thus allowing everyone to enjoy the holiday. Tamales are easy to make, easy to store, and
are inexpensive for large gatherings.
Enchiladas, not so much
·
My grand-parents seemed to think Santa owned a
citrus grove in south Florida, I think.
For some reason, they filled a large portion of our Christmas stocking
with oranges. As kids, we thought this
was a waste of space that could have been better used for candy, but who was
gonna argue with the big man in Red? He
had this list, see… Anyway, citrus was
sometimes augmented by apples and (gasp!) a banana (now we were talking!) This
actually was my first inkling that all was not as it seemed, Santa-wise: I
recognized a blemish on an orange that was in the fruit dish the day before,
and wondered why Santa gave us our own
fruit? I asked Mimi about this fruit
fetish not too long ago, and it seems that this comes out of their experiences
during the Great Depression, when fruits were a luxury in North Texas farm
country, and yet were inexpensive enough that they were available for
Christmas. In their childhood, fruit
(presumably from The Rio Grande Valley) was a rare treat, and thus fondly
remembered. On the other hand, fruit was
common in my childhood, and I was less than impressed (sorry, Mimi!)
·
We made Nestle Tollhouse cookies from
scratch. Mimi would double the recipe to
get a single batch, as my brother and I usually ate half of the dough (and we
are still alive to tell about it, so take that, FDA and your dire package
warnings!). We might spend half of the
afternoon on these cookies, making batch after batch to share with
relatives. I liked taking a half dozen
to my great grandmother, ‘Grandma Mac’ in the nursing home. She sure had a sweet tooth! (This also gave me a chance to sneak her some
hot sauce. Grandma Mac loved her hot
foods, but her doctors did not like her to have them. Grandad and I worked together on this: after
all, in 1977, who would search an eight year old for prohibited substances
being smuggled into a nursing home?) I
suspect that this was some of Grandad’s particular humor, used to engage a
small boy into being interested in a trip to see his mother
·
Mimi and my mother both made chocolate fudge at
different times for Christmas, many involving so-called ‘help’ from the
kids. I will admit that my motivation
was to the same as making cookies: sneaking (like they did not know) a taste,
and eventually getting to lick a beater or the bowl (beaters were a sure deal,
but the bowl depended on if Dad was out of the house or perchance taking a
nap!) I remember dropping fudge into a
cup of cold water to tell if it was done, and I remember scorched batches that
no one liked. This could be a disaster
of biblical proportions, as we might not have the ingredients for a second
batch (and/or the cook might have not been motivated again by that point)
·
In later years (the middle eighties) we would
all pile into a car and drive around to look at Christmas lights. Sometimes we even drove to remote towns if
there was a particularly good (read: bright and colorful) display offered. Family visited and discussed lives in these
car rides: there were no cell phones, after all!
·
Christmas usually involved hunting at one point
or another. This was for the big game: Texas White Tailed Deer. In our family, we were what you might call
subsistence hunters: we hunted for food and somewhat less for sport. You see, the total cost of a deer you process
yourself might be a single bullet, the way we hunted. You usually hunted for free (although we did
have deer leases at times), and waited until you had a sure shot. Many a deer were brought to the table with
Grandad’s 300 Savage (Model 99 lever action) and a well-timed and well-aimed
single bullet. (I killed two deer at different times last season with that same
gun, but took three bullets… must be slipping in my old age!) We would choose our deer carefully, if there
was more than one offered, as no one wanted to field dress and process two deer at once. You see, we gutted the deer and divided the
meat into quarters. This meat went into
ice chests where we kept it cool (draining the bloody water periodically and
refilling the ice) to get rid of the wild taste. (You northerners might be wondering why we
would put a deer on ice: just consult
an online almanac as to average December temperatures in Texas for your
explanation) Then we cut the deer up
ourselves. Early on this required
butcher paper, but Ziploc freezer bags revolutionized the process. Then we ate the meat from the freezer
throughout the year
·
My wife’s family does the Christmas ‘Tree’
present distribution by handing out all the gifts, with recipients tearing into
wrapping as soon as possible, everyone at once.
I was always confused by this practice: how do you get to see what
everyone got? (I now believe that in the
Tex-Deutch German culture the point is that ‘what they got’ is none of your
business: if they want to show you what they got they will make a point of
it!) Not in our house. We methodically handed out all of the gifts,
and everyone waited to begin the unwrapping process. Then we determined who would start, and which
direction around the living room we would proceed, one person and one gift at a
time. Sometimes the oldest in the room
went first, but often this was determined by largest number of gifts (the kids)
going first. Then everyone viewed the
gift, made appropriate comments and expressed appreciation, all in order. Then the paper was either preserved for
future gifting, or (if a child opened the gift) thrown into a 30 gallon garbage
bag strategically pre-positioned in the center of the room for the
purpose. This process proceeded until
the last gift was opened and the last scrap of paper thrown away. Once I had my own kids, this started the
annual battery installation activities, as it seems that anything anyone gives
a small child requires power. Usually in
a type of battery we just ran out of.
Many years I raided small appliances, flashlights and garage door
openers to keep the peace and quiet required for another Christmas tradition:
football on TV
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
The Modified Golden Rule Policy
The Modified Golden Rule Policy
Got a bee
in my bonnet several years ago, and though you might enjoy a little rant… This
is not serious, and I did not come NEAR to going after everyone I could have
(the GOP should be very afraid). I am SOOOO tired of other countries (and the
domestic liars) holding the USA to standards they themselves have no intention
of meeting. This is a proposed principle
for our laws and dealings with others, shortened to MGRP.
MGRP
I would
like to propose a new policy in our dealings around the world: Let us call it
the ‘Modified Golden Rule Policy.’ Under MGRP, the USA will treat others
exactly as we are treated. Simple and
direct. This policy has the bonus that if the ‘bad actor’ gets caught and
convicted, they KNOW that they will get the same as they gave out.
For
example, terrorists who are shooting at our troops will be shot at, regardless
of where they are hiding, be it a Mosque, Church, Holy Ground, Indian Burial
site, or civilian home. If you shoot out the window, we will flatten the
building. Hiding your rockets in the local UN school? The UN better find another place to
meet. (Wonder how much cooperation ‘innocent’
civilians would be willing to give at that point, knowing that there will be
consequences?) Collateral damage? Under MGRP, we will take the same caution as
our opponents to prevent any: in this case, none. War is h3ll, get used to it.
Mexico: we
put troops, tanks, fences and land mines on the border (like they do their own
southern border) and shoot to kill, as they do. We violate their territorial
integrity at will in pursuit of criminals (or anyone we feel like, as they do
today when guarding drug shipments into the USA), and reduce their foreign aid
by $10,000 for every citizen of theirs we catch within our borders (wonder how
long it would take for Mexico to guard their own northern border as well?)
Saudi
Arabia: All their women must wear bikinis in public when in the USA, and the
Koran is prohibited (just being funny on this one)
UN: Percent
of annual dues paid will be the same as percentage of votes we win, or maybe
the percentage of countries who support our initiatives. They bite the hand
that feeds them a bit too often, methinks.
Have to think about them a bit more…
Iran: Every
rocket launched into Israel equals one conventional bomb dropped randomly in
Tehran. Every IED exploded in Iraq equals another bomb in a major Iranian city.
Every US soldier killed by state backed terrorists who’s funding comes from
Iran equals one cruise missile into a power generating facility. Let them try
to refine uranium by donkey treadmill!
North
Korea: every nuclear bomb exploded or missile tested means the USA will hunt
down and sink one military submarine, ship, or airplane. Every assertion that
we are declaring war on them will be met with the sinking or capture of one
non-military ship. They have declared war on us, after all…
All two-bit
banana republics who rail against the USA (Yes, Hugo Chavez wanna-be, this
means you): Foreign aid reduced $10,000 by number of citizens caught illegally
in USA, plus by $1,000,000 every time they voted against us in the UN within the
past two years. This means Venezuela might actually owe us some refunds…
Closer to
home, we might want to try out MGRP on the Main Stream Liberal Media: for every
slanted news report they lose one station license for a month. For every op-ed
piece they foist on the airwaves as news, they lose a station license permanently.
Report the facts and keep your agenda to yourself!
For Elitist
Liberals (think Mikey Moore): for every capitalist pig company that they rail
against but actually own stock in, loss of the right to live in the USA for one
month, going back five years.
For the
democrats: for every unfounded accusation, one child loses a government
provided school lunch for one day (this one could really cause hunger in
America: After all, they accuse the GOP of this anyway). Every time they vote
to tax the elderly, or limit Social Security, they lose a like percentage of
their own retirement benefits (this one works for all politicians, come to
think of it). Every time they break a law, they actually get punished for it
(what a concept) instead of merely correcting the fraudulent paperwork once
caught (Yes, dirty harry, this means you).
For the
Supreme Court: every house taken for private development results in the loss of
one house owned by a member of that body for the same purpose… starting with
those that voted in favor of that law.
While on
the topic of Eminent Domain:
For every
politician who votes to take houses from citizens to give to private companies:
they are the first to lose their houses at the same percentage of market value
to that developer.
For every
developer who wants to take land using Eminent Domain: Force them to pay 150%
of market value (as determined by the sales in that area just like any real
estate transaction) to the owners they would like to steal from. If they cannot
make a profit at that rate, do not take the land! Why should the municipality
be paying for this property? The developer is the one making the real profits!
/soapbox
Smokers:
never mind, they are already doing it to themselves
Criminals: Rapists:
you guessed it… in whatever orifice they violated or closest by proximity. This
would have to follow a below the waist/above the waist rule…Hit and run drivers
or DWI: same injuries as their victims, with the same wait for medical services
as their victims. Murderers: In Texas, we already ‘do unto,’ we would just use
whatever implement the criminal used and cut the appeals process much shorter.
Enron type
executives: confiscation of assets (and distribution to the victims), and a
life relegated (after prison) to social security.
NSA: public
publishing of every phone call, email and text (public and private) back to the
day they started collecting ours.
IRS: Loss
of taxpayer provided pension for personally targeting someone to persecute;
loss of $100,000 in budget for every political target pursued in violation of
the law.
Executive
Administration: loss of one member in their future protection detail once out
of office for every executive order issued to violate the Constitution and/or
circumvent the other branches of Government.
Anti-Second
Amendment public servants (Senators, Congressmen, Mayors, etc.): loss of the
right to have armed guards in a protection detail, since guns are not needed by
anyone. Look, if their job was as
dangerous as they pretend, all of their armed guards could not protect them
from a criminal who is willing to shoot and get caught. Since there is not a long line of dead
politicians, it just ain’t so. This is
about power and control from socialists who realize they cannot force their
ideology on an armed populace.
Militarized
Police: loss of one year’s pension for every SWAT like home invasion that is
due to either incorrect intelligence (do your homework before the raid!) or
simply done to justify the existence of the team, prosecuting non-criminal
(civil) offences. A person disputing his
property taxes cannot be intimidated by governmental employees with automatic
weapons breaking down his door in a free society; it is not free if this
occurs. And loss of a month’s pension
and a month’s pay for every secured dog shot in its own yard... this is another
form of intimidation.
Professional
Race Baiters (Al, Jessie, etc…): pay the victim’s (accused) family $1,000,000
every time they whip up a race story in the press, vilifying someone based on
the race of the citizens involved, and the jury does not indict or the victim
is exonerated in trial because the evidence does not in any way show the
accused did anything wrong. This could
be called the ‘Wilson’ or ‘Zimmerman’ rule.
I could go
on, and on, and on, but you get the idea…
Monday, April 6, 2015
Armadillos and Water Moccasins
Things are not the same from when I grew up, in rural central Texas circa 1980. Boys were given BB guns almost as soon as they understood which way not to point it, and given free rein to explore the great outdoors. Today this is not possible, since it involved such recently frowned upon things as trespassing, misdemeanor ‘destruction of property,’ vagrancy, and general juvenile delinquency. Many was the day when I would take my trusty dog Poncho, a sack lunch (sandwich, chips in Ziploc bag, apple or orange, bottle of water), a BB gun (and a wonderfully naïve understanding of the Texas jurisprudence system of property law) and spend the afternoon exploring the fields, pastures and woods surrounding my or my cousin’s homes.
You encountered
wildlife, not the least of which included the bull in charge of some farmer’s
cattle herd who happened to dispute your right of passage, and made their point
vigorously (that is why the dog started to go with me: a border collie
instinctively works cattle, giving his 10 year old master time to get back to
the fence line).
Once, during a drought, the local creek hosted a snake
convention at a small spring outlet.
Poncho and I watched from a healthy distance as dozens of snakes
gathered at the spring to drink. More on
snakes in a minute.
Another time, we discovered an armadillo somehow still out
in the daylight. That was when I first learned
that these slow armored beasts have a defense mechanism (or Poncho learned,
anyway): they jump straight up into the air, three to four feet. Given their general bowling ball shape and
armored back, anything above them got gob-smacked, and this also can deprive
small boys hovering close by of a year’s growth!
Let me digress a bit at this point. Armadillos inhabit from South America through
portions of the United States. They are
generally inoffensive nocturnal insect eaters (unless they dig up your garden
looking for a meal) who will usually try to burrow their way out of trouble. They also can ‘run’ by hopping like a
kangaroo for short distances. However,
they tire quickly, and if caught away from soft soil, curl into an armored
ball. Rolling into an armored ball only
will protect you so long against a determined predator, say a hungry
coyote. So then the aforementioned
defense mechanism comes into play: they mimic a bowling ball and then, when the coyote (or
dog, in Poncho’s case) is above them, using their rabbit-like hind legs to jump
straight up and into the canine mouth. Most dogs and coyotes (one assumes, given the
proliferation of armadillos versus the coyote population: coyotes will eat anything) learn this lesson after the
first encounter, similar to how porcupines and skunks have earned canine
respect, one dog at a time.
Which digresses once again, into an interesting (and somewhat relevant) study from the Texas
A&M University School of Veterinary Medicine, which spent federal tax
dollars (Motto: spending your tax dollars to satisfy idle curiosity) to discover why so many armadillos die when hit by cars. Seems someone noticed that armadillos died
dis-proportionally on Texas roadways compared to other small animals, like
squirrels. They determined that (and I
am not making this up) armadillos die more often on bright, sunny days than in cloudy
or night time conditions. (Do not ask me how they determined that one: I
imagine scenes where college graduate students traverse country roads counting
and tagging dead animal bodies…)
They discovered that armadillos are
conditioned to hunker down into a ball when surprised instead of running, as a
squirrel would. Then, the defense
mechanism of jumping into the predator’s face is triggered by sensing said
predator hovering over the armadillo’s back.
Armadillos are not terribly bright (don’t need much brains to dig up
grubs) and are very near sighted (almost blind in direct daylight). Thus the reaction to a car passing overhead
causes that unfortunate jump into the undercarriage of the speeding vehicle,
with results not unlike that of a football off the toe of a collegiate kicker
on Saturday afternoon. Scratch one
armadillo.
Anyway, my ‘cousin’ Jerry owned a Daisy Red Rider BB gun
when we moved into the area. These can
still be had today, where politics and population pressure still allow. Back then, they were famous for rapid fire
(Lever Action! said the butt stock), spring loaded low power (thus safer for 10
year olds) and an enormous capacity (over 600 BBs). These spring loaded rifles represented the
pinnacle in pre-teen arms races, trumping sling shots, homemade bow and arrows,
and plain old thrown rocks. The muzzle
velocity was so low, you could see the BB leave the barrel (but the same can be
said of the model 1911 Colt 45 as well… just sayin’).
A year later, Jerry graduated to an air
powered pump rifle (shoots pellets or BBs! on the box). This only held 22 BBs (or a single pellet)
and required 10 to 20 strokes to pressurize the chamber for each shot. But that shot was several times more powerful
than the Daisy. Jerry could knock a wasp
nest down with it, whereas the Daisy only ticked the little beggars off. (This, we discovered, was not a good
strategy: shooting a wasp nest with anything short of a shotgun will get you
your exercise… running away from angered insects. Yes, the shotgun comment is from life
experience several years down the line.
Poison is preferred… or gasoline)
So Jerry got the new rifle and I got the Daisy when we went
exploring. I actually did not mind, as
given how inaccurate both guns were, I preferred volume of fire to power of
shot. One day in early spring (cool
enough for jackets in the mornings) we were out and about, running from the Bad
Guys (imaginary) across a cow pasture which was bisected by a very small
stream. As we reached the muddy cow
crossing, I was in the lead when I looked down and saw a SNAKE (!) stretched
across a patch of sunshine in my path. I
levitated over the snake, and warned Jerry to stop. He took an alternate route around the
offending reptile, and it occurred to us that here was a sanctioned Bad Guy
that adults would not object to killing.
So I started popping BBs at the snake (who was only trying to soak up
enough sunshine to get his day started, like an office worker at Starbucks). Now, this was a three and a half foot long
snake that was moving very slowly due to the ambient chill, so he did not
escape very fast. In fact, he ignored my
Daisy shots (when they hit) until Jerry got a good shot in with his rifle. THAT got the snakes attention, who turned on
us and opened its mouth to threaten us.
This produced several realizations at once: that the snake was too slow in
the cool air to chase us; that it had an extremely bright white mouth; and that
this mouth was a target when opened.
Thus, Jerry would pop the snake (doing no damage externally) and when
the snake hissed at us, I would pump BBs down its throat, past those very large
fangs.
Did I note that this snake had a peculiar trait we had not
seen before, in our previous encounters with garden snakes, chicken snakes, and
so on? The head was like a
triangle. Yes, you guessed it: we were
fighting a water moccasin. God protects
drunks and ignorant little boys: we messed with that snake for a good 20
minutes until it finally got away, and in that time its white mouth was bloody
with BB hits. (It was several years
later before I realized what we had fought!)
And I always wondered if the hundred or so BBs I put down its throat
killed it, or did it leave BBs mixed with snake poo everywhere it went for
weeks after?
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