That. Is annoying

One of the sprogs had her sixth birthday party today, and her parents decided to have it at the city pool.

Nice idea, and everyone seemed to have a good time, but during the festivities, I noticed a phenomenon that is really beginning to annoy the crap out of me.

Apparently, when you rent the city pool, you get a city lifeguard as part of the package.

I assume that this woman has a face, but that would be a guess on my part because I never, ever saw it.

I don’t even know if the woman has eyes or not, because she spent the whole frickin’ deployment with a cell-phone stuck to her ear. On top of which, she seems to to have difficulties with multi-tasking, because talking into the phone grafted to her ear seemed possible to accomplish only while she was staring at her toes.

Now, given the number of medical professionals and public-safety-type folks present, if a yard-ape had experimented with water-breathing as a possible alternative life function, Ms. Lifeguard would have been dead-arse last in the pack even if she had been paying attention, but that isn’t the bloody point.

The point is that not only was she drawing a paycheck to be a lifeguard — not to be Chatty Cathy — but accepting that paycheck also means she voluntarily took on a set of responsiblities and obligations.

I don’t care if you are the multi-tasking Queen of the Briny Deep, godsdammit: LOOK ALERT.

Had a three year-old running around who is apparently missing the fear chromosome, ’cause there weren’t nothing this little darlin’ wouldn’t try, by God. Been hitting the Big Kids Water Slide from the word go.

But she’s also been wearing a set of water wings the entire time I was there.

Towards the end of the party, the little sprat heads up the slide, only this time she’s not wearing the wings.

And there’s Little Miss Cell-Phone, about ten feet away, never looks up from her toes, never takes the cell-phone out of her ear, nothing, not even when the water-wingless bairn shot off the end of the slide and into the water.

Granted, there was a teenager there to do the catching and all, but is it asking too much TO BLOODY WELL GIVE A FLYING FLING?

Dare To Care, dammit. At least, do me the favour of pretending like you give a warm bucket of rat expectorant, because, you know, YOU’RE GETTING PAID TO.

After all, you’re only, like, GUARDING LIVES.

I could be lifeguarding the pool at the International Life Guard Association Annual Splash Meet, and even though every-flaming-body there could be multiple years more experienced than me, I’d still be heads-up, eyes-bright and all professional looking.

Because that’s what I’d be getting PAID FOR.

And it’s not just this lifeguard. Everywhere I go, people with important jobs seem to be more interested in yacking on their sodding cellphones than in doing what they’re getting a paycheck for.

School crossing guards: Yackity, yackity, yackity.

Store check-out clerks: Yick, yick, yick.

Suzy Soccer-Mom, behind the tiller of the USS Plymouth Nimitz, going down the Interstate at 80 EmPeeAitch, jacking her jaws into the bloody cell-phone.

Judas Tap-Dancing Priest. I have this incredible urge to get a nail-gun, and start nailing cell-phones to ears.

You! Yes, you! Put down the fecking cell-phone and PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT YOU’RE DOING, before I take away the cell-phone and shove it so far up your tuchkiss that the antennae will tickle your sodding sinuses, am I clear on this?

ARRGGHH!

LawDog

Meditations on old vices.

Absinthe is making a comeback, due in no small part to the power of the Internet.

For those of my readers who are somewhat less-worldly, absinthe is a drink containing a kick-in-the-pants alcohol level, along with an impressive amount and variety of herbal additives. One of those herbs being wormwood.

A significant percentage of the wormwood is a complex chemical substance called thujone. Thujone is poisonous. Matter-of-fact, it’s a neurotoxin. How-some-ever, ingested in amounts under the lethal dose, thujone has some … interesting … effects. Some people see things. Others understand the universe. Stuff like that.

Now, wormwood is a wee bit problematical. Too little and you don’t get the effect. Too much…well, it is a poison. A properly brewed absinthe will have the wormwood balanced against the alcohol, so that you will pass out (or wind up with alcohol poisoning) before you get a dangerous dose of thujone.

Absinthe is also usually green — not just any green, mind you, but luminescent emerald green. It also tastes strongly of bitter licorice. The colour and the bitterness have led to a ritual involved in the preparation of the drink using sugar and water, which leads to an interesting effect.

There are two methods for putting your sugar and water into your absinthe. The first is the classic French method, in which a sugar cube is placed in a slotted spoon balanced across the top of your glass. You then pour cold water on the cube, dissolving it and mixing it into the absinthe.

The second method probably doesn’t seem have any basis in historical fact, but since it involves fire, some of the younger, more macho types prefer it.

You place the sugar in the spoon across the top of your glass, and dribble a bit of absinthe onto the sugar. You then set the sugar on fire, and when it is caramelized to your liking, you pour the water over the flaming sugar, dousing the fire, dissolving the sugar, and watering the drink.

Unfortunately, absinthe generally runs about 60-80% alcohol by volume. One little ‘whoopsie’ with your fire, and you just became the evenings pyrotechnic entertainment. So, the French method tends to be the most popular.

Either way, the interesting effect mentioned above happens when the water hits the absinthe. Oils and esthers present in the drink then precipitate out, forming a colliodal suspension and turning the absinthe from a clear green resembling liquid peridot, to a cloudy, opaque green, strongly reminiscent of milky jade.

Kind of neat to see.

Absinthe has long been associated with madness — the ‘seeing devils’ kind of madness — so it has long been unlawful in various countries. However, since absinthe never really caught on in the United States the first time around, the good old U.S. of A. didn’t get around to passing a whole lot of laws against it, and it never got the stigma of madness here that it gained in Europe.

You should, of course, check the laws in your locality, rather than depend on me, if you decide that absinthe is the stuff for you.

Recently the Europeans passed laws regulating the amount of thujone present, and passed strict licensing requirements upon makers of absinthe, leading to a fairly decent absinthe revival in parts of Europe.

Given the Internet, and FedEx/UPS/DHL, absinthe has been cropping up here and there, including recently in rural Texas.

*shrug*

Caveat Emptor, folks, if you’re buying your absinthe off the Internet, be aware that some unscrupulous types will take a barrel of mouthwash, soak a panty-hose full of various candies and kitchen spices in it for a while, then bottle it and sell it to you as Genuine Absinthe at Genuine Absinthe prices — they get about 1000% profit, and you get a bottle of licorice-flavoured mouthwash.

LawDog

Ratel, the End.

What is it with mothers? They ask you if you’re okay, and when you say, “Yes” they go ahead and check you anyway. A process, I might add, that is exasperating enough in private, never mind in front of two soldiers and a ratel.

“Nice badger, boys,” said Dad meditatively.

“Boss,” yelped Azikiwe, plaintively, “Na picken, dey go too far!” Once started, he launched into an extensive whinge about the misfortunes and evils that my brother and I were, according to him, solely responsible for.

Due to the rising volume of the screech, I have never been actually sure if the growl came from the ratel, or my mother, who had picked up a lump of dirt the size of a large coconut, and was gauging both the weight and possible trajectories involving Azikiwe’s head with a professional eye, but it caused my father to raise a regal finger at Azikiwe and murmur, “I am thinking.”

Azikiwe hushed and hung from his banana tree trunk, with only an occasional whine from him and happy snarl from the ratel to disturb Dad’s ruminations as he ambled around the scene.

Finally he paused by the two bodyguards, who had abandoned their tussle in the dirt when my parents had arrived. “Ah, soldiers,” said Dad, as if they were a mild surprise, “You are well?”

Both men jumped to their feet and whipped off snappy salutes, “Yes, sah! We are well! And yourself?”

Somewhat abstractedly, Dad replied, “Fine, fine. I need two fine soldiers. Are you two such soldiers?”

Snappy salutes again. “Sah, yes, sah!”

Dad patted each one on the back, “Good. Go with madam. Honey, I think we’re going to need a wooden crate.”

Mom fired a last glare at Azikiwe, dropped the dirt boulder and dusted off her hands, “Two by two by four, dear?”

“Sounds about right.”

“I’ll bring the range rover back here, too. Less distance.”

“Good, good. Tom, go to the kitchen, look in the pantry and bring me the oldest bottle of ginger beer you can find.”

“Right-o.”

“All right, boys, let’s see what we have here…”

In short order, we had threaded rope through slits cut in the top of the peanut sack, and with the aid of bamboo poles, had worked the sack into position just below the ratel.

Dad looked around. The ropes and poles were held by a soldier on either side of the pit; Mom and Tom were standing beside a wooden ammo crate with the lid held at ready; Chris and I were safely on top of the roof of the Range Rover; and Azikiwe and the ratel still had deathgrips on their respective items.

Dad worked a church-key under the cap of the bottle of Mom’s home-brewed-ginger-beer-from-Sheol he was holding, popped the cap off and put his thumb over the top.

Sniffing reflectively, Dad shook the hell out of the bottle, then leaned forward and slipped his thumb off the lip — directing a jet of highly-pressurized, highly-spiced ginger-beer into the face of the startled honey-badger.

You know, ratels are some of the toughest critters on Mother Natures little green dirtball, but there are some things that they just aren’t prepared for.

I don’t know if he was going to snort, sneeze, snap or spew, but whatever was on his mind, he wound up turning loose of Brigadier-Captain Azikiwe’s left ham.

Which caused him to drop quite neatly into the burlap peanut sack, his weight drawing the sack closed just as slick as a coin purse.

Dad reached out and grabbed the top of the sack just as claws appeared through the burlap at the bottom and flipped both ratel and sack into the crate, where Mom and Tom slammed the lid down, and Mom jumped up on top of the lid for good measure while Tom worked packing straps around box and lid.

“Out of the hole, Brigadier-Captain,” said Dad.

“Oh, boss. I am pained too, too much.”

“Suit yourself,” murmured my father, while Tom and the soldiers, under the direction of my mother, heaved the snarling, rocking crate into the back of the Range Rover.

“Boss?” said the pit.

“Tom, can you watch the kids for a bit?” asked Mom, “The tea is still fresh and the paper is only about a week old.”

“Boss,” stated the trap.

“Be glad to,” assured Tom.

“Dad! We’re going to send it to Gerald Durrell!”

Dad tapped his forehead gently with two fingers, “I forgot. Dear?”

Mom found a marker pen in the glovebox of the Range Rover, and very precisely printed:

Gerald Durrell
General Delivery
England

FRAGILE! THIS END UP!

on the side of the cursing wooden crate. Then she and Dad climbed into the truck and started the engine.

“Boss!” yelped the tiger trap.

You know, I have nagging doubts about whether she and Dad actually took the ratel to the Lagos Post Office and mailed it, or whether they drove it out into the bush and set it free. We never, ever received a thank you note from Mr. Durrell, which did seem a bit out of character for the man.

“DEVIL CHILDREN!” shrieked the pit in the voice of Brigadier-Captain Azikiwe, as we bounded off to show Tom the plans for a broom-firing ballista, and did Tom think he could get his hands on some one-inch rope?

LawDog

You know, I’ll bet they have meds for that.

I need some folks to check my thought process here:

*) Israel pulls out of Gaza.

*) A Palestinian terror group called Hamas digs a tunnel under a wall, invades Israel from Gaza, kills some Israeli soldiers and takes one Israeli soldier hostage.

*) The Israeli Army does what the Israeli Army does best and starts breaking things and killing people while looking for their missing crunchie.

*) Things rapidly begin to really suck in Gaza.

*) After watching all this go down on CNN and al-Jazeera, a Palestinian terror group named Hezbollah decides to invade Israel from Lebanon, kill some Israeli soldiers and — upstaging Hamas — taking two Israeli soldiers hostage.

*) The Israeli Army says, “Nae problemo” makes some modifications to plans, diverts some armament here and there and starts breaking things and killing people whilst looking for the other two troopies.

*) Things rapidly begin to really suck in Lebanon.

And it’s all George Bush’s fault.

WTF, over?

I’m not going to link to them, ’cause I don’t want to have to wipe the spittle off my blog afterwards, but a quick look at Daily Kos informs us that this is obviously a neocon-BushCo plot.

Now, it seems to me that all the screaming, bleeding, exploding and dying wouldn’t have happened if Hamas and Hezbollah had STAYED ON THEIR SIDES OF THE FRICKING BORDER!

And I’m willing to bet that if they were incapable of resisting the temptation to invade Israel, it probably wouldn’t have been too great of a pickle if they had REFRAINED FROM KILLING FOLKS AND TAKING HOSTAGES!

So, why is this George Bush’s fault? Is he blackmailing Hamas and Hezbollah into invading, killing and kidnapping?

Is he holding Hamas and Hezbollah family members hostage in the White House basement?

Is he using some kind of Manchurian Candidate — excuse me — Mesopotamian Candidate program to force Hamas and Hezbollah into invading, killing and kidnapping?

Poor little darlings wouldn’t have invaded countries, killed folks and kidnapped hostages if it weren’t for that EEEEEEE-vil mind-control powers of George Bush, is that it?

*blink, blink*

WTF are you people smoking? Did your mama’s drop you on your collective little heads when you were born? Is that the excuse?

Listen to me. I’m sorry, but someone has to tell you the truth: You’re nucking futs. You are what we refer to as “flat barking bugnuts”, okay?

Please get help. Go talk to the nice doctors. I’ll bet they’ve got pills that’ll ease the monomaniacal obessions.

LawDog

Dear Anonymous,

From the Comments section:

I’m a long time reader, first time poster. I was just wondering if you consider being a cop a worthwhile job. Do you enjoy the work? Is it anything like “Third Watch”?

Three questions for the price of one. The answer to the first question is easy: being a conservator of the peace is always a worthwhile job.

Do I enjoy the work? That gets complicated.

Man has discovered literally an infinite number of ways to be inhumane to man. There are uncounted ways to be physically, emotionally, psychologically or mentally cruel to each other, and every day we invent more ways.

Your Average Joe is brushed by these occasionally. Some unfortunates have it happen to them. For Peace Officers, this is our stock-in-trade. The evil that man visits upon man is our raison d’être.

I don’t enjoy the pain I see. I don’t enjoy the shattered lives, the broken dreams or the betrayal of trust that I see time and time and time again.

The rest of the job? Yes, I actually do enjoy it.

Is it like “Third Watch”? I don’t know. Hollywood’s idea of cops generally makes me irritated, nauseous, disgusted and/or improperly amused, so I don’t watch cop shows anymore.

LawDog

Please, sir, someone’s hi-jacked my language and I’d like it back.

The term “fasting” — from the Old English word fæstan — means to abstain from food, or occasionally, to abstain from certain foods.

When used in the same sentence as the phrase “hunger strike” however, “fasting” means abstaining from food.

In other words, you don’t eat, you get hungry, you lose your appetite, and then you jolly well turn up your tootsies and you die.

Simple.

Unless, of course, you are Cindy “Ghoul” Sheehan. On June 28th of this year, Cindy “The Vulture” Sheehan anounced with great fanfare that she was going on a hunger strike to encourage the Government to bring the troops home from the Middle East.

This led to some high spirits around here.

Alas, I should have known better. Whosis further announced that her fast would be from 07/04 until 09/02. Personally, here at Rancheria LawDog we feel that for maximum effect she should continue her fast until the troops come home, or she expires, whichever comes first.

Today, I have learned that the Ghoul and the Main Stream Media have lied to me. Again. Apparently a “hunger strike” doesn’t include coffee with vanilla ice cream. Or smoothies. Or blended fruit juice with protein powder supplement.

I don’t know which bloody planet that bimbo is from, but around here we call that “a diet”, not a hunger strike.

Hell, if whazzername ever dumps the hairshirt, she could probably turn a tidy profit advertising it as a meal plan to her brain-dead buddies in Hollywood.

And it gets worse.

Would you believe that the barking moonbat idiots have invented something called a “Rolling Hunger Strike”?

You want to know how bad it is? Do you really want to know?

Apparently, if you take 14 morons, and you assign each one half of a day out of a certain week you can have a hunger strike for a full week without, you know, the hunger part.

Moron A doesn’t eat on Monday before Noon. Moron B doesn’t eat after noon on Monday.

On Tuesday, Moron C doesn’t eat in the morning, while Moron D doesn’t eat in the afternoon, so on and so forth.

Voila! A week-long hunger strike, yet no one has to go more than half of a day without food.





Are you bloody well KIDDING ME??! I don’t believe this. I truly don’t believe this.

Trust a fecking liberal to take one of the most hallowed weapons from Ghandi’s arsenal and turn it into a cheap, plastic, sleazy, Hollywood joke.

“We want to have the emotional punch of a hunger-strike without actually, like, suffering for it.”

Oh, karma is going to kick each one of your arses right up betwixt your shoulder blades for this one, I’m here to tell you. Amphibian manure is going to feel sorry for you next turn of the Wheel.

And Willie Nelson. Willie, Willie, Willie. You better check your stash, ’cause either the maid accidentally dumped cleaning fluid on it or the cat is using it for a litter box again.

What sort of hunger-strike is America’s Numero Uno pothead going to accomplish? Huh? Swear off brownies for a day? Leave off confusing the window girl at Wendy’s All Night Drive-Up for a week?

If I find out which day you’re starting this, I swear to Shiva I’m going to FedEx a case of Doritos to your door.

Look at yourselves. All of you. Have you no shame? No pride in yourselves? You are laughingstocks. You are caricatures. No one takes you seriously. How the hell are we supposed to take a “rolling hunger strike” seriously? How?

Vanilla ice cream and coffee?! What the hell kind of deprivation is this? Where the hell is the shared hardship?

I’ve got some news for you: Yes, we’re staring, but it’s not the good kind of staring. It’s not the “Oh, you’re important” stare. No, my little feces-flinging pack of lower primates, the attention you are receiving is the “Oh my Gawd, what is that … thing?” stare. You’re just too damned self-absorbed and dumb to realize it. Yet.

And it’s going to be a Bad Day when the lot of you discover that you’re nothing but a stale freak-show. Except for you, Cindy. You’re too bloody daft to ever figure it out.

“Hunger strike”, my fuzzy arse.

LawDog

Last Chapter, Different Viewpoint

It was my parents custom on Saturday mornings to have a late breakfast on the patio, while leisurely perusing a copy of the London Gazette or the London Daily Telegraph, whichever newspaper was less than two weeks old.

They were usually joined by Dad’s Brit Buddy, Tom, and whoever had survived the previous evening.

The following conversation has been pieced together from various witnesses to the incident. I make no guarantees as to the accuracy.

Tom: “Your children just ran past me carrying a burlap sack and a chicken.”

Dad (from behind the paper): “They dug a tiger pit in the backyard yesterday. Probably got another snake or something.”

Tom: “Oh, well, then. Ta, luv.”

Mom (pouring tea): “How deep did they dig?”

Dad (feeling around for his coffee cup): “Mmm. Probably borrowed a Chinese coolie or two for the last hundred feet.”

Tom: “Oh, what rotten luck.”

Mom (shading her eyes): “If that’s Azikiwe, you owe me five pounds.”

Tom: “Just because Sticky-fingers is here, it doesn’t necessarily follow that the raft didn’t sink. And when did he start having an escort?”

Mom (moving Dad’s coffee cup under his hand): “The boys dropped a bowling ball on his car.”

Tom: “I missed that? Where was I for that? Oh. I say, one of Sneezy’s guards just tossed the poor blighter into the hole.”

Mom: “They obviously know him.”

Dad’s newspaper: “Mmm.”

Mom: “Scone?”

Tom: “Thank you. Did your children sign a truce with Sneezy? Looks like they’re trying to get him out. Jolly good show, that.”

Mom: “Did that soldier just swat the other soldier on the back of the head?”

Appreciative sips from cups.

Tom: “Nice cursing match. Do either of you understand a word they’re saying?”

Dad: (turning page) “Mothers. Goats. Unusual sexual practices …”

Tom: “Oh, nice shove, that.”

Dad: “… Stupidity. Improbable ancestry. The usual.”

Tom: “And a nice kick to the shins, there. Classic. Any milk, luv?”

Mom: “I am NOT breaking up a fight between two soldiers. What is my child doing?”

Long pause.

Tom: “Jim.”

Dad: “Mmm?”

Tom: “One of your children is bludgeoning Brigadier-Captain Azikiwe with a chicken.”

Mom: “Truce must be off. That soldier shoves the other one any harder and there’s going to be two of them in the hole.”

Dad (absent-mindedly) “Which chicken?”

Tom: “Does it matter? You’ve got two soldiers rolling around in your backyard biting and smacking each other, and one of your offspring is assaulting an African army officer with that big-arsed red rooster!”

Dad (meditatively): “That’s the one I’d use.”

Mom: “I suppose we could get the garden hose and spray them down.”

Tom: “Jim, you have a problem in your backyard.”

Dad (turning the page): “The soldiers will get tired of wrassling around, they’ll shake hands and make up.”

Tom: “Well, okay …”

Dad: “Azikiwe will stop doing whatever is pissing off the boys, and they’ll go find something else to get into. Are the kids missing any limbs?”

Tom: “No.”

Dad: “See any major bleeding?”

Tom: “Well, no.”

Mom: “The milk is on your side of the paper, dear.”

Dad: “Are they screaming?”

“DAA-AAD!!”

Tom (to the vacant seats formerly occupied by my parents): “As a matter-of-fact…”

LawDog

Dear LawDog …

I don’t have my e-mail address listed anywhere on my blog, however, this hasn’t stopped various folks from checking some Internet forums and lifting my addy. So, courtesy of the E-Mail Inbox:

Dear Lawdog,

Why do you use blue italics in your blog?

I was taught penmanship with a fountain pen and a bottle of Waterman’s Blue-Black ink. That is how all of my informal or personal writing is done. My blog is very informal, so blue cursive (italics) it is.

Dear ‘Dog,

You sure do talk/write/spell funny. Are you American?

My father was an American citizen, and my mother still is. Since both my parents were American citizens, under jus sanguini I am automatically an American citizen. However, my mother was in a foreign country when I decided it was time to have a look at this big ol’ world, and I never spent more than a month or so out of each year in the United States until my sixteenth birthday, so American English didn’t have a big influence on my vocabulary. In addition, all of my tutors during those 16 years were European and most were Irish, Scottish or English, which has, no doubt, coloured my language a bit.

Dear Lawdog,

Military Brat or Missionary Kid?

Oil Field Spawn.

Dear LD,

Are your stories true? Did they actually happen?

A good many details in my stories have been changed to protect the innocent, fool process servers, avoid sub poenas, flummox attorneys, and confuse irritated critters, fellow officers and perplexed by-standers. The incidents actually happened, but if you think you know when, where, or whom was involved, you’re probably mistaken.

Dear Lawdawg,

Are you in North Texas, or are you in West Texas?

Yes.

LD,

Why don’t you use your real name in your blog, or on the forums?

I am an intensely private person. A long-ago lady friend was of the opinion that I ought to replace ‘private’ with ‘paranoid’, but that may be going a little far.

My business is mine alone.

And, yes, I am fully cognizant that any decent script kiddie or Internet investigator could ferret out my name with half-a-dozen keystrokes, but I see no reason to make their job any easier.

Hey, Lawdog,

When is the book coming out?

You’re getting the stories for free, why is everyone so anxious to pay money for free stuff?

Heh.

The real answer is that I have no plans at this time to produce a book. If I should ever decide to publish my scribblings, it’ll probably be in Rich Lucibellas’ SWAT Magazine.

Unless someone decides to throw obscene amounts of money at my head. Or even lewd amounts, depending on what sort of day I’ve had.

LawDog

Okay, where were we?

Oh, yes. Ratel. Pit. Brigadier-Captain. Now I remember.

Ahem.

I hate it when things don’t act the way they’re supposed to. For instance, an animal which has found itself at the bottom of an eight-foot pit is supposed to pace about, dig, fidget, maybe jump at the walls a bit. They’re not supposed to sit at the bottom of the pit and look up at you, batting their eyelashes and looking all cute and cuddley.

Chris and I knew cute-and-cuddley. Hell, we had Ph.D’s in the art of looking cute-and-cuddley — usually prior-to, during, or just after all Damnation breaking loose — so we weren’t exactly fooled by the facade. The only thing we weren’t sure of, was how much bluff was hiding behind the Great Big Puppy Eyes Look.

A situation requiring much delicacy, and maybe some planning, all of which went out the window when Azikiwe walked up.

He casually glanced into our pit, did a double-take, then motioned to his body-guards, who sullenly stepped up, before doing double-takes of their own.

I knew the little bastard was up to no good when he turned to us with that huge grin, and said, “Oh, na picken, dis beef very, very bad. Too much bad for you” and took out his dress pistol.

He jacked the slide on what I dimly recall as maybe something Italian in the 6.35 or 7.65 millimetre range, sighted on the ratel in the pit, and stepped to one side for a better angle …

… trodding firmly upon the chicken we had fetched as part of our Ratel Extraction Kit …

… who took this as a grave insult, and promptly jumped into Azikiwe’s face, wings flapping, talons up, and cussing a blue streak in Poultry …

… a full-on beserker attack from a rooster is enough to startle anyone, much less Brigadier-Captain Azikiwe, who cannot be blamed for taking a startled leap backwards …

… however, it was NOT OUR FAULT that a bodyguard was standing in Azikiwe’s plotted touchdown point, said impact causing Azikiwe to ricochet somewhat less than gracefully off the bodyguard …

… before vanishing in the shadowed depths of our ratel trap.

You know, there is a peaceful, almost serene, moment that occurs just after the last chance to prevent the fit from hitting the shan, a moment that is almost like a deep sigh as if the Universe is thinking about what a nice day it had been up to that point, and in all that quiet, you can quite clearly hear that little voice in the back of your head saying: “Oh, bugger.

And then the shrieking and bellowing started.

Down in the pit, Azikiwe was doing a full-on sprint, in reverse. In one hand he held one of our bamboo stakes, which he was using to frantically swat at the ratel, who was likewise at a full sprint. Only, not in reverse.

To this day, I have no idea what happened to the pistol. I suspect that somebody down in the hole ate it, although I’m not quite sure whom.

It was fairly obvious that either Azikiwe or the ratel needed out of the hole. Seeing as how Azikiwe had opposable thumbs, he was the logical choice, so I grabbed up the nearest rope-like item that we had brought to the trap, laid down next to the hole and put the free end over the side for the Brigadier-Captain to grab and hopefully pull himself out.

In case the question ever arises, an innertube from a bicycle tire is not the best choice for this kind of thing, trust me on this one.

Azikiwe got a firm grip, one might even go so far as to say a death-grip, on the innertube, and pulled down as he jumped.

The innertube, being rubber, promptly sttttrrrreeeccchhhhed and maybe didn’t give the Brigadier-Captain as much boost as he might have expected. Or wanted.

He managed to hook his chin over the lip of the pit, and began furiously pedalling his feet against the walls. Which produced absolutely no lift. He then began frantically scrabbling at the grass and dirt scattered around the pit with his free arm, while still furiously pedalling his feet, and pulling firmly on the rubber tube — all of these actions combined not doing much more than producing a slow slide back into the pit.

Chris, in the meantime, was rolling the banana tree trunk to the pit. Since the trunk was a good bit longer than the pit was wide, when he got it positioned across the pit there was about a two foot overlap on either end.

He then ran around to one end of the trunk and began to push it into the trap, hopefully producing a ramp out of the hole for whomever decided to use it first.

I began calculating the distance to the nearest palm tree.

And Azikiwe hit bottom.

There was a happy, almost joyous, scream from the honey-badger, followed by a most unhappy shriek from Azikiwe and then Azikiwe came out of the trap like he had a furry JATO bottle attached to his butt and clamped both arms onto the middle of the banana tree trunk, followed by both legs.

This was a Bad Thing. Since Chris didn’t have the trunk pushed into the trap yet, the Brigadier-Captain wound up dangling from the trunk. With twelve pounds of pissed-off ratel dangling from Azikiwe.

With the added weight, the combined push power of both myself and Chris wasn’t up to getting the trunk into the hole. And since the ratel not only had a firm grip on one cheek, he also had the claws of one paw firmly hooked into Azikiwe’s Sam Browne belt, he wasn’t coming loose until he was damned good and ready. His extra weight meant that the Brigadier-Captain couldn’t swing himself around to the top side of the trunk and get out that way.

Worse yet, a banana tree trunk isn’t really a trunk. It’s actually tightly bundled leaves packed in a sticky sap. Looks a lot like a solid tube of packed corrugated cardboard, come to think.

Anyhoo, it wasn’t up to the lateral stresses of supporting the weight of both Azikiwe and the ratel and was developing a slight, though alarming, bend.

Chris told Azikiwe that he needed to turn loose of the trunk, so that we could get it into the hole and he could scramble out.

Azikiwe didn’t seem to see the logic. And, you know, I’m no-where near being a prude, but I wouldn’t have couched my reply in the language Azikiwe used, not around kids, anyway.

Thinking that maybe if the honey-badger turned loose, Azikiwe would be able to scramble around the trunk to safety, I snatched up the chicken (who had hung around to see What Happened Next) by the legs and (leaning precariously out over the pit I might add) waved it next to the ratel’s head, hoping to tempt into letting go.

Apparently, ratels are firm believers in the old maxim “A Bird In The Hand Is Worth Two In The Bush” — or in this case “A Ham In The Jaws Is Worth Any Number Of Free Range Chickens” — ’cause he showed not one sign of turning loose.

The rooster, on the other paw, held Certain Views vis a vis Being Volunteered for Dinner Detail, and promptly came unwound.

Not being entirely gormless, however, the chicken was more than happy to deliver the pecks and wing-strikes to Azikiwe, rather than the twelve-pound berserk carnivore trying to get his other paw latched onto todays meal.

Azikiwe’s response to my bit of aid would have had Old School, salty, tar-and-teak sailors saying, “Steady on, that’s going a bit far, that is.”

And then trunk bent a little more.

You know, a man — or boy — has got to know his limits.

“DAA-AAD!!”

LawDog

“Target is dismounted troll in the open. Will adjust.”

Splash, OUT!

06/19/2006 was a truly Red Letter Day among the Internet Gun Forums.

The Internet troll known as Gunkid a/k/a/ Hardin a/k/a Jamboree a/k/a Swetn a/k/a Lawrenceof Reason a/k/a Brule a/k/a … you get the picture, got nicked by Oklahoma deputies and the Federal Bureau of Investigation for multiple State and Federal violations.

For those Gentle Readers who are not familiar with the metaphorical whiff of methane and hydrogen sulfide that was the cyberspace presence of Gunkid, allow me to shed some light on why there are Internet Gun Board Staff People dancing in the streets right now:

Gunkid was an idiot.

In actuality, he was more than that: he was a compulsive liar, a thief, a convicted felon, a Walter Mitty wannabe and a dedicated pain-in-the-arse.

His dream was for the World To End As We Know It — preferably in a nuclear holocaust — so that he could float down the Mississippi river on a raft and sell his services as an assassin to the warlords that he was sure would pop-up like fungi.

He opined at great length about blowing up Federal buildings, office buildings, and any building belonging to anyone he didn’t like.

When asked about the possibility of the Feds not much taking to people spouting off about blowing up their buildings, Gunkid would reply that if he got any whiff of a Fed, he was going to cause civil disorder by poisoning the local water supply and escaping in the panic. If that didn’t work, of course he was not going to be taken alive, hail of bullets, dead agents in the street, napalm, explosions, terror, special CNN music, yack, yack, yack.

He was fond of a ten-inch barreled upper receiver chambered for .22LR on his AR-15 with a attached silencer, and claimed it was the be-all, end-all survival weapon and was good to 300 meters. He vociferously defended this combination to anyone who would ask, especially tyros to the world of guns.

He would always neglect to mention that a 10-inch barrel on a rifle without the proper — extra — paperwork violates several Federal and State laws. As does the attached silencer sans proper paperwork.

He was also an obnoxious believer in the famed Assault Wheelbarrow. When the Balloon Went Up, Gunkid advised anyone who would listen not to bother with backpacks or such-like. No, the only useful carrying mode would be a light-weight wheelbarrow.

He frequently claimed to be a top IPSC shooter, and his name has been found on an IPSC list or two, but never anywhere near the top.

His encyclopedic knowledge extended to the world of attack- and guard-dog training, and he was a vociferous fan of the de-barked Chihuahua for guard dog work.

Don’t get me started on that one.

All of this — and more — does not garner Gunkid such an exalted place on the Internet List Of Those Who Should Go Play In Traffic. There are thousands of other people exactly like this on gun-boards right now.

No, what got GunKid his special place in our hearts was the fact that:

a) The schmuck could not take a bloody hint. Not even the gentle, “Don’t do that [deleted] anymore” caused him to pause and reflect upon his behaviour.

b) The numpty was prolific. We can deal with bushwa, but when the bushwa is coming at the rate of 20 posts per minute for two hours, keeping up becomes a full-time job.

c) The bonehead was sodding incapable of having a reasoned discourse. By the Goddess, if you disagreed with him, then [deleted] you, you [deleted]-ing [deleted] son of a [deleted] and your [deleted]-ing dog, too, [deleted]! Now, see bullet ‘b’ above.

He apparently believed that what he was dishing out was handed down to him from the Temple Mount, that we should be grateful for receiving these crumbs of Truth, and that anyone who disagreed with The Truth was a Sinner, who should be verbally chastized before being cast out of his Presence.

d) The critter was the anthropomorphic version of cat whizz. To explain, if you’ve ever had a cat mark his territory inside your house, you know it’s jolly well impossible to get the smell out. You bust your butt, and you think the nasty funk is finally gone, but something happens and ‘BAM’ — your house stinks of cat whizz again. No matter what you do, no matter what you try, the stench always comes back.

He was exactly like that. He’d show up on a forum, stink up the place, he’d get banned and next thing you knew, he was reeking up the place again under a new name.

He got kicked off of TFL and THR hundreds — if not thousands — of times, and never, ever got the damned hint. I will guarantee that other firearms forums thumped him a similar number of times.

For further enlightenment, enter ‘gunkid’ in the search engine of your choice.

I’m seriously considering sending a case of micro-brew up to that department out of sheer gratitude.

LawDog