Meditations on tool use.

Gentleman needs to make a phone call, and upon finding his cell-phone discharged, he stops at a Stab-and-Grab to use their outside pay-phone.

During the course of his conversation, he is approached by a Socially Disadvantaged Youth, who proceeds to threaten him with a empty bottle of cheap hooch, while demanding the contents of his wallet.

The gentleman — now the victim — being well-schooled by the Liberal Media and Little Sarah “One-Note” Brady, immediately hands over said wallet.

Unfortunately, the wallet did not have enough money contained therein to purchase a sufficient quantity of the recreational pharmaceutical of the critters’s choice, so the critter crashed the empty bottle into the victim’s temple.

Unlike what you see in Hollywood, the bottle did not break. It did, however, concuss the victim enough to drop him unconscious to the deck, where the critter proceeded to vigorously apply his hundred-dollar set of athletic shoes to the prostrate, helpless victim until such time as he grew bored, and sauntered off.

The victim suffered a concussion, a broken jaw and some broken ribs, but he did survive, in such I would guess that he is lucky.

Even more lucky is the critter.

Each person on this little green dirtball only truly has one weapon. One only.

You can take a knife — a sword — a pistol — or even a tactical nuclear device and none of them are weapons until the wielder of such has the will to use them as such.

There is a snub-nosed Ruger .357 revolver sitting on my desk as I write this. That revolver is not going to do a thing until I use it. It will not save my life, it will not save a third parties life, it will not fire a shot until I make the decision to use it to do so.

My mind, your mind — that is the only true weapon. Everything else is merely a tool, waiting to be utilized in the fashion that you or I or anyone else chooses.

Unfortunately, a large part of our population does not, can not, and will not understand the whole of this concept.

A large part of our population apparently believes that tools such as knives and firearms are possessed of wills of their own, seeking only to go forth and wreak destruction in obedience to some unnatural will, and thus must be legislated and controlled out of existence for The Safety of All.

These folks are dangerous to every thinking person on this world, but are beneath contempt and will not be discussed at this time.

Others of our population apparently believe that only dedicated tools can be used as a weapon. They are willing to fight when necessary, but only with firearms, or blades. Or with specialized equipment.

These folks have a dangerous weak spot. They will fight, but if they are deprived of his dedicated tool — either by happenstance or by legislation — they become lost, because they have either forgotten, or have never known, that the mind is the only weapon.

I do not know whether the victim thought that guns, knives, etc., were evil and refused to carry them, or if he felt that he was not allowed his customary tools, and without them, was helpless.

I do know that the attacker — the critter — plainly understood that his mind was the weapon. He understood that a tool used to carry liquid (the wine bottle) could easily be utilized to attack, if he chose.

Why was the critter so lucky?

A score of years ago, there was a young man who was a visitor and a stranger to a certain big city. The name and location of this city are not important, what is important is that the people in this city believed — or had been convinced — that certain tools were dangerous. Dangerous, apparently, all of their own volition, and thus had arranged to forbid useful knives and firearms — even going so far as to ban the mere possession of ammunition without a firearm — for The Safety Of All.

Pfagh.

This young man, as young men will, enjoyed the company of young women, and on this certain occasion escorted a young woman to her home. On this evening, our young man left the home of this lady long after the taxicab that had brought them had departed.

Being youthful, our gentleman decided to walk for a bit, to enjoy the air, so to speak, before seeking a taxi to take him home.

Having walked, our young man found a pay-phone and engaged to call a taxi company, when he was approached by a Socially Disadvantaged Youth, who proceeded to produce a cheap flea-market folding knife and demand the wallet of our young man.

This young man, unlike the gentleman of the beginning of this rumination, ripped the handset and cable from the body of the phone, and then still gripping the handset, whipped the torn end of the dangling metal cable across the face of the critter as hard and as fast as he could, splitting the flesh to the bone.

Using no technique other than that imparted by bloody red fury, the young man lashed the critter twice more across the face and shielding arm with the metal cable before the savagely injured critter managed to flee.

Anything you have is a tool. How you use that tool is up to that weapon between your ears.

Had the first gentleman in the story known this, understood this, and accepted this, it is likely that his attacker would be seriously injured, maimed, or dead now.

Which is the only proper and correct response to brigandage in a sane and just world.

*sigh*

LawDog

Geek humor

This may (or may not) come as a surprise to some of my Gentle Readers, but I was (am) a terrible RPG geek.

No, not (R)ocket (P)ropelled (G)renades — although those are fun, too — (R)ole (P)laying (G)ames.

Yes. I have played AD&D. And thoroughly enjoyed it, I might add. (Forgotten Realms rules!)

Haven’t developed a taste for the on-line stuff like Everquest or World of Warcraft, though. No room for improvising, adapting and overcoming in the rigid computer-generated worlds.

Anyhoo, somebody sent me a link to a bunch of Motivational Posters for RPG Geeks. There’s some stuff in there for you computer gaming types, too.

Enjoy!

LawDog

Quick, before she comes to her senses!

Lady Tam has posted the famed Secret Photo of TFL, THR and GlockTalk legend!

Heh.

I freely admit to be one of those lucky few who actually saved that photo to hard-drive when Tam first posted it at GlockTalk. Over the years since then, I’ve actually been offered money for a copy.

Never took anyone up on the offer, though. Mostly because I am too fond of my friend Tamara, but also because I try (darn it) to be a gentleman. Occasionally.

(The fact that Tam has a better arsenal than several Third World militaries may have also played a small role in risk assessment.)

Lovely as you were then, Tam, you’re even more stunning now. Don’t ever forget that.

LawDog

Who’dathunkit?

I was mildly startled to learn that the ever-practical shemagh apparently has become the latest haute couture for fashion trend-setters.

You know, I kind of figured that the Squeals and the Fakers would have adopted the uber-tactical shemagh first, but apparently Paris, New York and Hollywood beat them to it.

For those of you who may not be up on commando or Middle Eastern wear, the shemagh is a square of two-colour cotton cloth running just shy of four feet to a side.

The SAS has been wearing them since WWII, and our boys -n- girls on the ground in Afghanistan and Iraq are learning just how handy this piece of gear is.

Since us boys inherited Mom’s pale skin, light eyes and red hair (hell, vampires think we got a raw deal when is comes to harsh sunlight) whenever Dad was assigned to a desert contract, extended visits away from the shelter of buildings always involved carrying at least one of these scarves each — just in case.

When I hit my teenage years, I was fascinated to discover that if I wore a fully-wrapped shemagh, aviator glasses and gloves, when I walked through a souq (market), people acted radically different around me than when I walked through as an obvious Westerner.

I had known that they would, of course, I just hadn’t realized how extensive the difference would be. Fun days.

Right now, I probably have half-a-dozen (or more) of these scarves around the house and vehicles.

And now, the fashionistas have adopted it — only they’re calling it a keffiyah — and I get the feeling they’re wearing them more as a political statement than because of utility and comfort. Something about them expressing solidarity with Palestine and Iraq.

*snort*

Should I break the news to them that they’re also expressing solidarity with the British SAS, who started wearing the shemagh in WWII — five or so years before there was an Israel for the Palestinians to get their knickers in a knot over — or that they’re expressing solidarity with the troopies on the dirt in the Middle East (who are finding the shemagh just as handy now as I found it during my stays in the same region Many Moons Ago)?

Nah. Let the moonbats have their illusions. The Real World is going to shatter those illusions sooner-or-later, and who am I to get in the way?

LawDog

Run that by me again?

You’re going to do what?

*blink, blink*

You know, I get the feeling that they really haven’t thought this one through, yet.

While giving every American citizen of African descent an additional citizenship in Africa as an incentive to jump-start African economies, the Unintended Consequences might not be the most helpful thing in the world.

Sooner or later someone (a lawyer) is going to point out one of the supposed advantages of dual-citizenship: embassies, and lack of extradition treaties.

As a creative articulation, let us discuss Bob Wilson. Mr. Wilson has fallen afoul of the law. Hypothetically speaking, say that Mr. Wilson has had a lucrative recreational pharmaceutical distribution business, and that he has been careless enough in his day-to-day activities as to draw the attention of the local Narcotics Task Force.

Silly Bob.

Now, discovering that the Minions of the Law have a warrant with Mr. Wilson’s name prominently mentioned in their hot little paws, and him with an allergy to steel bars and soya-meat, Mr. Wilson decides that an extended stay at the Texas Department of Criminal Justice is to be avoided at all costs.

Now, 22 years earlier, the parents of Mr. Wilson were on vacation in West Graustarkia when Mama Nature decided that it was time for the Wilsons to become parents.

Mother and Father Wilson, being citizens of the United States, young Bobbie is automatically a citizen of the U.S. of A. Yet, because he entered this wonderful little world at the Little Sisters of Mercy First Aid Station and Falafel Diner, Bobbie Wilson is also a citizen of West Graustarkia.

Bless his heart.

Fast forward 22 years. Mr. Wilson, hearing the heavy trod of size 11 brogans coming up the front steps, promptly hauls tail for New York, plonks his butt down in the front office of the West Graustarkia Consular Mission to the United States and yelps: “I am a Graustarkian citizen, here is my birth certificate, and I seek asylum.”

In Hollywood, steely-eyed officers will throw (perfectly understandable, yet edgily dramatic) fits of rage at the thought of Mr. Wilson safely behind the walls of a country with no extradition treaty with the United States. Somber music (or cutting-edge techno/rock/hip-hop, depending on the series) will play, funky camera angles will be used to accentuate flaring nostrils and clenched jaws, and much will be made of the anguish of the lawmen, foiled in their Pursuit of Justice by a loophole in International Law, so on and so forth, amen.

In real life, LawDog researches West Graustarkia, discovers that West Graustarkia observes Islamic sharia law and the possession of any amounts of dope is punished by flogging and/or removal of body parts and/or extended stays in a Third World prison unless the proper bribes are kept up.

Which will be difficult due to all of Bob’s assets having been seized or frozen, leaving him without the financial means to bribe a waiter into giving him a glass of water.

In real life, the only throwing will be the Goodbye Party where the Sheriff will ceremoniously write: Someone Elses Problem upon the file of Mr. Bob Wilson.

Those of us who are sober enough after the party might even gather at the airport to giggle and wave good-bye to the airplane carrying Mr. Wilson to his new country.

*snort*

Oh, well. They didn’t ask my thoughts on the matter. Should be interesting to watch, though.

LawDog

Aw, nuts.

Those of my Gentle Readers who have met me in the paint usually notice that I’ve got a blackthorn walking stick somewhere about my person.

I started carrying it in 1994 after a minor matter of zagging when zigging was the correct option rendered me hors de combat for a couple of weeks; during said recovery period I came to the conclusion that there were more than a few times when it behooved a gentleman to carry a weapon firmly in paw, so to speak.

Unfortunately, Texas etiquette tends to frown upon the practice of appearing in public places with a pistol super-glued to your right paw. In addition there are occasional times when violence — or the display of the capability of violence — is necessary, but sticking a blade into the other guy or putting two 9mm’s betwixt his running lights is a bit excessive.

During my recovery period I spent a great deal of time gimping about on a cane, and I was struck one day by the fact that there are no laws rendering the carry of canes or walking sticks verboten.

I had already done a little training in European and Filipino stick-fighting, and had taken multiple law enforcement baton classes. These were rounded out with a couple of seminars in hanbo-jitsu, a little WWII combative stick training and voila! I had myself a very discrete, very effective weapon that could be openly carried anytime I felt the need.

On top of which, I discovered that one can stand with a walking stick in such a manner as to cause various sub-groups of the Societally Challenged to rethink their intentions, without causing Suzy Soccermommy to run down the street in a blind panic, screaming “OhMyGawdhehasaGUN!” every other step.

Which sounds catastrophic only if you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing the Standard Sheeple Response to you not unsheathing a knife as discretely as one might wish.

I carried my blackthorn when the State of New Jersey ordered me to stow my sidearm and not retrieve it until after I had left the State, it has accompanied me during tours of a couple of government facilities where I was cordially relieved of my knife(s) and pistol, and I have carried through more than a couple of post-9/11 TSA checkpoints without so much as a raised eyebrow.

While it has served more than adequately in a scuffle or three, it has also served quite well as an emergency splint, a window-breaker, a brace, a leverage tool, a reach extender, a dog dissuader, and — believe it or not — as a walking aid.

Friends of mine have borrowed it post-knee-surgery, and others have used it during short-term hikes in the Wichita Mountains.

Handy little thing.

Unfortunately I think I’ve just cracked it.

*sigh*

Damn it.

LawDog

I’m not one…

…who’s real big on Government interference in private lives.

Matter-of-fact, more often than not, adding Government to a situation makes it worse.

The less regulation and less interference, the better off everyone will be.

However, I’m starting to think that there should be some kind of registration and training for bearing offspring. Might not be a bad idea to require a license to get pregnant. Maybe a college degree or something.

Lady calls 911 and yelps that she needs an officer to her house for an emergency RIGHT NOW, and then hangs up. Dispatcher attempts to call back result in no answer.

Officer goes flying out to the house, hoping for the best, planning for the worst; supervisor is on the way for back-up, but is some distance out.

Officer gets to house, finds the woman and her teenage daughter on the back porch.

Officer kinds of sneaks up, woman sees him, yelps that she’s glad to see him, then gestures to her daughter and announces that he Needs To Do Something.

Officer responds that this is what he is here for, but could someone, perhaps, clue him in on what, exactly, is happening?

Mama says that he needs Do Something about her daughter.

Officer ventures that he would be glad to, if only he had some more information to go on.

Mother says that daughter is throwing up, and gives the officer a Significant Look.

Officer adds Teenager plus Throwing Up and, being slightly old-fashioned, thinks it equals Pregnant. Officer gently opines that maybe an ambulance is more along the lines of what is required here.

Mama non-verbally broadcasts that the officer is an idiot of the first water, and explains that her daughter is throwing up after meals. Seeing the look of puzzlement and incomprehension cross the face of the officer, Mother irritatedly announces that her daughter has anorexia. (The “you moron” went unsaid.)

The old attic light finally clicks on, but the officer fails to see why the services of a tax-payer-funded knuckle-dragger are required to handle a non-violent medical problem, and repeats the offer of an ambulance, or maybe the number for a counselor-type-person, usually located in the Yellow Pages.

Mother angily snaps that she doesn’t need an ambulance, what she needs is for the officer to tell the teenager that if she makes herself throw up again, he will take her to jail.

*blink, blink*

This ranks as one of the most — if not the most — stupid thing I have heard in my entire 13 year law enforcement career. And that is saying something.

It is one Damned Good Thing that Your Humble Scribe was not the responding officer, because the County Attorney would be kvetching to the Sheriff about me stacking charges again.

Why is this person breeding? Can anyone tell me?

Where the hell would someone get the idea that threatening an anorexic child with jail is the best course of action? Where the hell would you get the faintest glimmer of the notion that this is a problem that needs police involvement in any way?

This … I … How the … You thought … Just …



WTF, over?

This is one that I really can’t add anything to. I mean, what can I say? There aren’t sufficient words in the English language to properly express myself.

That poor child.

Sweet Shivering Shiva.

LawDog

108 degrees and counting.

Ye Gods and little fishies.

Take:

Two ounces of white rum
One lime
One teaspoon powdered sugar
Four to eight mint leaves
Club soda
Crushed ice

Dump your mint leaves and sugar in the bottom of your glass. Mash the leaves and stir them into the sugar pretty well (called ‘muddling’).

Fill the glass with crushed ice, add your rum and squeeze that lime mercilessly over the rum. Drop the battered remains of the lime into the glass.

Top with club soda, stir, add a sprig of mint for sophistication.

Voila! The Mojito. Enjoy under air conditioning.

LawDog

Ah feel, Ah say, Ah feel faint.

You know, attacks of ‘the vapours’ are cute the first couple of times they get sprung on you. After that, they’re just annoying.

President Bush, while attending the closing meal of the G-8 summit, during what he thought was a private moment, told Brit PM Tony Blair — and I quote: “See the irony is that what they need to do is get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this s*** and it’s over.”

Pretty accurate assessment of the situation, methinks.

Oh My Suffering Gawd. The sheer number of (metaphorical … I think) fluttering fans, wrists pressed to foreheads and artful swoonings that followed this pithy comment through the Main Stream Media and into Blogland has been…

…nauseating.

And I say this as the proud son of a Southern Belle. Hell, my grandmother is still a Southern Belle, as are my sister, cousins, aunts, nieces and I still wonder about that one uncle.

I swear to God, I watched two reporters tip-toeing around, trying to get across to the viewers that the President of the United States used a shocking word — without using that word.

Judas Tap-Dancing Priest! Just say, “Bleep!” You’ve been doing it for years, we’ll get the point.

And then it hit BlogWorld.

*sigh*

Someone get me a vat of smelling salts, before I lose my ever-loving mind. Pass ’em around and be generous.

“The President used an expletive!” Artful sag onto chaise-lounge.

“I remember when American Presidents used diplomacy, instead of profanity.” Wrist pressed to back of over-heated forehead.

“We’re sooooooo embarrassed.” Frantic flutter of hands.

“Cursing like trailer trash.” Wow, I haven’t seen fan work like that since the last time Gone With The Wind hit TNT. Way to go, pseudo-Scarlett.

I can’t believe that the same people who made Deadwood a runaway hit series are honestly going to get their Hanes into a half-hitch because one frustrated man, during what he thought was a private conversation, said, “s***.”

Pull on your cowgirl panties and deal with it.

Listen up: Rockets are exploding in major cities in Israel. That’s ‘rockets’, note the plural. Artillery is hammering large parts of Lebanese real estate into something strongly resembling the face of the moon. People are dying. They’re dying slowly, quickly, painfully, shockingly, quietly, in public, in private.

Good men are dying. Bad men are dying. Women. Children. Innocents. Sinners. Dying.

And you’re outraged because your President said, “…stop doing this s*** and it’s over”???

You need to get your sodding priorities in order. There are plenty of other things to be ashamed/embarrasssed/shocked about.

This penny-ante melodramatic bulls*** is getting old.

LawDog