Professional gadfly and all around publicity whore Nancy Grace had a wardrobe malfunction on Dancing With The Douches:
Given Grace's nostril issues, which evoke the deformities of Sister Bessie Rice from Tobacco Road, I must ask: "How Long, Oh Lord, How Long?"
As an aside, I would probably go squeakhole there. It is what it is.
Well, now, if there is any way fellows can chase off most women it is to speak of firearms, and their throbbing cocklust for them. This might be a supreme example of that sort of thing... or it might not.
Here's an aside, though, before I get started. I am amazed at the number of men who have children running around shoeless, or wearing blowed out tenny-pumps, with empregnated wives driving 20 year-old Corollas, living in a shotgun shack, while Big Daddy has $3,000 worth of shotguns, a new 4X4 crew cab pickup, an ATV, and a fucking portable duck blind, to be hauled from site to site by that crew cab.
I admire that man. I really do. Because any woman I've ever lived with would have sliced me a new thrill smile from ear to ear with the Gerber Gator she had taken from my drunken hip, while pummeling my sadly unerotic manhood with a goddam broomstick.
I admire that man, but this won't be that post.
And yet: as I waxed so eloquently at that social circle jerk Faces Book, I had to make a decision: do I buy a new fancy digital SLR camera, and enjoy a passion I have entertained since 1971? Or do I buy a couple of rifles? A .22 for plinking, and a larger caliber for processing serious harm to someone/something?
I came down on the side of guns. Because the only pictures I care to spend any extended time looking at would be naked women. Specifically, naked women I was in the process of fucking.
Anything else? Hell, that was a beautiful waterfall, but I just saw the damned thing. Am I really going to revisit that gravity-fucked bale of water in the near, or later, future? Nope. Ain't happening. The naked woman? Probably so. Several times.
Well, I have a cell phone for capturing moments of amour anyway, with the added benefit of sharing that lovemaking with all my friends instantaneously. Iffen I had friends.
And back to the track: Imma gonna buy a Marlin 795 .22 rifle. All you Ruger fans can kiss my recently shaved nethers, too. I still have an AR to build, and buying a 10/22 would engender massive amounts of customizing at the expense of the AR. I want the Marlin because I just might, at some point, and God and General Lee willing, be blessed to shoot someone in the face with it. An intruder, I must add. He must be a miscreant. But damn. Who among us wouldn't shit their drawers for the opportunity to shoot a person in the face? Didn't hurt Cheney.
It wouldn't kill the target, either, is the sweet thing. A mayhem rap, likely. But Lord a mercy. One does make a statement.
The big gun? No idea yet. I am deferring to Og for this. 308? 7mm? 30-06? He'll want me to buy a water buffalo or kudu gun, some kind of elephant gun with a name like Nitro Death or Beastslayer. Something poachers use to eliminate the last of a species, so that they may devour them in disgusting rituals. That's why he's my go-to guy.
I'm not philosophically opposed to hunting down rare exotic animals, necessarily, I just find my species of choice tend to be illegal aliens, and the errant Negro.
I merely want to kill Bambi's mother. Not that I like venison. I find it repulsive. I just want to kill Bambi's mother.
Now, then: who wants to have their picture taken? I don't have a fancy digital camera, but I do have 4 bars on my cellphone. And a rather robust number of contacts.
...and the sanctioned taking of life by The State.
Right off the get go, I shall state that the evidence against Davis was preponderant, the initial witness statements were credible, and the subsequent "recantations" were at times personally motivated, and at other times politically motivated. Not one recantation intellectually struck me as driven by true remorse for a sworn statement given under duress, or threat by law enforcement officials.
My conflation occurs because, while I believe justice was properly served, I am not convinced capital punishment is a legitimate sanction against behavior. Even the most abhorrent behavior. My statements at my dear friend Kelley's notwithstanding.
Troy Davis should have been executed. Why? Because that is the sanction The State imposed upon him. That was the penalty extant at the time. And my belief is that if The State, which we have abrogated our most solemn (and heinous) duties to, abrogates these responsibilities, then we are left to the vagaries of the lynch mob for justice (see, viz., Leo Frank).
So, then: until we choose to administer capital punishment, then we should execute that writ of death firmly, and swiftly. We, as a nation, tampered with the abolition of capital punishment. The experiment, not unlike Prohibition, did not take. People like experiencing Death, just as much as they like experiencing Booze.
I am told we are rather recently descended from the apes of the vine. Why would this fact not inform our primeval instinct to see the Bad Monkey punished? And there is no in-house-arrest, ankle bracelet punishment in the simian world. I would say dog-eat-dog, but it more akin to ape-eat-ape.
I ramble: my issue is not with the severity of the punishment for the most egregious crimes. It is with the quality of the bureaucrats empowered to execute these orders.
I do not have full faith that my government can properly process my change of address on my driver's license. I do not have full faith that my government can properly audit my income taxes. I do not have full faith that my government can fucking properly assess my property taxes, pass blessings upon my cemetery plot, inspect the emissions from my 12 year old vehicle, haul my trash, pass judgment upon my prostate, issue me a library card, issue me a concealed carry permit, tell me what day of the month to put out my oak limbs, tell me what day they take green glass, when the fucking milk jugs should be out.
I want to give these people the power of lethal injection? I don't trust a government employee as far as I can depose them in a court of law.
I've been in the job market, too. The government (and, yes, I scramble city, county, state, fed, but they are all of a particular sort) does not want me. They want some blind little burros.
And when the little burro is told to bleat, as in the case of Troy Davis, they will bleat. When they are told not to bleat, they will not.
Did you know that Lawrence Russell Brewer, the white supremacist that dragged James Byrd to death in Texas in 1998, was finally put to death yesterday?
No, you didn't.
Why is that?
Apparently the Postal Service can't even make their benefits payments anymore, and are requesting Congress amend their ability to operate in a functional manner. Not only is it too late to close the barn door, that particular horse has already starred in 12 westerns, did a stint at a petting zoo, and was recently rendered into Alpo at the knacker's yard.
I must confess a bit of a soft spot for the post office. Perhaps because it is one of the very, very few federal government services that is actually enumerated by the fucking Constitution, but also perhaps because I was the only first grader I knew whose old man received Playboy via the mailbox. The mailman was a golden god to me.
And yet... I've purchased 4 or 5 postage stamps in the last year. Two of those stamps were to RSVP my daughter's wedding. I've implemented three Changes of Address in the last 18 months, and I still receive no mail, other than the occasional desultory missive from the Internal Revenue Service informing me that You can run, but you can't hide. The tortoise ultimately wins the day, Mr. Peter Fucking Cottontail, 259-78-5440.
I'll miss the phone books the most, I reckon. A good Yellow Pages and ninety-nine cents worth of lighter fluid made for an excellent, untraceable accelerant. And the retarded fire marshal always pursued the origin of the flame, who was always A Able Attorney-at-Law, page one, entry one.
I look forward to a surplus of government gray pith helmets and right-handed Jeeps on the market. They'll make for a grand entrance to future costume parties, where one may arrive in style, accoutred as a damnable bum.
The Senator always swore (or at least when he was hammered) that the majority of mailmen simply threw their satchels in the sewers every morning, then plomped themselves upon a bar stool, there to get inebriated until quitting time. Although the Senator was a habitue of seedy bars, and would know these things, I discounted the stories. I still had faith in my American government. Because he'd told me to.
Then I began to run across stories like this.
I have an idea: what if we purchased some really fast ponies, and hired some methamphetamine addicts? They could probably deliver a satchel of mail New York to Los Angeles in 5 or 6 days, iffen they could find some oats along the way. We could call it Confederate Express, or Pony Parcel Service. Something catchy like that. Of course, if we could catch Pegasus, we'd have us an Air Mail service. I'd definitely throw some tax money that way.
I don't consider myself much of a survivalist. I find the idea of stockpiling wretched freeze-dried foodstuffs and needles and thread depressing, at best, and in reality, it is not the most prepared individual who wins the moment, it is the person who has no compunction about shooting the other poor bastard for his water and gasoline.
Having said that, I do live on a small 200 acre barrier island, approximately 18 inches above sea level at mean high tide. So there is no stockpiling of crap, no generator, that's going to do me any good. If anything with a three foot storm surge comes hither I have no choice but to evacuate. A tropical storm is doom for me.
Therefore I have to plan a little bit. The game plan is Atlanta, of course, and playing the indolent refugee at my sister's. She has food. She has wine. She has a Nigerian on the corner with Shell petrol. Hurricane Floyd showed us Interstate 16 is a clustermafuck, however. I could get bogged up in beep and creep traffic and burn an entire tank of gas before I reach Soperton. I need bail out options. Or one option: play squatter in someone's field around Claxton or Metter, and establish a defensive perimeter. I'll toss the squirrels and opossums I shoot into No Man's Land as a testament to my sense of fair usage, and also because I'll starve to death before I eat that shit.
Which brings me to the Bug Out Bag. I call them Bug Eye Bags, because it is simply ridiculous the things these survivalists insist you need in your backpack. Not that any of the items are necessarily non-essential, it is just that my fucking eyes bug out when I envision packing 100 pounds and 10 cubic feet of shit into a backpack. It's not happening. My bare essentials alone fill a duffel bag and two tall Rubbermaid bins. Stove, sleeping bag, tarps, gallons of water, lanterns, ammo... Plus long guns, tent, gas cans, camping chair, tool bag, and an inflatable doll with privileges. It's a freaking Gemini capsule full of stuff, and that only includes one roll of slice wipe. (But 2 vials of emollient for the doll with privileges).
As Barbie might say, Living off the land is Hard!
Option B is to suck it up and buy an acre from a friend up around Pembroke. Build a cinderblock bunker and stockpile this gloop until needed. That's only 35 miles. A good bike ride, as the crow flies and the pistol shoots.
I hate having to concern myself with this stuff, but I don't want to drown, either. Although it beats burning, survivors tell us.
I need to repack this Bug Eye Bag, by the way. If I don't remove some of these corn liquor bottles I won't have room for my undywear.