Well, maybe one a day.

Since I am posting as many of these as I can on 01 SEP and then using the delayed post function, I’m not sure how my Gentle Readers are taking these little summations. I hope they’re being received well. Anyhoo. Remember, if you like what you read here, go hit up AD or the Kilted to Kick Cancer page.

LawDog

Hullo,

It’s been one fun evening out here at River. Right off the bat Inmate S in West/3 came up with a jolly huge rash, and stated he was starting to have problems breathing. Nurse came out, did some nursing-type stuff and watched him for a bit. He seems to have gotten better.

Right after that, Inmate M and Inmate Y got into a fight in West/4. Review of the video shows that while it may have been mutual combat, Inmate Y instigated it. Both got disciplinary cases, and moved to other tanks. Then Inmate R in West/4 started yelping about having something in his eye. We told the nurse, he said to tell Inmate R to flush the eye with water and try to go to sleep.

Officer Slowyerroll has the sort of radio voice that would accompany a gentle pat on the shoulder and the words, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?” so when he laconically asked if a supervisor could come back to SHU/19, I started grabbing every party favour I could find and hitting the Control Room door at a high lope. Sure enough, Inmate Q had taken both covers off of the power outlet in that cell, and was into the wiring up to his knuckles. I’m here to tell you, that kind of made pointing the Taser at him seem a bit … superfluous. We settled for snatching his butt off the table and scooting him down to SHU/5, which has no interior power outlets for him to muck about with.

Of course, Inmate K was the occupant of SHU/5, and of course he had to be difficult about giving up his cell. Diplomacy wins the day, as Inmates K and Q swapped cells with only minor grumbling.

I was feeling my oats a bit at that time, so I had officers tell East/3 – on the down-low – that they were catching a shakedown, but if they threw out their contraband, the officers would try to talk me into leaving their coloured boxers in the tank. Last I checked the hallway in front of East/3 was ankle-deep and folks in East/3 were offering to trade commissary to East/4 in return for more stuff they could throw out.

While East/3 was unloading their contraband, we hit the kitchen and the laundry. Came up with five chicken quarters, two sandwiches, and two Styrofoam cups of sugar hidden in various places. Then we started on the SHU cells, beginning with Inmate C in SHU/16, since he has a fresh tattoo. When we woke him up, he was wearing a set of white boxers on over a set of coloured ones, and he got kittenish about giving up the coloured ones. I said not to mind, put him in the hall and started searching his cell. Good lord. We got string, a magnet, string, four sparkers, string and I’m pretty sure we accidentally dropped his tat pick into the light fixture trying to get it out. Then we brought him back in, explained that the white underwear made his coloured underwear contraband, and might we please have them?

Inmate C is a bit of an oik. He got a case of the arse, and told us we weren’t getting the underwear. Then he offered to give us a proper thumping if we tried. I demurred, said that I wasn’t leaving the cell without the contraband and Inmate C told me to go get rank. I checked my sleeves to see if I had remembered to put on my stripes, and Inmate C sneered for me to go get “real rank”. Further declared that we would have to go get the Sheriff and that if the Sheriff came out right then and right there told him to give up the underoos, then – and only then – would he give them up.

We got the boxers. Since he had more fishing line, a bit of paper folded into a weight and two notes to and from Inmate F who’s currently two doors down from Inmate C’s solitary cell tucked into the front of his boxers, I’m guessing that’s why he was such a numpty about giving them up. I went ahead and photocopied the page of the Inmate Handbook regarding coloured and white underwear and attached it to the grievance he’s demanding.

River did water and intercom checks at 0339; Central/North did theirs at 0005; and Central/Female at 0158. Central/North also did the needful and shook North/7. Officers advise that they found the burnt stubs of jailhouse cigarettes, but that was about all.

Spreading peace and joy, I remain:

LawDog, NCOIC

Bugscuffle SO

Summation: the First

Here is the first of my promised summations. Remember, if you like it, go tap AD or the KTKC page and show your appreciation.

LawDog

Dear ladles and germs,

To start off the night on a high note, we had water falling from the skies. I have heard the Old Ones speak of such a thing from days past, but I never thought to see it with my own eyes.

There were no leaks reported either at River or Central.

Officers spotted Inmate C. passing something from East/5 to Inmates R. and F. in East/4. Suspecting tobacco, we hit the tank but Inmates F. and R. got to the khazi before we did. We shook East/4 anyway, and came up aces when we found a bee-yoo-ti-ful tattoo pick in R’s property; and a baggie of ink in the general area. To show my appreciation, we moved Inmate R. to West/2 pending a disciplinary case for Possession of Tattoo Paraphernalia; shifted Inmate C. one tank further along to East/6 and left Inmate F. in East/4.

Tier scuttlebutt has it that Inmates R, C and F were getting tobacco from Inmate F2 in East/1.

While we were shaking down East/4, officers spotted West/1 working out with a water-bag, but they had an attack of the dumbs and denied having the contraband. Since I had a surfeit of knuckle-draggers handy, we over-rode the doors in West/1 and retrieved the water-bag. The startled faces in that tank are a memory that I will treasure always.

Inmate H. in SHU/6 got kittenish about chaining up for cell cleaning, I went down and he decided to comply, but when it came time to remove the restraints, he decided to grab an officer’s hand and squeeze as hard as possible. That went about as well as might be expected. Then he took out his frustration on the door to SHU/6 – and I am told that the door to SHU/6 oft comes agley when beaten upon. Sigh. So we went back and took him to SHU/10. Surprisingly enough, he went meek as a lamb.

Of course, a scant breath after getting Inmate H relocated, Inmate R (from the tobacco and My First Tattoo Kit incident in East/4) told officers that if we didn’t move him to a solitary cell that he would hurt himself. Despite multiple inmates advising that this was not the course of action he really wanted, Inmate R decided to insist that he would do himself an injury if we didn’t oblige him with a solitary cell. Okay. From the look on his face, I’m thinking that the suicide smock is a wee touch drafty.

The low West tanks started getting annoying about the recent trend of seizing their coloured knickers and accused us of making rules up. I gave them the page number in the Inmate Handbook so they could read it for themselves, but it turns out that none of the low West tanks had any Inmate Handbooks. I printed up one for each of the low West tanks, and – rather kindly, I think – pointed out the page that stated that destroying the Inmate Handbook would result in the tank T.V. being turned off for “an indeterminate time”. They’ve been quiet ever since.

Officer H. managed to reopen a cut on her lip from earlier that bled like God’s Own Water Faucet. We tried to get her to blame an inmate, but she wouldn’t follow-through. Sigh. The nurse came out and got the bleeding stopped.

Once that was done, Officer R. sprinted through the River Control Room with his face a most un-becoming shade of green. Seems the lad ate something that didn’t agree with him, because he spent about ten minutes praying to the porcelain throne. After happily advising him to check for toe-nails, and suggesting that he swallow hard if he felt something round and furry coming up, I told him he could go home. I am here to report that Officer R. is a trouper, and has stayed on.

Intake reports that “Inmate M. came back from the hospital at 0500”.

River did water and intercom checks at 0311; Central/North did theirs at 0151; and Central/Female at 0112. Center/North also reports shaking down North/8 and North/4, but not finding anything of interest.

LawDog, NCOIC

Bugscuffle SO

In honour of Kilted To Kick Cancer …

It is that time of year again! Ambulance Driver has announced that Kilted To Kick Cancer has kicked off for its’ third year? Fourth?

Anyhoo.

A fellow officer (here-in after referred to as “Sgt Krunch”) has recently unearthed some treasure and has informed me of this find.

Way Back When, a certain newly-minted supervisor reassigned to the Detention Centre decided that shift pass-along should be sent out as e-mails to make sure that every supervisor would have a hard-copy of the events that had transpired on his shift.

Since I am — well, me — these e-mails were not the usual dry, bureaucratic stuff one would expect from a government agency.



Oh, no.

My Sheriff now knows that I write this blog, I have gone to the Chief Deputy and asked if it would cause any heartburn if I were to re-post these shift summations for your edification.

He has replied that as long as I anonymise them, there won’t be a problem.

So.

I will load up at least one shift summation every other day for the month of September. Maybe more, we’ll see.

If my Gentle Readers find these summations amusing, all I ask is that you pop over to ADs site and donate to Kilted To Kick Cancer. (If I can figure out how to post the links here, I’ll pin a KTKC button on my sidebar. No promises.)

For those who don’t know, Kilted To Kick Cancer was founded to raise awareness of male-specific cancers — and funds for research of same.

People keep telling me how amusing my writing is, and begging me to write a book.

Here’s your chance to put your money where your mouth is: read the summations, and if you like them, donate what you’d spend on a book to do a good deed.

(And you might send good thoughts towards the general direction of my Sheriff and my Chief Deputy for basically telling me that my blog is perfectly okay, and to start writing again.)

LawDog

Le Derp-phone c’est mort

Well, the cell-phone that my faithful minions have been gigglingly referring to as the “Derp-phone!” has been Officially Binned.

Alas, it didn’t take being used as a Distraction Device as well as its’ predecessor — not well at all, come to think — and never did succeed in receiving e-mails.

Commensurate with my new duties came — yet another — firm “suggestion” by the folks what sign my paycheque as to upgrading my personal communication device.

*sigh*

So, this morning I wandered into my local wireless center where a drone with a Corporate Smile looked up my account on the store computer, frowned and murmured, “That’s not funny” and summoned the manager.

Said worthy appeared, looked at the screen, frowned, and started hammering keys until I stated — apropos of nothing: “Yes, I have thrown my phone at inmates.”

Both drones looked at me for a loooong time, and then the manager-type looked at his underling. Underling sayeth, “He wants an upgrade.”

Manager thinks long and hard before stating (rather firmly, I thought), “Not an iPhone” and buggering off to the back-room. Probably for a cigarette and a soothing shot of booze.

Long story short, I have turned in the Lobotomy Plus™ for a brand-spanking new Samsung Rugby Pro™.

And spent two hours at home, shutting off the superfluous stuff. Kee riced all my tea, I DO NOT want my location continuously updated to various social network sites, thankyewverramuchly, nor do I need suggestions as to restaurants, motels, clothing stores, Points Of Interest, and anything else I might be traveling within half-a-mile of constantly plinging the screen.

Initial impressions are that this thing is a brick. When the drone told me that it had a “reassuring heft” I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean that with a proper wind-up, it it may move from Distraction Device right into Less-Lethal territory.

Supposed to be Mil-Spec. We’ll see if it’s ‘Dog-Spec — which may be a considerably more stringent standard. The jury is out.

LawDog

Sandhurst Flagpole Test

There is a mental exercise — probably used by every military organisation since Alexander — which was described to me as a sprogling in Deepest Africa by a Rhodesian officer as “The Sandhurst Flagpole Test.”

“Sandhurst” being, of course, the British Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, but I’ve heard various iterations of the same riddle posed to me in the U.S. Army.

Anyhoo, the test is as such: a bright young proto-officer is brought into a room where he faces a panel of instructors. This proto-officer is told that the next exercise is a mental one, that the parameters are that he is the officer in charge of a small unit consisting of a sergeant, a corporal and ‘X’ number of soldiers. There is equipment consisting of one standard two-piece flagpole, digging implements, various lengths of rope and bags of concrete. The proto-officer is informed that the task assigned is to erect a flagpole on that very spot, and asked what orders he would give to effectuate this?

At this point, the hapless cadet usually begins giving precise details of whom would be ordered to do what, leading to the lead instructor raising a paw and solemnly announcing that the proto-officer has failed the exercise.

The flustered proto-officer is then informed that there is one order, and one order only, which would pass the test, and that order is: “Sergeant, get that flagpole up.”

This test is variously cited as being a warning against micro-managing, an exhortation to know thy limits, proper utilisation to talents, so one and so forth.

I have used it through-out my career as a demonstration that senior staff were micro-managing.

Sigh.

I have recently been dragged, kicking and screaming, over to the Dark Side — by which I mean I have been promoted to Command Staff with a title along with a new rank.

Yay, me.

A great deal of my new duties involve dealing with humor-impaired State-level functionaries and the occasional snoop-and-poop by said functionaries.

We have recently endured one such event, and by the second day I literally almost broke down into screaming obscenities in our living room.

The next day, I was in the middle of going to get ID-10T forms from a clerk that were an inspectable item, when I was stopped by another supervisor.

Said worthy asked what I was about and I told him, then he looked at me and ordered me to hold my left index finger in a crooked position and my right index finger rigid.

He hooked a coffee mug over my left finger, picked up a mug of his own, reached out with his right index finger and activated the phone on the desk. The clerk answered, the supervisor stated, “It’s audit time again. We need the forms,” the clerk responded, “What, already? Oh, that’s why ‘Dog’s been in my office three times today. Wish he’d’ve … on my way!”

Sigh.

As I watched, my compatriot took a sip of coffee, cocked an eyebrow at me over the rim of his mug and opined, gently, “It’s not your job to do things anymore. It’s your job to give things to other people to do.”

At this time I would like to announce to everyone whom I have — in the past — sat down and admonished: “You just failed the Flagpole Test” …

… I like my crow with BBQ sauce.

LawDog

ITAR and bloody dafties

Well, someone has done gone and got their knickers into a half-hitch regarding the 3D printed pistol (the fact that the pistol is called “Liberator” brings a smile to my heart) and has used the International Traffic in Arms Regulations to order the plans pulled from the website.

*snort*

The entirely predictable result — well, predictable to anyone who knows human nature, the Internet, or has a passing knowledge of the movie/video game/music business in general — was that a significant number of netizens cocked snooks in the general direction of the Department of State, and about ten squillion copies of the 3D gun hit the torrents about three microseconds later.

I’m pretty sure that today a whole bunch of folks are irritated by having to pick gun designs out of their pirated music and porn downloads, but macht nichts.

The whole excitement involving the 3D gun raised an eyebrow at Rancho LawDog, but not much else. Oh, it’s interesting, in a techie sort of way, but anyone can buy a CNC mill (or get access to a machine shop) and do the exact same thing, but in metal instead of plastic, with less chance of explosive disassembly, and pretty much the same bite out of your wallet.

Hell, the original FP-45 was pretty much designed to be manufactured by an assembly line consisting of three trained chimpanzees with hammers, a shop steward who had enough brains to pick his nose without giving himself a lobotomy, and a UPS truck.

The STEN gun was a little more intricate, requiring some familiarity with the location of the nearest plumbing warehouse.

Since I’ve personally seen a 3rd world blacksmith with a charcoal fire, hand tools, and a donkey make perfectly-functional copies of late 19th Century and early 20th Century rifles and pistols; and a brief search of the Internet will turn up the saga of the gentleman who made an AK47 in his garage out of a shovel and a $30 barrel blank — well, the whole Fed.gov melt-down over the 3D pistol just goes to reinforce my view that the critters who are allegedly running this country don’t know a single bloody thing about history, human nature, smithing, guns in general, the history of guns, or engineering.

Matter-of-fact, this whole sorry episode is going to be another footnote in the annals of history that future scholars will point to and say, “This was the period of time in which the Government of the United States consisted solely of people who didn’t have any business running anything more complicated than a lemonade stand without adult supervision.”

I swear, it’s getting to the point where someone needs to walk into the next session of Congress with a malacca cane, give every single Congresscritter and Senate-critter five good strokes and send them to bed without their supper until they start acting like bloody adults.

Growl.

LawDog

Fun family times

Long time Gentle Readers know that I have a wee problem with tree-rats living in my eaves.  Visions of the scaffy little buggers chewing through an electrical wire and burning the house down around our ears does not make for restful sleeping.



Anyhoo.

Today the First Tree Rat of Spring stuck its’ head out of the eaves for a Bullseye Cosmic Weather Report and took a 20-grain Super Colibri twixt the running lights.

Miss Praline, who knows what the swearing-running-grabbing Magic Skwirl Stick means, was waiting for the little furry bastard and nailed his carcass in mid-air.

Miss Mochi, however, is new and does did not know what the commotion was about … until Praline smacked her up side the head with a graphically deceased skwirl while making sure the tree-rat was properly Done For in True Terrier Fashion.

I swear, I almost heard the ‘click’ when the light went on her little dachsie head.

All of a sudden we’re having a major tug-of-war between the 15-pound Jack Russell Terrier on one end and the 17-pound dachshund on the other; I’m trying to find a place to lay the rifle and yelling, “Drop it!”, the two of them decide that rotating around each other is the best way to frustrate Daddy; and on the deck Chuy rolls over to let the sun warm his belly fur.

Smart dog, Chuy.

Giving up, I lightly (I hope) toss the Henry into a thick-ish patch of weeds (I really should mow the blasted lawn, but it does tend to make nice padding) lunge and grab Praline. Praline, being the sweet-natured little thing she is, drops her end of the skwirl.

This … may have been a miscalculation on my part.

Mochi is every bit as sweet-natured as Praline, however, Mochi is a guttersnipe. Mochi had a hard, hard life before we got her and Mochi understands that one simply does not give up that much free protein.

She pivot-turned, drew a bead on the entrance to her extensive network of tunnels under the Morgan building and kicked her “skattle, skattle, skattle” into afterburner. And I’m here to tell you — short as that little things legs are, under proper motivation she can flat move.

Since I am not gormless, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s on her mind — get the goodie into the Dachsie-cave where Daddy doesn’t fit and it can be enjoyed at leisure — so I take about three steps and do a running dive, both hands up and block the entrance.

Knocking the wind out of meself in the process, I might add.

Up on the deck, Chuy gives a sedate sneeze and luxuriously scratches his back.

Mochi bounces off my out-stretched hands, blinks, recalculates, and we’re for a full-on sprint around the Morgan building. Somewhere in the third (maybe fourth, it’s hard to keep track when you’re wheezing that badly) lap she meets Praline coming around widdershins and there’s a full frontal collision.

I take advantage, skid to my knees, scoop up Mochi and her prize and …

… discover just how strong the jaw muscles of a dachshund are.

Chuy rolls over and stretches leisurely.

Somewhere in-between the “Mochi, drop it!” “Praline! Not! Helping!” “MOCHI! Give up the [redacted] rat!” I finally get her jaws parted, and out of sheer desperation I fling the skwirl over the fence.

And there is peace in my kingdom. I stagger to my feet, pet the pups, pick up the Henry, and …

… In the tree above my head is another sodding tree rat. Shaking his metaphorical fist at me, cursing my lineage until the end of time, and running …

… for that damned hole in the eaves.

It was a Zen moment. The entire world narrowed down to that squirrel’s ear. My weight came down on my right foot, right hand pulling the rifle into my shoulder. Left thumb eared the hammer back. Squirrel bouncing off the end of the tree branch. Smooth exhale of breath. Rifle tracking. Focus moving from skwirl ear to front sight, brief close of right eye — front sight exactly where it needed to be. Smooth pull on trigger.

The squirrel abruptly cartwheeled in mid-air. Up in Heaven Col Jeff Cooper grunted appreciatively, angels sang sweetly, and the sun shone down on me. Bee-yoo-tee-ful shot. Couldn’t have been done better in a Hollywood film.

Sigh.

And then that tiny little voice in the back of my head yelled, “Oh, you’re a silly daft bugger, ain’t’cha?” as two furry rockets, one ginger coloured and one white, shot past me.

How-ever-the-hell many dusty minutes later, I’m down on one knee. I’ve got the skwirl by the tail with my right hand, I’ve got Praline trapped under the deck with my knee and I’ve got Mochi snaffled by the collar with my left hand —

— and Chuy scratches himself happily behind one ear, strolls over to the side of the deck, meditatively removes the rather-bloody carcass from my hand and jauntily ambles towards the open door of the house. Presumably towards his very favourite nest on the bed containing Herself’s Very Good, Multiple Thread Count sheets and other good linens.

Sigh.

Gawd.

I [redacted] hate skwirls.

LawDog

Dancing monkey dances.

In 1998 the British medical journal The Lancet printed an article by Andrew Wakefield in which he claimed that Autism Spectrum Disorders could be caused by the vaccine for measles, mumps and rubella — referred to as the MMR Vaccine.

Ben Goldacre later named this article one of the “Three all-time classic bogus science stories” in his book Bad Science.

Andrew Wakefield ignored data, manipulated evidence, presented fraudulent results, and basically lied his arse off for this article — and apparently all for the sake of a paycheck of less than 500,000 pounds by lawyers looking for evidence to use against vaccine manufacturers in civil litigation.

Wakefield’s fraud was discovered — unfortunately not before a drastic drop in childhood immunisations resulted in severe, permanent injuries and death in children throughout the UK from easily-preventable measles and mumps — and Wakefield was pilloried, stripped of his medical licence and had to pay a goodly amount of legal costs for other people.

Not nearly enough in my opinion, but there you go.

Any-the-hoo. Researcher lied, kids died, researcher exposed: Truth and Justice win out in the end …

… except for one dancing monkey on this side of the pond named Jim Carrey — apparently famous for making his butt talk (how apropos), genitalia jokes, and a rubber face.

Mr Carrey seems to have decided that the medical expertise gained by making ones’ butt talk (and medical fraud such as that perpetrated by Andrew Wakefield) should be tied to any fame that he does have for the purpose of scaring parents into not vaccinating their children against easily-preventable, life-altering childhood diseases.

Wrap your mind around that, Gentle Reader.

So, the news that this particular butt-talking dancing monkey has decided to apply the same level and variety of cogitation and rational thought to the Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States as he has to childhood immunisations means …

… not a whole hell of a lot to me.

If anything the pure chutzpah of a man who is perfectly okay with children getting — or dying from — measles (one of the leading causes of death amongst children globally), but is having a conniption fit over me owning an AR-15 is mildly amusing.

I’ll wager that the sum total of people killed by privately-held AR15s last year is a fraction of the number of children who died from complications of measles in the same time frame. Yet Jim Carrey wants parents to stop immunising — saving — children from this disease.

Yet at the same time he thinks me owning an AR15 is morally repugnant?!



Pfagh.

Shut your piehole and dance, monkey.

LawDog