Busy today actually I have a second.

no post.

SHitter's broke.

Actually the sewer line is clogged. A plumber is on the way. Later I will explain why I didn't DIY.

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Another Nextdoor disciplinary action

Some chickie-poo posted she met the love of her life on Nextdoor and they are getting married next year and so on and so forth. 

I would have left it alone if it wasn't so naive and drippy sounding.

But I didn't. I posted "That'll last until he knocks you up, skips town and joins the French Foreign Legion."

Some woman immediately asked me why I would post such a horrible thing.

"Because that's what I'd do."

Reported.

Those people have NO sense of humor.

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A certain cop retired. I'll miss him.

The first time we met he was at my door asking about the UXO in my backyard. 

UXO? Unexploded ordinance? Yeah. That UXO.

"I just got a complaint saying your back yard is full of leftover UXO because it was some kind of training area or something."

"Good," I answered. "Now go back to the woman that complained and tell her to tell her son to quit stealing my paracord."

"I don't understand," he said. He looked somewhat confused.

"Let's go for a walk," I said, walking out the door. We went into the back yard and I pointed out the trio of wire antennas starting in the back yard, two of which ran into the way-back. We went into the wayback and the base of a tree. A wire was leading from the house to the tree. At the end of the wire was an insulator and at the other end of the insulator was a piece of 550 paracord that acted as a halyard. The wire could be pulled up the tree or lowered.

I had pulled the wire up the tree with the 5550 cord, tied the end off, coiled the end of the cord and hung it on a branch. Someone had cut the cord and taken the coil.

Then I pointed to the sign nearby. It read:

          Former military training area

               UXO may be present.

   If found mark it and notify the authorities.

There were also a couple of pictures of grenades on the sign.

"After my cord was cut I put up the sign figuring the kid would return, run his mouth and a scared parent would call you guys," I explained.

"That's clever," he said. 

"Now go to the woman that complained and tell her to tell her son to leave my paracord alone. If he wants a piece he can ask me and I'll give him some. Hell, I buy the stuff by the 1000 foot spools," I said.

He laughed. "You made the kid rat himself out. I'll take care of it. Meanwhile would you please take down that sign?"

And that's how I met one of our local officers. 

I'd run into him periodically and we'd chat. He was a really nice guy. 

 

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A couple of years after this happened we were sitting around playing ''remember the time....?"

Remember the time Piccolo and Renny ran that guy out of town by dropping bowling balls on him from Renny's airplane?

Renny had died in a mid-air crash the previous roe herring season. He's still missed.

Jim Juth, who owned the bowling alley chimed in. "I remember selling him those bowling balls," he said. "I almost didn't because I was terrified what he'd do with them but I caved in because I was dying to find out. I have NEVER had such mixed feelings about seling something in my life! I was cringing at the thought of turning Pic loose with them but I was dying inside to find out what he'd with them so I sold them against my better judgement."

When Jim was selling a bunch of beat up bowling balls for a buck apiece I took one look at fifteen of them and said I'd take them.

It was one of those things. I had to have them even though I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do with them. It's kind of like quarter pound blocks of TNT. Even today as an old man if someone offered me a bunch of TNT I would snap it up even though I have no idea what I'd do with it. I'd think of something, though.

It's not likely to happen, though. Anyone that knows me would refuse to sell it to me and anyone that didn't know me would think I might be a fed and they wouldn't sell it to me, either.

Anyway, about a week later John Lewis, a physical monster that had crossed me wandered into Tony's Bar looking for me and said he was going to beat me senseless. He said I had rolled a bowling ball down the hill and he had driven over it and knocked the muffler of his new-to-him pickup.

Three guys sitting at the bar told him that Piccolo had been with them the previous night out at the Road's End drinking and we'd camped and got back to town at about 0900 this morning.

John Lewis walked out trying to figure out who the hell had rolled a bowling ball down the hill at 0230 when he was headed home mildly drunk.

When I walked into the bar a few minutes later the three of them started laughing like hell and they each handed me $20 that they had bet that I'd miss John's pickup. 

They didn't like John Lewis, either.

Anyway there was some pimpy little thug that had recently arrived from Los Angeles. He was throwing his LA toughness around and was very long overdue for a serious beatdown. He thought he had moved to Hooterville and we were all a bunch of hicks. We later discovered he had some kind of gang/mob/whatever connections and had been sent to Kodiak to wholesale cocaine which was exceedingly popular at the time. It sold for $150/gram back then.

He wandered into Tony's and pushed me out of his way. I instinctively decidd that if I shoved him back he'd pull out a knife or a gun and I figured he wasn't worth it. I sat down next to Renny and listened as the little thug ran his mouth about something LA/gang/whatever related.

Renny and I looked at each other and nodded. In any language that translates to :"We'll fix THIS guy!"

We sat there in our thoughts. Finally Renny turned to me. "How many of those bowling balls do you have?"

"Why?" I answered. "Your airplane gassed up"

Renny's jaw dropped. "I can't bombard the little bastard, I'd lose my license!!"

"Nonsense," I replied. "The FAA has to catch you before you get into any trouble."

He thought a few minutes. "Hmm...You got a point. It ain't illegal if ya don't get caught! What did you have in mind?"

Neither of us had opened a beer yet and Renny said, "Come with me."

Ten minutes later we were at the airport warming up Renny's Cub. Ten minutes after that we were in the air on a reconnasaince mission. Reconnissance is the forst step to a successful mission.

We took off, flew low over the lake, crossed over town barely clearing the buildings until we got to the channel and followed it out just barely over the wavetops. We were literally flying under the radar and after a while flew over the reported campsite of that nasty little thug. We both chatted over the intercom and after a brief flight retraced our path and returned to Municipal. We were met.

Harlon was a Vietnam vet, a reconnissance sergeant of some sort with a couple of tours under his belt. Little got past him. As we were tying the Cub down he wandered up.

"That was an under the radar recon flight if ever there was one," he said. "What are you two screwballs up to?"

We looked at him.

"Well, out with it. You're going to need a ground crew to cool your engine down so it doesn't look like you've moved the damned airplane." he said.

Renny and I looked at each other. I broke the silence. "You know that pimpy little coke dealer that moved into town?"

"Say no more. I'm in," said Harlon. "Stick around."

Two minutes later he showed back up unrolling a long extension cord. He told Renny to grab the shop fan and we parked it next to the plane and covered it with a tarp. Harlon plugged the cord in and we all headed off to attend to other business. I went to an odd job for someone, fixing a leaky sink if I recall.

The next day was too windy and the day after that I was scheduled to do something. I remember advancing it a day so I had it done and over with and was free the next day.

The following day was perfect and there was a high cloud ceiling which actually made things ideal.

I got in the back seat and Renny handed me three bowling balls. Harlon apppeared out of nowhere, saw what Renny was doing and stood there agape for a second but that turned quickly into a huge smile. Renny hopped in and buckled in. We warmed up the engine, went through the preflight run-up and off we went.

We took off and started following the previous flight path we had flown.

Now the plan was to buzz his camper until he came out to see what was going on and then make a long, slow pass over the camper and drop a bowling ball through the roof. We were not trying to kill him. I had two spares in case I missed. 

Now the story got retold and the number of bowling balls I carried with me went up one bowling ball per telling but there is no way I could have crammed 127 bowling balls in such a small space as the back seat of the Cub. Three was enough!

Of course the best plans go straight to hell when one begins to execute it. We spotted the nasty little thug walking on the beach and roared past him less than 20 feet off the deck. He hit the deck in a panic as we went by him. I keyed the intercom. "Head for the camper," I said. Renny nodded and at the same time throttled back.

Those little planes cruise at about 75 mph and the stall speed is about 45. Renny was very good at slow flying and the previous spring I had been Renny's 'bombardier' when we were in an informal contest with a couple of guys dropping flour bombs at a target on the ground. Bush pilots are generally pretty good at dropping things to people.

Renny opened the top part of the hatch and stuck it to the bottom of the wing. "Bombay doors open," He said. "It's NOT your airplane! I got this one."

That was a reference to our flour dropping contest of the previous spring. With dual controls I'd actually fly the plane for a few seconds during the 'bombing' run. We were slow flying and with no real altitude we couldn't afford mistakes.

Renny flew toward the target slow, flat and just sllightly off center to compensate for the bowling ball being dropped from the starboard side. When we got near the camper he rolled the bird slightly to starboard.

At the last minute I realzed that the bowling ball would not follow the same trajectory as a flour bag so I held back a nanosecond and just before we crossed the camper I flipped it out. "Bombs away!" I said into the intercom. "Did you ever see North by Northwest?"

"I was thinking the same thing," replied Renny as we made a slow sweeeping turn to access the damage. "Let's torment the little bastard!"

Now I'm telling this story so it was a perfect center hit but actually it wasn't. It was a couple of feet off center but there was clearly a huge hole in the roof. Actually it didn't take much. Campers and RVs are flimsy. It's very thin aluminum, about an inch of fiberglass insulation and cheap paneling. We knew the bowling ball had destroyed the camper beyond repair.

The little thug was about 200 yards from the camper. He'd been walking on the beach and we buzzed him from about ten feet off the deck. He hit the dirt at the last minute. 

I also tossed one of the other bowling balls out as we were over him, knowing the trajectory ould carry it past him. I knew he'd see it and think we were trying to hit him.

We buzzed him again and the last of the bowling balls was jettisoned. The little thug had hit the dirt again in a panic. I imagine he thought we were trying to grind him up with the propeller.

We made a couple more passes and chased him across the beach. He was terrified and we could plainly see it.

We flew back to the barn skimming the wavetops, flew around the town over the water and quietly landed. Harlon, good to his word was standing at the hardstand when we taxied up to it. We climbed out of the airplane fast.

We pushed the little airplane into position and Harlon had the fan running before we were in the position to tie it down.

"After action report later. I get off at 5. Bring a 6-pack. I don't usually drink but I want one when I hear this!" he said. "I got it from here. Go straight to Tony's and make yourself seen. You'll get there before he can. If a cop sees you there, better yet! Now scram!"

We raced to my pickup. I had helper Renny tow his VW to Smokey's dump a week or so earlier. We pulled into Tony's lot and ambeled in.

It was still too early for beer so we sat at the bar and drank coffee. We were both pretty keyed up and had a hard time not showing it.

We waited for almost an hour and the little thug stormed in carrying a duffel bag with his face still in a panic he was still very visably shaken. The bartender asked him what he wanted and he snapped, "Nothing. I'm leaving town!"

Renny was sitting on my right. Blaine, who had wandered in, was on my left. He walked up to Blaine. "I'm from LA," he said. "Back there the Tongs cut you up, the mob shoots you and the gangs do both but I never lived anywhere where the people will try to chop you up with an airplane propeller and drop bowling balls on you! I'm out of here!"

In a show of typical chutzpah, I leaned over and asked him if he'd take $50 for his truck. Renny needed a vehicle.

"Done deal," he said, walked off and in a minute returned with the title and asked for a pen. He scribbled his signature on it and handed it to me. I handed the title to Renny.

"Hundred bucks," said Renny. "P.A.F."

P.A.F meant 'pay after fishing'. I knew Renny was short of cash and nodded.

Back then a title could be transferred with a simple signature. No notary was required but I don't know about today. It was blank and Renny would simply fill in the details and be good to go.

Blaine gave me a knowing look. "Bowling balls, huh? OK, what'ja do?"

"Later," I replied. "Let's just get this jerk out of town first." Blaine nodded. 

The jerk told the bartender to call him a cab which showed up quickly. It was a quiet day for the cabbies. When it arrived the little thug turned and faced the entire bar. "I'm outta here and I hope I NEVER see this place again!" He looked at the cabbie and said, "Take me to the airport!"

He walked out and the two of them drove off.

Blaine looked at us. "What if he gets drunk and they don't let him on the airplane?"

"Penny owes me a favor," said Renny. He got up went over to the pay phone, made a call and returned. He said the fix was in. He was booked on the next flight out, leaving in a few hours.

Penny worked at the state airport which was shared with the Coast Guard. She was a stocky, cheerful woman capable of carrying him on the plane if need be.

We frittered the rest of the afternoon sitting at the bar. Everyone was trying to figure out what had made that little thug leave town on such short notice. Airplanes? Bowling balls? What was that all about? Then they'd just shrug. Most of us had seen people leave town before on short notice. It was no big thing to us. People came and went.

Renny and I went out to look at his new to him pickup. We opened the camper and as to be expected the interior was demolished. There was a huge dent in the floor. Later when we pulled the camper off the truck at the dump we discovered a dent in the bed. The ball had hit hard.

We went through the cabinets and storage spaces and salvaged what we could and transferred the salvagable stuff to my pickup. I pulled out a halfway decent propane refrigerator I could use. Mine was shot and this one served me well for a couple of years.

We found a .32 automatic pistol in the glove box along with a couple of cheap punk knives and a .45 under the seat. I took the .45. 

We went back into Tony's and the bartender told us Penny had called and the message was "The plane left and he was on it." It was getting close to 1700 so we grabbed a six pack and went back to municipal and gave Harlon out After Action report. He laughed gleefully and his face lit up when I handed him the .45. He had earned it.

Renny ran the truck for the season and then returned to Seldovia. He sold the truck to Doc who sold it to Blaine who later put it on the ferry and took it to Anchorage and traded it for the Rock n Roll Cadillac. The Caddy was instrumental to a later adventure which is another story.

Aftermath.

Jim Juth spotted me wandering through the bowling alley bar a couple of months later. He took me aside and told me he had very serious misgivings on selling me the bowling balls but considering nobody got hurt he thought it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. He, too was glad to get that punk out of town. I don't know how he found out but it was a small town and there are few secrets in one. Jim also bought me a beer.

Renny made a killing flying as a roe herring spotter that season but his greed cost him his life the following year. Against all advice he flew alone without a spotter to look out for other airplanes. He was killed in a midair collision.

Forty years later. We didn't want to hurt the little bastard. Like the person that has his car crapped on by birds, we were simply putting out a plate of fried chicken and scrambled eggs to show the damned birds what we were capable of!

 

 

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Whoops!

Almost missed a day.

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Why are there two USGI mess kits in mt cabinet?

I had a visitor over for breakfast a while back. Most people have people over for lunch or even dinner but I tend to try and serve breakfast because it's my favorite meal.

Anyway when I got the plates out someone asked me why there are two USGI mess kits in my cabinet.

Simple. I save them for certain special guests that come by for biscuits and gravy once in a while. Yeah, they're veterans and they get a boot out of being served B&G in mess kits and eating it outside.

I have a military contractor friend in Kuwait and about once a year he drops by when he takes a brief leave. He has little time stateside lest he get hit for income tax and I feel quite complimented when he swings by. 

He generally arrives with a pound of Jimmy Dean, a quart of milk and biscuits from a bakery somewhere. I whip up a batch and toss a couple of over easys on top and we yaffle them down outside, rain or shine.

 

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The infamous kitchen knife.

Chefs seem to have a serious set of knives.

However I am not a chef. I am a cook and look at things differently. The chef wants to create a masterpiece to show off his fine culinary skills and create a taste sensation for the most discriminating palates.

I, of course, have the taste of a Phillistine.  I just want to simply make something to eat or maybe feed myself and occasionally someone else. I am a cook and actually a pretty good one if you don't mind my saying so. Actually I don't care if you mind it or not.

Anyway, my main tool is a simple knife. It's a utile basic knife that would feel at home in a hunter's sheath or a fisherman's tackle box. In the kitchen it performs a simple function. It cuts things up.

I use it a lot. For example when I make chili. I don't usually use ground beef. I get stew meat or even hack up an inexpensive roast, cutting the pieces to a size of about 1/3 the size of my little toe.

It's a decent basic carbon steel blade that I bought as a basic blank and handled myself out of a piece of mahonany I had floating around and affixed it with brass machine screws. It's the one on the left.

Most people don't know steel. Carbon steel stains fast. The two knives in the picture have no rust on them whatsoever. They're just stained from legitimate use. Take a brand new carbon steel knife and cut an orange and it will instantly stain the steel blue in places. It's a stain and probably won't come out with anything less than a wire wheel.

The one on the right is it's future replacement which I hve used a couple of times here and there. Still, the old one is the go-to.

As you can see, it's grown a lot thinner from years of repeated sharpenings with a simple Old School draw-through sharpener. Bladesmiths will cringe at the thought of a beautiful blade being sharpened with one but it's a utile knife and as such the draw-through does the job quickly instead of screwing around with sticks and stones.

What's interesting is that the older I get the more I like my Old School knife. Eventually when I pass someone will see it at an estate sale for a buck and will likely pass it by. They will have no clue about the tasty meals it's created.

Both knives are identical as far as the steel goes. Only the handles are different. The one on the right has a factory handle and looks smaller because of the angle I was holding the camera when I took the picture.

The longer I have this knife the more I am inspired to use it and cook good meals. It's coming up on 30 years now. I bought the blank at a sutler's that specializes in black powder shooting supplies.

Here's a picture of it in action.

 

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One ot the things that has not been done in a while is a deep, deep cleaning here

And I started it today and it's a slug fest. I'm trying to make it so clean it looks new and although it has been slow going I'm pretty much winning.

The kitchen is a gold plated bastard. I actully got the 25 YO+ formica looking fairly new again and 90% of the upper cabinets look fairly new also. 

The floor is actually a lost cause but I might throw down some treadway and make it look good. We'll see.

Still, when you consider the wear and tear it's been through it'll actually look pretty good when I'm finished. From there it's on to the bathroom which is actually in pretty good shape.

It'll only take me a couple hours and I'll have that head so clean the Virgin Mary would be proud to go in there, sit down and take a dump.

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I love tracking packages and once bought something just so I could track it.

DHL was the most interesting to follow when I smuggled a radio out of the UK years ago. It was slower than molasses in the beginning. The package sat in the airport for a few days before it started moving again and between the time the airplane went gear up until I had the package in my hand was well inder 16 hours and that included clearing customs.

It was astonishing.

One of the best essays I ever wrote a while ago was one I wrote as a package sent USPS traveled from CA to here in Pittsburgh. I was tracking it and making up what went on between stops. I was going to post it here but the laptop I was using crashed and I lost it.

Anyway, I remember part of it.

Big Ben hops into his rig and heads for the interstate. He's got the hammer down and is cookin' and bookin'. A quick call from the CB and he drops a fast 25 mph. There's a cop up ahead.

Passing the cop, it's hammer down time again and suddenly the Fuzzbuster goes off and Big Ben is nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. Can he bleed off 20 mph in time before the laser radar tags him? He pumps the brake and slides past the cop just a mile under what the cop considers too fast and three miles later he's highballing again. 

He whips past a Fedex rig and springs into the lead! The fans are on their feet and the crowd goes wild!

He makes it into Reno twenty minutes ahead of schedule and the package comes off the truck. Big Ben hauls ass out and heads north with the rest of the packages.

Problem at Reno. The scheduled truck is down and something must be done. Sub it out! The package heads over across the street and is handed off to none other than a Pony Express rider. The thirteen year old orphan snatches it, puts it into the saddlbag and springs  into the saddle and departs at a full gallop to the next substation ten miles away. He's galloping as fast as his spirited steed can take him.

As he pulls into the substation he's met by none other than Gabby Hayes. "Dad blum it, Sonny! You're fifteen minutes early. You got time for a bowl of beans!"

But our daring, resourceful and intrepid youthful rider is having none of it. He pulls the saddle bag from his tired mount and puts it on the eagerly awaiting fresh steed, mounts up and gallops off. It's ten miles to the next station where he will return the package to the UPS terminal.

Three miles out, he looks down off of the ridge and sees a rest area on the interstate with a number of cars drawn up into a circle. Indians!

He puts the spurs to his fiery steed and heads for his next stop.

Two miles later he spies the Indians on the ridge line. There are so many that some are falling off the cliff face because the Indians in the back are surging forward to see what's going on. He hears them saying in their native tongue, "Hey! Quit that pushing back there!" as a dozen more Indians fall off the face of the cliff.

That's a lot of Indians.

He's off with the Indians in hot pursuit! They're gaining on him because their mounts are fresher. They're getting closer and closer as he heads to the next station. An arrow comes whizzing by and he comes close to a movie set out in the desert.

Suddenly he hears a faint bugle. It gets louder and then out of nowhere the United States Cavalry comes boiling over the hill to the rescue.

Of course it's not the real cavalry. It's a bunch of actors led by some colonel played by Tom Hanks and they have no clue that our daring rider is in hot water. 

But the bugle is all the Indians have to hear. They think they're in hot water now so they turn and run. Maybe they return to the encircled group of cars by the interstate. Our intrepid rider pushes on and gets to the UPS station well ahead of schedule.

The package is taken to a truck and Bud Lester gets behind the wheel. Bud is a strict union man and generally follows the speed limit and obeys all the rules and regulations. As a result he's always behind schedule. He takes the package all the way to Missouri and arrives three hours late.

That's about all I can remember.

Anyway it was a lot of fun following a package across the country and making up all of the details.

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Why don't we reward success?

We spend a fortune on special needs kids which is fine. I have nothing against that. It's the decent thing to do. Those kids need help so give it to them.

Still, what do we do with the truly talented? We've all met them at one time or another. They are the nerdy kids that get all As and genetically modified some flowers to make them bigger as a third grade science project.

I know of no programs to let kids like that run free and utilize their talents. Instead we put them in a classroom with everyone else and force the poor kid to be bored to tears in a classroom designed to let the slowest kid keep up.

Sometimes the boredom leads to behavioral problems out of frustration. Mostly it takes a kid and totally stifles him and leaves them sitting there annoyed that they can't get out and run.

Speaking of running, an athlete will often be nurtured and encouraged but the talented kid gets ignored. They simply say, "He's/she's a good student," and leave it at that. Big deal. He got an A in freshman algebra when he probably could have aced calculus easily enough.

What a waste! Let the kid go for it! Let him soar! 

Yank him out of the classroom and give him his own laboratory of some sort as befits his interest. Let him skip grades if he is able and if he enters a college classroom when he's 14, so what? 

Let a kid like that see what his upper limit is and while not all of those talented kids are going to find a cure for cancer, one of them is going to figure out how to make a longer lasting light bulb or something like that.

I say let's fund SUCCESS.

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Anyone know who said this?

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I accept the flowers as a memento of reconciliation between the white and colored races of the Southern states. I accept it more particularly as it comes from a colored lady, for if there is any one on God's earth who loves the ladies I believe it is myself. (Immense applause and laughter.) I came here with the jeers of some white people, who think that I am doing wrong. I believe I can exert some influence, and do much to assist the people in strengthening fraternal relations, and shall do all in my power to elevate every man, to depress none.

I want to elevate you to take positions in law offices, in stores, on farms, and wherever you are capable of going. I have not said anything about politics today. I don't propose to say anything about politics. You have a right to elect whom you please; vote for the man you think best, and I think, when that is done, you and I are freemen. Do as you consider right and honest in electing men for office. I did not come here to make you a long speech, although invited to do so by you. I am not much of a speaker, and my business prevented me from preparing myself. I came to meet you as friends, and welcome you to the white people. I want you to come nearer to us. When I can serve you I will do so. We have but one flag, one country; let us stand together. We may differ in color, but not in sentiment. Many things have been said about me which are wrong, and which white and black persons here, who stood by me through the war, can contradict. Go to work, be industrious, live honestly and act truly, and when you are oppressed I'll come to your relief. I thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for this opportunity you have afforded me to be with you, and to assure you that I am with you in heart and in hand." (Prolonged applause.)

He then kissed a young black lady on the cheek. In 1875. In Memphis. A white dude. Think about that for a second

Nathaniel Bedford Forrest.

Recently disinterred in Memphis and reburied in Tennessee. 

But you never heard that on the news, did you?

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One of the things that sucks to vote for is School Committee.

because practically every stinking one of them is there to further a personal agenda. Most have children in the school system and that makes it an instant conflict of interest.

School committees have a reputation for things like closed meetings and things of that sort. On top of that the one thing they always seem to want is mo money, mo money and mo money. They never stop and think that they could get by and generally rather well by managing the money they do get.

Another thing is they don't spend enough time keeping an eye on curriculums and teachers. 

If they had been doing their job we would not have children that don't understand the Constitution and the basics of government. Had the school committes been paying attention we wouldn't be in the shape we're in.

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I have 12 children.

I have 12 children. If you want to know why I have twelve children stop and try and remember that little talk your mother had with you when you were little. The one where she explained where babies come from.

My oldest son is retired from a career in the French Foreign Legion where he retired in the highest enlisted grade. He then moved to French Polynesia and married a striking Polynesian and is gorgeous mixed race raising two children. Both are beautiful children but the youngest got hit with the Irish gene and sports red hair and freckles with a Polynesian complexion. Oh, well. Picture a Polynesian Larry Bird. Still, I'm prouder than a peacock over them.

My oldest daughter has been incarcerated but is coming up for parole early because of her excellent conduct in prison. She was convicted of murdering a woman that kept asking her father too many nosy questions about his family.

Another daughter is presently in Alaska where she, her husband and three kids live in a far flung remote outpost with the nearest neighbor ten miles away. She once shot and gutted a reindeer about two days before she gave birth to her youngest child. They both love living there. They say the best part is there are no suburban neighbors trying to tell them how to mow their lawn and gossipping behind their backs.

Two sons are MDs. One is currently in Africa doing relief work for peanuts. He loves it. The other is a plastic surgeon in Hollywood specializing in boob jobs, tummy tucks, and butt lifts. He once gave Joy Behar one of his cards offering her a deal on a much needed face lift but hasn't heard from her yet. He makes more money than God.

Joy Behar still needs a face lift. Then again, she's a nasty old broad and I wonder if he could make a difference. You can't make nasty go away.

One daughter considered a career in Hollywood after she was on the Jerry Springer show. She now has an honest career in Hollywood ringing a register at the Hollywood Safeway. 

Ah, yes. My lovely little bookworm. She got a PhD in English and American literature and taught at one of the Seven Sister colleges for Several years. After the 2016 election she was fired because she had the nerve to say that even though she voted for Hillary she wished good luck to Donald Trump for the good of the nation. She went to work with her brother as a commercial fisherman. The two have turned into a successful team.

My son, the fisherman. He tried to get started fishing lobsters and digging clams in Dubuque, Iowa and failed miserably. He moved to Maine where he proved to be rather successful catching lobsters and digging clams. 

When his sister was fired from a teaching post she joined him and briefly fished. The pair of them opened a lobster pound and have been successful both fishing and selling to the public. They have customers worldwide as they air ship their catch anywhere. She says she's a lot happier there doing a job she didn't even have to graduate from high school for. She doean't have to deal with psuedo intellectuals and suburban moms. 

A son of mine is currently running for political office. I didn't raise him that way. I raised my children to be honest. He will never darken my doorstep again.

My other daughter, the prostitute and porno actress is welcome in my house anytime. While I don't like her career choice to say the least, she's at least honest about it.

I also have a son that had to do everything the hard way. He had only a term paper left to get his degree. It was written and ready to go but he didn't turn it in. Instead he enlisted in the Marines hell bent on becoming a mustang officer. When he made corporal meritoriously he sent the term paper in and was sent his degree. He applied for the green to gold program, was accepted and went to OCS and was commissioned. When he made captain he was assigned a company. When his term as a company commmander was over with he resigned.

He's some kind of spook and we occasionally corrospond through some strange third party. He's doing well even though I have no clue what he's up to.

The youngest is currently an Air Force NCO responsible for teaching aircrews survival skills in case they get shot down but I have told him he can't come to Thanksgiving dinner until he apologizes to his sister for eating her pet gerbil last Christmas.

There is also a 13th child but he's not really ours. 

I tried to prank my wife and 'borrowed' a youngster and had him sitting on the couch for when my wife came home. Of course she was shocked and asked him what he was doing there. He had been coached by his father and I.

"Mr Piccolo bought me for $4 and a bottle of whiskey from my real father. Mr. Piccolo said he'd raise me if I promised to take care of him when he got old."

I was expecting a conniption fit with panic stricken screeching from my wife but when the cell phone went off my wife was in tears of joy because she wanted to raise another one.

The boy's father and I played hell getting him his son back for him. He's a regular visitor.

So tell me about your family.

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Well, here we go.

Seems like there's going to be a support rally in downtown Pittsburgh to protest the abortion law in Texas. 

It would be interesting to find out how many of the protesters that are screaming out against government intervention in their bodies think it's OK for the same government to try and force the Covid vaccine on those that elect not to take it.

Probably quite a few.

Abortion is an abomination. It's as simple as that. My personal/religious view. Fine. Let's park that somewhere and set it aside.

On the other hand, my libertarian character says that the government has no business outlawing OR legalizing abortion. It's simply none of their business. 

It also has no right to try and force a vaccine on people that don't want it.

All  of it is tyranny.

Some guy named Jefferson said, "If it neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg." and I'm good with that.

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I just read where sliced bread was outlawed during WW2.

The law only lasted about three months but the government did outlaw it for some war related reason that made little sense.

Some imbecile in Washington probably figured it would save three or four inches of waxed paper but did not consider that there would be a run on bread knives which meant steel which was needed to make ships, tanks and guns.

Always remember that people that think of things like that are our elected officials.

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Smedley Butler was right about war being a racket.

What made me stop and think was an interesting officer I served under.

He had enlisted as a private, passed the FAST test and was selected to be an aviation candidate. He learned to fly a helicopter and was warranted as a Warrant Officer. 

Later through some program he commissioned as an Artillery Officer.

I said it must have been a lot of fun flying a helicopter.

He replied, "Yeah. It was. At least until the first time I had to order my gunner to murder some poor guy that I probably would have enjoyed having a beer with."

That's when I realized I had been trained to be a murderer. I had to think that one over.

Later during a riot control class I spoke out. I said that if any officer or NCO ordered me to fire on American citizens without a damned good reason I would turn my rifle on him and shoot HIM.

You could have heard a pin drop until a voice in the back of the class sounded off and said loudly "AS YOU SHOULD!"

Guess who that was?

I think there's a shortage of good officers like that these days.

 

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An interesting day.

A Marine I met, an NCO that is being commissioned soon from the ranks, they call them mustangs and it means he's one squared away SOB. He wanted to know about a black powder rifle he bought. He is a shooter and wanted to venture into black powder.

I explained how things work as best I could and so on.

He asked me how I knew so much and I casually told him I was issued a similar rifle in basic training when I went into the army.

His jaw dropped and he blushed instantly.

I think we got a pretty good Marine officer in the making. Yeah, he was caught off guard but he recovered instantly. That says a LOT.

It was ALMOST as satisfying as the time I chugged a 750 Jim Beam bottle full of iced tea in front of the shooting team at Camp Perry and got up, said that if the bottles got any bigger I was going to need a designated driver. I got into my pickup and drove off leaving most of them stunned for a few minutes.

Later a Master Gunnery Sergeant mentioned the incident to me and I told him it's an Old School trick. I knew I couldn't fool them for long but I could fool them enough to make a pretty clean getaway.

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I was playing who do you know from back in the day with someone a while back and they

reminded me of something I have managed to forget all these years because I didn't want to think about it.

Scraping a friends brains off of a ceiling and cleaning up a suicide scene sucks. I did it because no father should ever see a horrible scene like that.

What sucks even worse is meeting his father at the airport and taking him around town while he goes through the process of claiming the remains of his son to take back home to bury. No father should have to go to a far away remote place to pick up his child's remains alone.

Let's leave it at that. No further discussion is desired.

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Legitimate service animals are a Godsend.

As a general rule of thumb they can easily be identified by the fact that they do NOT wear one of those hokey vests that you can buy for $8 on eBay. 

Those vests more often than not serve to identify a totally untrained fleabag that generally has no business being anywhere but the owner's home and has no business whatsoever being inflicted on the general public. 

True service dogs seldom wear vests.

If you can't fly in an airplane without your untrained nasty little lapdog then just either drive or stay home. 

As I am writing this there is a pretty good circus on Nextdoor over someone being denied entrance at a restaurant because of their dog.

If the restaurant denied entrance to a person with a legitimate, trained service dog they are plain wrong. On the other hand if they denied entrance to some untrained fleabag in an $8 eBay vest, then God bless them.

I've had to deal with one on a packed flight just before Covid. I was stuck next to this very priviliged fat, bleached blond slathered in eye watering cheap perfume that she got somewhere after a third world desert whore threw it away while she was carrying her precious fake vest clad lapdog on her lap.

It would have been somewhat tolerable except for the fact that the hyperactive little yapper kept licking my ear as I tried to doze of and kept yapping. I took it for a while and said something to the woman.

She promptly complained to the attendant who I had noticed had watching me occasionally. The attendant then heard me explain that I didn't like someone's fleabag slobbering all over me while I was trying to nap. She politely asked me to come with her and I did.

We went aft to the attendant station and she told me that unfortunately she had no spare seat to put me and said she completely understood how I felt about the dog. She said the woman had some sort of paperwork.

"Yeah? What? The little card they give you with that stupid vest? Emotional support dog my ass. I KNOW about legitimate emotional support animals and they're trained."

"I know," she said, sadly.

I told her I had no problem with the dog. I was angry at the owner for not having trained the animal and told her the little fleabag should be shipped off to a training facility of some sort. As for the owner? She should be thrown off of the airplane.

The attendant chuckled and said it was impossible to do at 38,000 feet.

"We can all put on our oxygen masks for a few minutes while the pilot slow flies the plane and we give her the old heave-ho," I shot back.  The attendant laughed outright at that. I also commented on the woman's perfume. The attendant simply agreed it was a bit much.

"The desert whores in Morocco love that stuff because they never bathe," I replied.

"Sometimes I wish we could throw them off," she replied. I got the pro forma thanks for your patience and returned to my seat.

Ten minutes later the dog crapped in the aisle. Needless to say, the attendant cleaned it up with a poor poker face.  She was clearly livid.

The woman in the seat across the aisle said something to the dogowner and as to be expected, the owner tried to defend herself. She said it was an emotional support animal.

I told her that if she needed that undiciplined fleabag for emotional support to get on an airplane and fly then she should have driven or walked to Seattle. 

She started to say something and I told her "Don't get indignant with me. I already have a felony on my record and any more I get don't count! They can't take away your rights twice!"

That shut her up and I noticed the woman across the aisle smirk. She asked me what crime I had committed. She was pretty sharp and quick on the uptake.

"Right now I'm out on parole for murdering a woman that brought a fake service dog on an airplane, I answered. She laughed. The dog owner turned purple.

I tried to curl up and nap but the hyperactive little fleabag started licking my ear. Much to her credit the attendant was there and laid the law down. She told the woman that on further flights her dog would be restricted to the cargo deck and she had better buy a kennel of some sort for her return flight.

I butted in and told the attendant to get me something to write on because when she (the attendant) was called on to defend herself she could tell them to call me I wanted to give her my name and phone. She said it was OK. She had an understanding boss. Still, the offer was good because we just knew that woman was going to complain.

"They can't do that," she protested.

Hold my beer. They CAN. The ADA clearly specifies that if a service animal does not behave themselves the animal may be evicted. It is the owner's responsibility to insure the animal behaves itself. Surprise!

When we were on final approach I told the woman that when she entered the aisle she had best take a step back and let me go before her or I'd run over her. I wanted off that plane in the worst way. She gave me a harumph but got surprised instead.

When we stopped I hopped up on my seat and jumped over her, grabbed my bag and started down the aisle.  Not bad for an old man! I wasn't going to give her a chance to get in front of me because it would have looked like Sergeant Carter and Gomer Pyle. I would heve followed her kicking and screaming at her.

As I got to the door both attendants stopped me for a second and thanked me for my patience. This was actually somewhat soothing because I always wonder if maybe I'm not the person that's out of line. I admit I have been before.

I'll cheerfully fly that airline again. Their hands are tied.  Still, I'm afraid of what I will do if I get stuck next to someone like that again. My first instinct will probably be to strangle the dog's owner.

Update. The point is now moot with Delta. They no longer recognize emotional support animals as being legitimate service animals according to what I just read. It also must be a dog.

As usual, who gets screwed? Some poor ex-GI with PTSD. 

Actually my GUESS is that in that case they might allow some veteran or legitimate PTSD victim to bring his animal on board if he keeps his mouth shut. 

As usual the snowflakes have ruined it for everyone else.

So much for Plan One. I was going to try and slap a vest on a rhinoceros and sneak it aboard as an emotional support animal. 

Still, I bet I can get on board with a Seeing Eye Cat. Too bad Tokie isn't around anymore.

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Assuming the country turns leftist

most of the BLM/ANTIFA muckety-mucks are going to be in for quite a suprise.

They think that the powers that be that are running things from the shadows are going to bring them into the oak paneled rooms and hand them 75 year old brandy in crystal snifters. They think that they are going to share things along with the other power brokers. They think they are going to be big shots.

Guess again.

Best case scenario is they're going to buy them off cheap with a mansion somewhere and give them a little publicity.

More likely scenario is they get discreetly taken out back and get shot.

Those shadow figures calling the shots are not going to associate themselves with those people. They neither like or respect them. Most likely is that behind their back they refer to them using racial slurs and laugh at them for being so stupid as to think they'll get rewarded with an actual position of power..

Those are the kind of people that Joe Stalin would have sent STRAIGHT to the front of the firing squad line. They are capable of starting trouble hence he would make them go away.

If I am still alive and hear about accidents or suicides of any of them I will laugh myself silly.

That, however will not give me half the laughter as I will have when I see the Matts and Karens of the nation in shock with the deer in the headlights look in their eyes when they realize that their lovely home in the suburbs is going to be shared with third world people that don't even know how to use an inside toilet.

Karen will go straight to Nextdoor and ask why she has to wipe sandal prints off of her toilet seat before she uses it. The answers will be epic.

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here's always some idiot that doesn't stop and think.

Someone asked me why I have not yet retired and here's what I posted on Nextdoor:

I could have retired 8 years ago but I am having so much fun keeping a certain youngster from getting ahead by not retiring. I just got a waiver so I can stay until I am 75. To say he's upset is hardly the way to describe it.

Do you have any idea how much dieting and exercising it takes to stay in shape to pass the Coast Guard physical? On top of that I still have to drink and smoke like the rest of them to show I'm one of the boys and still in shape! Then again, I have a lot going for me. All the girls at all the strip joints know me and pour my drinks with iced tea instead of bourbon so I don't get a DUI carting them back to the boat. I do still enjoy seeing them wonder how the Old Man could manage to cart them all back to the boat the next morning when they are all hung over. One of the joys of being old is I am wise enough to know I can't outrun them. On the other hand it is a joy to still be able to out think them.

***********************************************

Needless to say somone said something about it and took it as fact and hilarity ensued.

This isn't the first time my sarcasm went undetected.

===================================

Another time someone posted that he heard sailors were real party animals.

Yeah, I replied, we are.

When I get off the boat my buddy meets me and we split a bottle of Jack, a case of beer, six joints, three or four Qaaludes, five or six tooeys, a coupla reds, five or six magic mushrooms, a couple of hits of acid, eight or nine uppers, an 8-ball of coke and maybe a couple of snorts of junk. We also sniff a pint of ether. Anymore than that and I need a designated driver.

Some wide-eyed golly-gosh-wowee replied he knew someone that could get me into rehab and I told him rehab is for quitters.

Apparently it never occurred to him that the list I admitted to using would be enough to kill an entire herd of elephants stone dead.

It's never occurred to a lot of people that for practically my entire merchie career that the industry has been under a zero tolerance policy and we are routinely tested for drugs and alcohol. Any activity involving drugs and alcohol would be detected in rather short order and the guilty parties would most likely lose their licenses.

But by God, sailors are party animals!

Seems everyone and their cousin know somebody that had a friend have him tell them that they met a guy who's college room mate's uncle said sailors are a bunch of drunken party animals.

I can't help but get sarcastic every so often.

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"They should force everyone to take the vaccine," she said. "Even if they have to hold them down!"

When I heard that I grew rather tactful.

"Hey Dumbass," I shot back. "Any government that is allowed to force its people to have a foreign substance injected into their bodies has been given the power to force a woman to abort a child or deny her an abortion. Whatever happened to my body, my choice?"

"Gee! I never thought of that," she said.

Idiot.

Nine out of ten liberals agree. It's always OK to invade someone else's body or space but it's never OK to invade theirs.

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Oh. I see. You learned about economics from Walt Disney.

You were griping about how much money Jeff Bezos types have and how they ought to get him to cough up such and such a percentage of it because he's not paying his fair share and yada yada yada.

That's because as a kid you sat around on Saturday mornings watching cartoons and reading comic books instead of going out to find something else to do.

You watched Scrooge McDuck walk into rooms full of piles of cash and gold. You think Zuckerberg has a whole airplane hanger full of money and dubloons. You think that's what big money looks like.

That's not what money looks like. That's what cash looks like.

Any commercial fisherman that has ever hauled fish out of the ocean or oilworker that's ever wrestled oil out of the ground knows what money looks like firsthand. It may just be a pile of fish or a bunch of oil to the unitiated but that's actually just plain money. In fact in both cases it's new money. Nobody has ever seen it before.

When you sell it you convert it into cash. What you pay your axes with is cash. You can't pay your taxes with fish and oil.

One's net worth is not necessarily calculated by the amount of readily available cash he has. It's the sum total of the value of all of their assets. This includes various properties.

Let's say some guy with no cash to his name inherits an island somewhere that's worth 30 million dollars, his net worth is now 30 million bucks. He can actually be well be worth 30 million and not even have enough cash in his pocket to buy himself a hamburger for lunch.

To tax the wealthy as was suggested by someone would mean they would have to sell off some of their assets. Uncle Sam ain't going to take the title to a Ferrari or a plot of land to satisfy a tax bill. Uncle Sam wants cash.

If someone decides to sell an asset then it becomes income and is therefore taxable.

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