Tuesday

The very essence of stupidity (or proof of life on other planets)



I don't believe I've ever read so much imbecility and asininity crammed into such a small space. Wading through this kid's stereotypes, non sequiters, grammatical lunacy, and positively laughable sense of logic, I think I actually felt my own IQ slip a couple of points. A big clue was when I finished reading it, my jaw hung slackly and a blank glazed look had crept over my face.

Beware, this short little anti-gun piece by a Colorado State University Sociology and Journalism major, could be the proof that there is primitive life out there on other planets. Planet Moonbat is certainly populated!

Guns, freedom and more guns


PS: Do yourself a favor and have look at the comments in response. Young Mr. Bowman has had his ass handed to him on a platter.

h/t to Arctic Patriot

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Here's my own comment posted there:


Set aside please all arguments as to the applicability of the Constitution and Bill of Rights. Go back to your dictionary and look up the word “unalienable” instead of antediluvian. I don’t need the permission of either document to exercise my UNALIENABLE right to defend myself with whatsoever firearm I care to procure and possess.

And if you or anyone else thinks askance of that view, then I enjoin you to mosey your lil college boy behind on over and try to disarm me - and several million other Americans who are equally as passionate about the matter!

No…that won’t happen. Instead you and your sheep-like ilk will continue to compel some other mother’s son to do what you don’t have courage to attempt. Either way, someone will have to kill me to take ANY of my unalienable rights away from me.

Just because you wish to immerse yourself in the global circle-jerk collective, and march in lockstep with the rest of the hive out there, don’t expect the rest of us to come along quietly for the ride.

My response to the cries of “yes we can” is an emphatic “NO HELL YOU CAN’T!”

Sunday

In memory of my father

There is no political commentary here, nor is there any point to be made. This post is merely a reminiscence in honor of my father on his birthday. But since this blog also serves as my place to express myself, I've chosen to write about a man that was a nobody to the rest of the world - and was everything to me.

I don’t know much about his childhood. But these things I do know. He was born in the woods outside Alma Georgia in 1916. His family was exceedingly poor. His father never owed a house or piece of land. By studying US census records I can see that his family was never in the same place for very long. It is said that for a period of time they lived in a house with a dirt floor.

My father was the eighth of nine children (that lived), and he was but five years old when his mother died in childbirth. Much of his childrearing came from his oldest sister who was 15 years his senior. The defining characteristics of the household were meanness and ignorance. None of the children went to school, but instead worked in the fields to help support the family.

My grandfather’s preeminent trait was meanness. Though I never knew him (he died in 1942), I’ve talked to many who remember him as a hard and bitter man who was completely lacking in compassion or empathy for anyone. The story is told how he whipped one of his sons with a horse whip even as he lay unconscious in the road. Only the interference of an uncle brought the beating to a stop, and even then the boy nearly died from loss of blood. Another story I’ve heard from several sources is how the old man would run the children away from the house, and then kill and fry a chicken and eat the entire meal alone.

However, I never heard a single uncomplimentary remark from my father about his dad. Instead he spoke of the pain of receiving the news of how the old man dropped dead while banking potatoes. It took six months for word to reach my Dad where he was serving with the Navy CB’s in the Aleutian Islands off the coast of Alaska in the early part of WWII. The delay it seems wasn’t merely the slowness of wartime mail; it was the ambivalence of the family and the utter lack of concern over the matter. My father was bitter over that delay throughout his life.

Daddy went on to serve at Saipan where he witnessed firsthand the mass suicides of Japanese civilians who leapt from the cliffs rather than surrender to the Marines. He spoke of seeing piles of bodies of women and children, and though he despised the Japanese, I could tell that what he had seen had been deeply disturbing.

Once while on a work crew my father’s unit was attacked by a squad of Japs. There was a short but fairly fierce exchange of fire before it was over. Then the sailors went forward to inspect the bodies and one of the Jap soldiers had been nearly cut in half by the bullets from Daddy’s BAR.

After Saipan, my father went to Okinawa and was aboard ship there in the Spring of ’45 when wave after wave of Kamikazi attacks were launched against the invasion fleet. His ship was not struck, but he told of helping to rescue scores of burned and wounded men from the water around his ship.

I have a book of poetry that my Dad bought in San Francisco, and inside the flyleaf of that book he had made tic marks for the dozens of air raids he endured while on Okinawa. He told a story once of how he dove into a bunker during an air raid, and inside was some sort of huge hairy bug that he said was common on the island. He said there were bullets flying and bombs falling all over the place, “but I let that bug have that bunker!”

After the war my father came back to the states and almost immediately met and married my mother. By this time he was already 30 years old. She already had a four year-old son from a previous marriage, and my father’s older sisters (being a gaggle of hateful and sanctimonious old biddies) did everything in their power to express their displeasure at the union. Though things settled down later, my mother was never welcoming of any of my father’s kinfolk – and I can hardly blame her.

For the remainder of his life my father supported his family as a housepainter and light carpenter. He was by nature an ornery and cantankerous sort, and after the Navy and a sort stint in civil service, he never again worked for anyone but himself; he wasn’t real good at taking orders from anyone.

The old man eventually learned to read, albeit slow and haltingly, and somewhere along the way (at my mother’s insistence I’m sure) he quit drinking and never again touched a drop of alcohol. He smoked as a younger man, but one day he came home and told Mama that the price of cigarettes had gone up, and he wasn’t going to pay that ridiculous price. He quit right then and never smoked another one – apparently with no difficulty whatsoever.

Daddy had his faults. He could be hateful and narrow-minded. He was an unabashed bigot and believed wholeheartedly in segregating the races. He didn’t believe in treating a black man unfairly, he just didn’t want any association with blacks whatsoever. His entire life he used the word “nigger” and thought nothing of it. He embarrassed me in public many times.

Once early in the war, while on liberty in San Francisco he boarded a crowded bus where he saw two old ladies standing in the aisle alongside two black men who were seated. Daddy demanded that the men get up and let the old ladies sit down. One of the men cursed Daddy and that’s all it took – the fight was on. Daddy knocked one man sprawling and then jumped on the second one. Meanwhile the first man produced a knife and stabbed Daddy in the neck. Then both of the black men jumped off the bus and ran. Once the fight was over and the ladies were able to sit down, someone said “hey buddy… you’re bleeding!” Daddy yelled to the driver to stop the bus and he jumped off and gave chase, but they were long gone by that point.

However there was a time many years later when Daddy was an old man and he was coming out of the bank after cashing his check. He was approached in the parking lot by a black man who told a convincing story of needing to get home to his sick wife to deliver medicine, and how he desperately needed a ride. Daddy told the man to “Come on, I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” Once in Daddy’s truck, the man produced a pistol and robbed my father at gun point.

My folks bought a house in Jacksonville Florida in 1947, about a year after they were married, and they lived there the rest of their lives. I sold that property about two years after Mama died. It was a painful decision, but there was no way I could keep it, and the neighborhood was changing for the worse. It would have broken their hearts to see how things had gone down there.

Daddy had a colorful way of speaking that was of course rooted in his backwoods illiterate upbringing. I have long intended to list a few of his most common sayings and I suppose this as good a time as any to do so:

If he was about to get angry he might say “Don’t steam me Boy”, or “Boy, I’m gonna knock a cornfield on your head”. If I had already made him mad he usually would yell “you Wretch!” or “you Hellion!”

He never said “Listen TO me”, it was always “Listen AT me”. And that was often followed by the admonition “Let me learn you sump em”.

My father almost NEVER called me by my name. To him my name was simply “Boy”.

Every malady or illness, no matter the cause or symptom, was instantly diagnosed as “meanness…pure meanness”. And closely related to that was one of my personal favorite Daddy-isms reserved for use ONLY with me: “You got the pure devil in you Boy.” (How I long to hear that just one more time)

One of the disadvantages of being a self-employed painter was a lack of insurance coverage, so my folks were pretty slow to go to the doctor. And Daddy had a tendency to go to quack doctors that promised miracle cures. In the Fall of 1987 Daddy took a fall and sustained some severely bruised ribs, and he sought treatment from a doctor that I later discovered was nothing more than a pill dispenser. In February of ’88 Daddy called me and said “Boy I need you to take me to the hospital, my heart’s racing too fast and feels like it’s going to jump plumb out of my chest”. So of course I took him and it was then we discovered that Daddy’s problem was not bruised ribs, but advanced Congestive Heart Failure. There was nothing they could do, and the doctor told me in private that it was only a matter of time.

One afternoon as I sat with Daddy in the hospital room, he was laying there with his eyes closed and obviously didn’t feel like talking. So I sat there quietly with him. The nurse came into the room all chipper and chatty and bustled about doing the things that nurses do. She noticed that Daddy hadn’t touched a glass of milk that she had left by his bedside, and commented that she would throw it out and get him some fresh milk. Now… Daddy came from the depression era, and to him the absolute cardinal sin over all other things was to waste food for any reason. He sat up in that bed like he was springloaded and snatched that glass of milk out of her hand.

“Don’t you throw that milk away woman!” he almost yelled at her.

He chugged that glass down completely in one draught and handed it back to her before rolling over and getting still and quiet again. She looked stunned, and I sat there with a knowing smile on my face thinking how much that was like my Dad.

A few days after that, Daddy had a heart attack and he was moved into ICU. I was with him there one evening, sitting by his bed and talking with him. Daddy was 45 when I was born, and I was his only child. Being an only child, and the child of his old age, Daddy was positively foolish about me. He came across to most people as a gruff and crusty old codger full of meanness and bile, but with me he was altogether different. As I sat there beside his bed, still harboring foolish notions that he would somehow get better, he put his weathered and calloused hands on my face and told me how much he loved me. I can still feel those hands even now as I write this missive through tear-dimmed eyes. I can still see the pure love for me that filled his eyes.

I had a bad habit in those days of calling him Old Man, even though I knew he didn’t like it. And so I said “Daddy, you come home with me and I promise I’ll never call you Old Man again”.

The following morning, he went home with Jesus instead.

Today is CT’s birthday. He would have been 95. Oh Lord, words can not express how much I miss that Old Man.



My son Joe with his grandpa, a few months before he died.

Saturday

GunRights4US's personal gun history

I have no memory of the first shots I ever fired. If my brother had anything to do with it (and I’m fairly sure he did), it was probably around the age of two that a rifle was put into my hand, and my finger directed towards the trigger. My brother was pretty enthusiastic about guns, and it would have been perfectly within his nature to stake some sort of claim to having guided me to my first shots. Just to calm the reader’s nerves; my brother was 19 years my senior. So it was not a case of a child leading a child.

Guns were a huge part of my home-life and childhood. Not in the sense that there was an Olympic shooter in the house, but in the sense that they were a tool of ubiquitous purposes. Every door hid a long gun of some sort leaning in the corner behind it. Every drawer or knic-knac bowl held stray rounds of various calibers. And the wildlife of the area in those days, whether it was wild dogs, snakes, coons, possums, squirrels or blue jays, necessitated some kind of shooting incident with almost boring frequency. Either there were squirrels or jays in the figs (or grapes, or pears, or plums, or pecans, or etc.) or there were dogs amongst the chickens. At the very least there were coons and possums in the trash.

As a small boy of maybe six or seven, one of my chores was to sit out in the back yard and kill squirrels and blue jays to keep them out of the pecans, grapes, or figs. We tried various kinds of scarecrows and pie-plates and other such gimmicks, but shooting them was the tried and true method. Besides…if the offender was a squirrel, he was always welcome in our freezer!

Some will think I’m exaggerating here, but I swear it’s the truth. By the age of seven I had the privilege of taking Daddy’s single-shot .22 and going squirrel hunting in the woods behind our house – unsupervised. I can still see my father call out from his workshop the stock admonitions of either “Don’t shoot toward the house …boy” or “If you kill it, you better eat it…boy!” (My father, being a child of the depression, was sincere in his belief that a boy should be treated like a man as the best method of making him a man.)

I can honestly say that the hours I spent stalking and shooting squirrels down in that swamp were among the happiest of my life, and it is my fervent desire to revisit those woods and swamps in the twilight of my days when my mind becomes enfeebled with age.

At the ripe age of seventeen I joined the Marines - where I remained for the next 7 years. For a couple of those years I was stationed in places where there was no rifle range suitable to the fire Marine’s KD course for rifle qualification. But in the other five of those years I qualified as rifle expert (and pistol expert as well) with my personal best of 237 out of a possible 250. And for most of the years since leaving the Marines I’ve continued to hunt and shoot regularly. While I have no real trophies to speak of, I consider myself a pretty good hunter. (There is this small matter of a hunting jinx, but I’ll spare the reader that tale for another day.)

I come from a world where guns were highly useful tools that had a place in our lives. It’s sad that today they’re treated as catalysts of evil, accused of driving otherwise sane and law-abiding people to commit heinous acts of barbarism. One of the things I detest most about liberalism is the mindless hysteria it tends to incite, about many things, but particularly about guns!

Wednesday

Pa. abortion doc charged with 8 counts of murder

PHILADELPHIA – An abortion doctor who catered to minorities, immigrants and poor women was charged with eight counts of murder in the deaths of a patient and seven babies who were born alive and then killed with scissors, prosecutors said Wednesday.

Dr. Kermit Gosnell, 69, made millions of dollars over 30 years, performing as many illegal, late-term abortions as he could, prosecutors said. State regulators ignored complaints about him and failed to visit or inspect his clinic since 1993, but no charges were warranted against them, District Attorney Seth Williams said.

Gosnell "induced labor, forced the live birth of viable babies in the sixth, seventh, eighth month of pregnancy and then killed those babies by cutting into the back of the neck with scissors and severing their spinal cord," Williams said.

Williams said patients were subjected to squalid and barbaric conditions at Gosnell's Women's Medical Society.

Authorities went to investigate drug-related complaints at the clinic last year and stumbled on what Williams called a "house of horrors."

"There were bags and bottles holding aborted fetuses were scattered throughout the building," Williams said. "There were jars, lining shelves, with severed feet that he kept for no medical purpose."

The clinic was shut down and Gosnell's medical license was suspended after the raid.

Workers, some of whom were also charged with murder, were untrained and unlicensed, including a high-school student who performed anesthesia with potentially lethal narcotics, Williams said.

Gosnell and nine other employees are in custody, authorities said.

Gosnell has been named in at least 10 malpractice suits, including one over the death of a woman who died of sepsis and a perforated uterus.

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GR4U - The utterances of the blackrobed elites not-withstanding, I fervently believe that ALL abortions are murder. It is an abomination of the highest order, and my views on the whole matter of abortion are spelled out here.

Vin delivers the most scathing denunciation of taxes ever uttered

This piece by Vin Suprynowicz is today's MUST READ.

I do not possess the words to properly extol the many excellent points he makes. Just know that Vin’s style doesn’t lend itself to a cursory read. Take the time to slowly absorb this missive of pure wisdom.

If you are a person who is jealous of your Liberty, and someone who is appalled and infuriated by its continued erosion, then I am sure you will be edified by:

“I like to pay taxes. With them I buy civilization”

Tuesday

The ultimate in PC bullsh*t

The annual MLK observance at the state house in Columbia SC had an interesting twist this year. The event is held on the north side steps of the statehouse. Prominent at that location is a large bronze statue of George Washington.

This year, the NAACP constructed a "box" to conceal the Father of His Country from view so that participants would not be offended by his presence.



My personal opinion of MLK is that he was immoral (a serial philanderer) and his political ideology was very close to that of communism. On his BEST day, he didn't make a pimple on George Washington's ass.

The typical GunRights4US hunting tale

I sat on a deer stand in Alabama last Saturday morning watching some does and a small buck feeding in a field of clover. My standards are pretty high when it comes to bucks so I allowed him to survive until next year.

Once the activity began to diminish later in the morning I foolishly allowed my mind to wander, and as a result I lost my focus.

On the far side of the field, a little distance up the road that led into the field, I could see something moving – but I couldn’t tell just what it was. At first I moved to raise my rifle and put the scope on it, but then the thought occurred to me that it was pretty far away and perhaps I should get a better look thru my binoculars. I wasted valuable seconds reaching for my high dollar peepers.

What leaped into view was a beautiful ten-point rack that any hunter would be proud to hang over the mantle. In the split second that elapsed as I realized what I was seeing, the big fella adjusted his course and steered into the brush alongside the road and disappeared forever into the forest.

From the first sighting of “something moving” until the last image of his hindquarter vanishing into the greenery, no more than five seconds passed by. But if I had followed my first instinct and put the rifle scope on target rather than the binoculars, I would perhaps be posting a different picture here this morning.

Loss of focus, even for a moment, can mean the difference between success and failure. And that’s true of more than just deer hunting.

Monday

I don't either!

Great points here: I do not want civil discourse!

I wouldn't want civil discourse with a burgler (the Left is stealing my country)

I wouldn't debate with a rapist (the Left is trying to screw me)

I wouldn't rationalize with a murderer (if I refuse any order from the powers that be - they'll send men with guns to kill me)

Thursday

The Fall of Communism



H/T to Cliffs of Insanity, who also by the way makes the excellent point that Sarah Palin was responsible for this too.

Thursday

The land of the watched, and the home of the monitored

Miami-Dade police buy drones
By Tim Elfrink Thursday, Dec 9 2010

In places such as Kabul, Gaza, and Baghdad, unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) hovering over homes, following suspects, and tracking enemies of the state are a daily reality.

The Miami-Dade Police Department is poised to become the first large metro force using drones in its aerial missions. The department finalized a deal to buy a drone called T-Hawk from defense firm Honeywell and officially applied for permission from the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) last month to begin flying it around the county.

What's not clear is how cops will sort out the raft of thorny privacy questions hovering around plans for using this powerful, new eye in the sky.

"At this point, it doesn't really matter if you're against this technology, because it's coming," says P. W. Singer, author of Wired for War and an expert on drones. "The precedent that is set in Miami could be huge."

Read the whole article here

GR4U - I guess the cops will justify this by claiming that local gangs have acquired shoulder-fired ground-to-air missiles!