Ye gods

In the latest news, we discover that Marvel Comics — the folks who brought us Captain America, Spider-Man and the X-Men — is apparently going to team up with the United Nations in an effort to “improve the image” of that pustulant pesthole on the East River.

You’ll pardon me if I’m really not sure how to “improve the image” of that pack of parasitic pismires.

Seriously, how do you put a positive spin on the Rape for Food incidents in the Congo?

The UN insists on installing the worst violators of human rights on it’s Commission on Human Rights — how are you supposed to put a positive spin on that?

You can at least make fun of the rampant bribery, feather-bedding and nepotism, but the United Nations has been complicit in the deaths of millions throughout the world — how do you “improve” those facts?

Will they have Spider-man drive the UN ambulance that transported armed Palestinian gunmen and munitions to avoid the Israeli military?

Will they have Captain America throw North Korean defectors out of the United Nations Refugee office in Beijing, so that they may be delivered back to North Korea for execution?


Considering that the comic book is going to be distributed for free to schoolchildren in the United States, we have a sneaking suspicion that this is less about “improving the image” of the United Nations in adults, and more about making the United Nations a familiar part of our children’s lives.

After all, why try to fight the current distrust of the U.N., when you can fool the next generation into trusting them?

Something I find to be distasteful in the extreme.

Your mileage may vary, of course.


Holiday cheer

By way of e-mail, my friend Peter sends some news to warm the cockroaches of our hearts:

Tactical advice for those intending to rob the Santa-Claus-outfit-wearing Salvation Army volunteers at shopping malls.

1. In this part of the country, those Santa’s are rednecks. Large rednecks. With an attitude to match.

2. When you and your homie stick a gun in Santa’s face and demand, “Gimme the bucket!” he might take you precisely and exactly at your word. Literally.

3. As you watch your homie lying on the ground, bucket over his head and Santa stomping it flat onto his (unlovely) features, it’s not a good idea to forget that you’re within grabbing range of Santa – or to let your gun hand sag to your side.

4. Failure to observe #3 above will result in an infuriated Santa holding your head in an armlock under his left arm while, with his right hand, he beats you heavily over the bonce with his festive Christmas bell. This musical accompaniment, whilst no carol, is nevertheless pleasing to the bystanders’ ears. The same might be said about your screams.

5. When passing shoppers stop, gather around and start applauding Santa’s actions, it’s not a good idea to yell at them that they’re mother[deleted] [deleted] and beg them to make this [deleted] stop hitting you. This may – nay, gentle reader, this WILL – encourage some of them to offer to help Santa with the hitting . . . and encourage him to accept their offer.

6. When responding cops arrive, rush up to the scene with guns drawn, and promptly sag to the ground in hysterics while ignoring your pleas for help, it’s not a good idea to swear at them in words of distinctly non-festive hue. This will result in their handling the rest of your interaction in a less than sympathetic manner (drawing further cheers from the by now numerous onlookers).

7. As you languish (with your battered homie) in the back of an ambulance, both of you being treated by the medics for bleeding from the head, it’s particularly galling to see Santa’s now somewhat battered bucket being filled to overflowing by cheering shoppers and the responding police officers, all of whom seem rather in a rather more more festive and cheerful mood now than they did before you made your move.

8. And a merry Redneck Christmas to both of you, idiots. Ho-ho-ho.



The Paw of Approval.

As a holiday gift to myself I picked up Col. McLemore’s delightful little book, The Fighting Tomahawk.

If you are interested in the social application of the tomahawk, you could do a lot worse than get this book.

Colonel McLemore has clearly done his research on this tool and his instruction is crisp and concise. Any doubt as to what he means is immediately clarified by the artwork.

There is a brief history, followed by a section on ‘hawk design, then the good Colonel dives right off into the good stuff. He discusses gripping the weapon, drawing it and using it in conjunction with a long knife. Multiple sets and drills are presented to provide a solid base in the use of this uniquely American sidearm.

There are one or two bobbles of an editorial nature, but the instruction is first-rate.

This one gets the LawDog Paw of Approval.


And happy holidays to you, too.

Well, in the spirit of the Christmas/New Years season, some honyock went and set fire to the house that was the one-time home of the Bush family.

Now part of the Presidential museum in Odessa, Texas, the home suffered severe damage to the front door, windows and attic.

Investigators have determined that the person or persons unknown spread liquid accelerant on the front door and windows before setting them alight. They are quick to point out that there is — and I quote:

“no reason at this point to believe it was a political act.”


Watch for this story to disappear.

In other Moonbat holiday wishes, we discover that some frothing leftist name of Dave Lindorff is happily running his mush.

His Happy Holiday wishes seem to centre around a Global Warming-fueled flood to drown most of the conservative part of the United States.


In the dreams of Mr. Lindorff, very quickly — apparently in less than the average 14-year lifespan of the common housecat — Global Warming will inundate Florida, Louisiana, most of Georgia; South and North Carolina, the “most populated area” of Texas; and most of Alabama and Mississippi.

The upshot — according to this fanatical little bugsnipe — is, and I quote:

“So the future political map of America is likely to look as different as the much shrunken geographical map, with much of the so-called “red” state region either gone or depopulated.”


For the moment, let us ignore the typical bushwa science exhibited here (sea level rising the 20 feet it would take to swamp “almost all of Florida” in a cat’s lifetime? Put down the bong, dude).

No, let us ponder those concepts that are a little more concrete.

When Mr. Lindorff muses…

“The important thing is that we, on the higher ground both actually and figuratively, need to remember that, when they begin their historic migration from their doomed regions, we not give them the keys to the city. They certainly should be offered assistance in their time of need, but we need to keep a firm grip on our political systems, making sure that these guilty throngs who allowed the world to go to hell are gerrymandered into political impotence in their new homes.

There will be much work to be done to help the earth and its residents—human and non-human—survive this man-made catastrophe, and we can’t have these future refugee troglodytes, should their personal disasters still fail to make them recognize reality, mucking things up again.”

(Highlighting is mine)

… he neglects to remember that, well …

*scratch, scratch*

… we’ve got the guns.

Of course, we’ve also got the military training, the military experience, the survival training, the big mean dogs, the hunters and everything else those of his ilk fear and have nothing to do with.

And guns. I did mention that us “troglodytes” have a hell of a lot more guns than Lindorff’s Eloi, right?

Just between you and me, if 20 million rednecks with shotguns want the “keys to the city”, it’s less traumatic and messy to just go ahead and hand them thar keys over.

Put that in your holiday bong and smoke it, Lindorff — you daft git.


Merry Christmas

Bright Yule blessings to each and every one of my Gentle Readers.

Please, as you celebrate this holiday season, keep two things in mind:

Memories should be happy, not perfect. In ten years your children, your family, your friends will not remember if the tree wasn’t perfect, or the turkey wasn’t cooked just so, or if your Significant Other bought whole cranberry sauce instead of chopped cranberry sauce.

What they will remember is whether the holiday was happy or not. Don’t sacrifice happiness in search of a perfect holiday.

Secondly, no matter what tradition you are celebrating, this holiday is ultimately about love. Honour that. Kiss your Significant Other like you’re still dating at least once this season. Kiss and hug your children, and the rest of your family.

Happy holidays, and I’ll see y’all later.


Irish coffee


2 teaspoons sugar
1 oz Irish whiskey
Heavy cream

Brew your coffee. While the coffee is brewing, fill your mug with hot water and let stand.

Take your cream and whisk it a couple of times. And when I say “a couple of times” I mean it — you just want the cream to thicken a bit.

Pour the water out of your mug and fill mug about 2/3’s of the way with coffee. Add the sugar — even if you don’t drink coffee with sugar, add the sugar — and the whiskey. Stir.

Now, hold your spoon about half an inch above the coffee, upside down. Slowly and gently pour the cream onto the spoon until you have about three-quarters of an inch of cream floating on the top of your coffee.

To drink, sip your coffee through the layer of cream.

Voila! Irish coffee.


It’s that time of the year again

Sorry about the lack of posting, but 12-hour shifts are about to kick my fuzzy butt.

Since we all know that my sense of humour is a bit … odd … I present this next song. If you have a delicate stomach, or don’t want to hear a bit of risque language, then you’re probably best off listening to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra piece above.

As for me, well, this one kicked over the old giggle box.



Changed appearance

I have arranged for a new header to be added to my little scribblings — I hope that it meets with your approval.

Justin over atTheHighRoad did the actual work of designing the piece, any kudos should go to him. I also understand that Justin isn’t averse to doing some freelance graphic designing — anyone who may be interested, drop him an note at:

Unfortunately, during the adding of the new header the Magic Box Elves ate my brag badges — despite assurances that they wouldn’t.


If, in the past, you have sent me a blog brag badge, and you would like to see it back on The LawDog Files, please resend it to:

TheLawDogFiles (at) gmail (dot) com

And I’ll have my wizard put it back.

If the new header does not meet with y’all’s approval, do let me know.



The following events are not fictional, but they may have happened at different times, with different people, at different places. Each one of the authors has had people just like these, in situations just like those described. If you want to know what it’s like to live a day in the life of an ambulance driver, or a small town cop, or a small town ER nurse, join us for the story. It’s the same story. On the same day. With the same people. This is what we do, and working with paramedics and nurses like these is part of the reason we do it. What follows is part 1 of the story. After you have read my entry, follow along with Ambulance Driver for part 2 as he picks it up and carries it before handing it – and the patient – off to Babs.

So. We start.


“Excuse me, run that by one more time?”

“Puppy support. I didn’t want this to happen, and it’s partially his fault, so I think I deserves some compensation.”

I look at Earl’s prize bird-dog. She looks back at me intently — until her left eye starts to track right. I watch in fascination as her left eye winds up looking squarely at her right eye — which is, I should add, still looking at me.

“Now see here,” interjects Bobby — incidentally, Earl’s brother — “If’n he’d keep that tramp locked up, my old Eustice wouldn’t be tempted by just any old tail …”

That’s it.

“Enough. God, enough. Earl. There is no such thing as puppy support. And even if there was such a thing, it would be a civil matter, and the Sheriff’s Office can’t help you anyway. Bobby. Keep Eustice locked up, or get him fixed, or something.”

“Fixed? Ain’t nothing wrong with that dawg.” The subject in question is sprawled on a porch thirty feet away, and hasn’t moved the entire time I’ve been here. I’m pretty sure there’s a nest of field-mice under one floppy ear.

“I don’t care. Now. There will be no fighting, no dog-napping, no drive-by skunk-throwing, no biting, no out-house toppling, no kicking, no tyre flattening, no wrasslin’, no possum pitching, no Indian burns, nothing. Am I understood? If your mama calls me because you’re fighting over those puppies, I’m going to whip both your butts and throw you in jail. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. ‘Dog.”



“Yes, Mr. ‘Dog.”

Five minutes later I’m kiting down the highway.

“County, car 12.”

“Go ahead.”

“Respond to 212 Muir Road. The usual.”

Heh. I’m always up for homemade cinnamon rolls and sweet iced tea.

212 Muir Road belongs to Mrs. Helen Schenk, widowed the past ten years. It’s a huge two-story plantation-style house on the edge of town.

Mrs. Schenk’s four kids are married and gone — Houston, California, Miami, the Army — and with Mr. Schenk being gone, Mrs. Schenk occupies about three rooms on the ground floor of her house. The other rooms, and the entire second floor, are behind closed doors, furniture draped in sheets and the occasional spider web, dust laying thick about.

Once a month or so, Mrs. Schenk calls the Sheriff’s Office, always with the same report: the ghosts upstairs are having a party. This in and of itself, doesn’t bother her — unless it’s after their bed-time, or if there are unchaperoned girl ghosts up there with the boy ghosts. When that happens she calls us to come settle them down.

“Car 12, County, I’ll be 10-6 at 212 Muir.”

As usual, I’m about halfway to the front door, when it opens up and Mrs. Schenk waves to me, happily, the scent of home-made, fresh-baked cinnamon rolls blossoming on the front porch.

“Hello, officer!”

“Hello, Mrs. Schenk. How are you?”

“One can’t complain, officer,” she pats my arm gently, “You know, I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“I know that, Mrs. Schenk. How are the ghosts today?”

“Well, they’re being very quiet.”

I take off my hat as we step into the foyer, the smell of cinnamon making my mouth water. “Is being quiet — bad?”

She smiles at me, “I raised three boys. When they’re being quiet is when they’re getting into trouble. Besides, I think I heard a giggle earlier, and I don’t think boy ghosts giggle.”

I smile back at her, “Probably not. I’ll go sort them out.”

I scoot up the steps to the second floor landing and slip into the first door on the front side of the hall, pulling my SureFire off my belt as I do. This was probably a sitting room at one time, smaller with chairs and side-tables arranged about. I circle the room, running my light around the window and checking the dust for new footprints — nothing.

The two bedrooms are next, I check under the beds and in the closets, as well as the windows. One of these days something is going to jump out at me, and I’m going to embarrass myself — but today everything is clear. Although the second bedroom window has broken sometime since the last time I was here. I make a mental note to drop by her preacher and mention this.

The end of the hall is a large room, stacked floor to ceiling in furniture. I hate this room — I’m always afraid I’ll pull something off a stack accidentally and get crushed in the resulting avalanche, but I check the windows and look for the prowlers I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to find. The same occurs back up the hall until I’m in the ball room on the opposite side.

This one is different in that there is no furniture stacked about. I make my circuit — all clear — check to make sure Mrs. Schenk hasn’t come up the stairs, and close the door.

I step to the center of the parquet floor, take a deep breath:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question!
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.”

I finish my oratory, bow gently to a room only a complete cynic would consider to be empty and step back down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Schenk has set out two saucers — each holding a cinnamon roll — and two tall glasses of iced tea. “You weren’t too harsh with them, I hope?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That’s good. Is it true what I heard about the Perkins boy?”

This is also part of dealing with Mrs. Schenk’s ghosts: You have to share the town gossip — over rolls and tea, of course.

About ten minutes into the chat, and I notice that Mrs. Schenk isn’t eating her roll — normally gossip gives her a good appetite — but it’s when she rubs her jaw that I perk up and start to take notice.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, a bit of heartburn, that’s all, but I do wish that I wasn’t getting a toothache at the same time. One is bad enough, but both together are just awful.”


“How long have you had this toothache, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, it just cropped up this morning. To tell God’s own truth, it’s the worst one I believe I’ve ever had.”

Oh, boy.

“Ma’am, if you’ll excuse me for just a bit, I need to call the office.”

Pleased at the prospect of more visitors, Mrs. Schenk perks up a bit, “Of course.”

I step out on the front porch, then break into a jog, heading for the jump-kit in my cruiser.

“Car 12, County.”

“Go ahead.”

“County, would you send a paramedic to my location, please.”

“Say again, car 12?”


Part 2 is at AD’s place.


Great Britain

In further news from the British Isles guaranteed to just really [deleted] me off, we discover — to our complete and total disgust — that England has hauled off and banned replica katanas.

Yes, Gentle Readers, in their mad dash to protect every-bloody-one from every-sodding-thing on this little sticky green dirtball, the Brit Gummint has now made it against the law to “sell”, “import” or “hire” a reproduction Japanese sword in Albion.

The mind boggles. It really does.

Two things manged to penetrate that red blur:

1) Apparently, the Government promised those folks who have authentic katanas — the various dojos, collectors, and all”genuine” martial arts enthusiasts (as opposed to what — fake martial arts enthusiasts?) — that their swords would be safe.

I’m guessing in an effort to soothe the waters before they got troubled.

Hey, your buddies are about to take it in the neck, but here’s a pat on the head to keep you quiet.

Yeah. Any student of history want to give me an average length of time it takes the average government to go from, “Oh, we’re just going to take these, not those” to “We’re taking those. Now.”


The second thing to leap off the screen was this asinine quote from some anthropomorphic cow wandering around the British countryside attempting to dictate policy:

“[Barbara Dunne]“It’s an achievement to get the weapons banned. I don’t want children to keep seeing them in shop windows and thinking it’s normal.”

Allow me to re-quote that: “I don’t want children to keep seeing them in shop windows and thinking it’s normal.”

That quote right there, Gentle Readers, is the distillation of why those idiots and I will never see eye-to-eye: To them, an inanimate chunk of metal hanging in a shopkeepers window isn’t … “normal”. She is petrified by the thought that some children might not be as pathologically terrified of a lifeless piece of metal as she is.

This is the kind of inbred, gauch-eyed, snot-slinging hysteric who, upon looking out her kitchen window on Ragnarök Day and seeing Arthur ride forth at the head of his Knights to the defence of his beloved England, would have him arrested, committed, and Excalibur melted down into some jackarsed peace symbol because “someone’s feee-eelings might get hurt by all that iron-mongery!”

Sod ’em, the lot of ’em.