Bit of a puzzler.

As a drift through Blog World, I am noticing the occasional:

“I won’t vote for Bush again”

announcement popping up here and there.

I have to wonder…is this wry humor? Is it a poetic statement about policy, or is the punchline to a joke I’ve not run across yet?

Since this is President Bush’s second term, and since the Twenty-Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States is, to the best of my knowledge, still in force, it tends to go without saying that no one is going to be voting for Bush again, so there must be something else at work here.

If anyone knows what I’m missing, please let me know. In the meantime, investigations will continue.


Mission creep

Mission creep: the expansion of a project or mission beyond its original goals, often after initial successes.

“Mission creep” is a military term, used with disapproval, and usually ends with a final catastrophic failure. It is the inevitable result of politicians with agendas meddling where they shouldn’t.

Which brings us to the NSA and their phone database.

In my view, things are never as good a the optimists say, but they’re never as bad as the pessimists say.

Right now, in my opinion, the NSA database probably isn’t as bad as the NSA detractors are claiming. It’s also probably not as benign as the NSA apologists are claiming, either.

However, it is not the present that concerns me. It is the future, and here’s where the dreaded mission creep comes into play.

Right now — today — this database is (we hope) designed for, and being used, to track and develop intelligence on foreign terrorists. All well and good.

And — when it works — what of tomorrow? The NSA database worked so well on foreign terrorist networks, why not apply it to domestic terror networks? Terrorists, right? Surely no one could take offence at intelligence being gathered on terrorists, no matter if they’re foreign or domestic…

Bearing in mind, of course, that some folks in government consider the National Rifle Association to be allied with terrorists, if not an outright terrorist organisation.

I should have my phone calls tapped because I’m a Life Member of the NRA?

“Oh, come on, ‘Dog,” I hear you say, “No one is going to go that far.”

No one thought that an American government would go so far as to steal guns from American citizens who had been flung headlong into a Third World hellhole without government aid, citizens who needed their guns for simple survival, yet I give you New Orleans, Louisiana (post Katrina) and a thousand or so stolen guns.

Yes, I am pro-gun and anti-gun-control, which may colour my perceptions a bit, so let me give you another scenario:

The NSA database has worked well in gathering intelligence on foreign terror networks. Foreign-based narco-trafficking rings do every bit as much damage to America as terrorists. Both are outside the United States, so let’s use the database to form intelligence on narcotics trafficking.

Which works so well, let’s use it for domestic narcotics enforcement. They’re criminals, right?

Which, due to mission creep, winds up with us phone-tapping Joe Schmuck due to his $10-dollar-a-day pot habit.

Remembering that mission creep tends to end with a “final, catastrophic failure”…

Trust me, it there’s any program that could be considered the King of Mission Creep, it would be at least one (probably more) of the various U.S. State drug policies.

So. The NSA phone number database … may … be a good idea. What it is going to become, what it will become, due to Mission Creep makes it a Very Bad Idea, and it should be scrapped. Immediately, if not sooner.


Why me?

Late one evening (or early one morning, depending on your frame of reference), Dispatch got a prowler call from one of our lake residents.

I scoot out there and start looking around, when I discover something kind of wierd: there is about an 18-inch wide strip of ground going up the driveway that looks like it’s been roto-tilled, but only about an inch deep.

A bit puzzled, I followed the strip of torn-up earth up the driveway, onto the front lawn, through the hedge, down the side-lot, up a gentle hill, down the backside of the hill, across a miniature beach and up onto a dilapidated boat dock.

At the far end of the dock, a small figure was bent over, hands on knees, apparently trying to choose between wheezing and hiccuping beside a fairly substantial pile of … something.


Being careful to avoid the torn-up planks, I stepped onto the dock and meandered down to the figure at the far end.

“Evening, Benny” I said, as I extracted a stick of gum from my vest, “What’s on your mind?”

Benny waved, gurgled and hiccupped solemnly at me. I took the opportunity to examine the mysterious pile, which turned out to be about six cinder blocks which had been chained together and locked with a rusty padlock. Half-inch rope had been carefully (and thoroughly) knotted to the chain, with about twenty foot of its length neatly coiled on the dock before being knotted — again carefully and thoroughly — around Benny’s right ankle.

It was a Migraine Salute Moment.

“Benny,” I said, gently, as a headache thundered up my spine and flowered beautifully behind my eyes, “What the hell are you doing this time?”

Benny blinked, then gesticulated his plan to cast himself into the briny deep so that he would no longer be an embarrassment to his wife and family.

A shined my flashlight over the edge of the dock. Cracked black mud baked sullenly in the heat of a Texas evening. I swung the light up to Benny, then back down. Still mud. My gum made a faint, satisfying ‘thud’ as it landed 100 feet from anything resembling water.

This was one for the notebooks.

“Benny, ” I began, drawing in a breath for a truly epic dressing down, “This is absolutely the…”

I paused, because Benny had drawn up both fists pugnaciously, and was waving them in front of his face, as he swayed gently back-and-forth on the dock.

Bloody hell.

“All right, Benny,” I sighed, “You want some help?”

Benny paused for a moment as the thought burbled it’s way through the tequila-sodden depths of his conscious, before striking home and causing Benny to nod vigorously.

“Okay. Lift! On three! One, two, three! Three, Benny! Three!”

I waved away the small puff of dust raised by the impact of the cinder blocks, then turned to see Benny offering me a small paw. We shook hands, then Benny patted me gently on the arm, took two deep breaths, held the third, pinched his nose shut and screwed his eyes closed.

And waited.

I opened another stick of gum. Sighed. Pulled out my pocketknife and cut the rope. Put away the pocketknife. Stood beside the gently swaying Benny. Contemplated the life of a small town deputy.

Afte a minute or so, Benny’s eyes opened, and he looked at me in utter confusion, wondering I guess, where the water was.

I waggled my fingers at him. Benny closed his eyes again. I gave him about another minute, before I whacked him firmly between the shoulder blades, barking, “Breath, Benny!”

Benny almost collapsed as he drew a massive breath. I got my shoulder down, which let him fall into a nice little fireman’s carry and started walking towards my cruiser.

“I swear to God, Benny…”

“Fooblic …*wheeze*…Intoxidation?”

“Damned skippy ‘Fooblic Intoxidation’. Again.”

Lines I’d really like to hear

My friends and I have a tradition that gets exercised every once in a while, but always at Hallowe’en: we rent a good pawful of horror movies, have some pizza delivered, pop some popcorn, and then sit down and give the movies a savage Mystery Science Theatre 3000 treatment.

Since the lot of us are gunnies, weapons feature prominently in our commentary.

One year, I decided to collect some of the one-liners and post them at TFL. They were an instant hit.

“My name is…Dracula. Velcome to my…vere the hell did you get a flamethrower?”

“Ma’am, we are at the highest location, with a clear line-of-sight for 1,000 yards, and Earl and I can neuter gnats at 400 yards with these .300 Weatherbys.”

“Before you go into that dark, scary, critter-crawling basement why don’t you toss in Uncle Bubba’s lucky frag grenade?”

“He sure looks dead. Whack him with the fire axe a couple a more times to make sure.”

“Sir, near as we can tell, the pyscho crashed something called a ‘TFL Meet’, fired up his chainsaw, and wound up catching more bullets than went through the last four John Woo movies.”

“Darn right I believe you, miss. I’ve got Ft. Bragg on the phone right now.”

“Camp Crystal Lake Welcomes the National IDPA Shoot-Off!”

“You know, since the ghoulies are fixated on this one woman, why don’t we put some armed men inside the room where she’s sleeping, instead of dinking around on the other side of the locked bedroom doors?”

“Okay, so the house told us to GET OUT. Set off the napalm, darling.”

“Fire mission! Target is butcher with axe in the open, will adjust.”

“Instead of sneaking around a vampire infested house after dark, why don’t we blow the place with dynamite at noon?”

“Regenerate, schmegenerate. This is a Barret Light Fifty.”

“Killer bats don’t phase Jolene none. She’s the State Sporting Clays Champeen.”

“Folks, the horde of Evil Minions will be here any second. Now’s your last chance to get a Horde Minion Hunting Permit.”

“Father O’Bannon, I appreciate the Holy Evil-Slaying Dagger, I really do, but could you see your way into talking the Pope into blessing a Garand or three? This hand-to-hand stuff bites.”

“Well, Mister Fed, near as we can tell, the engines in your little green fellas saucer don’t do well around corn squeezin’s. Pity they picked right next to Billy Bob’s still for a landing. Found the biggest bits in the next county.”

“Oh, my God, Mr. President, the Alien Overlords crashed a family reunion somewhere in Southwest Louisiana. Early reports indicate that the Conquerers of 10,000 Worlds made, and I quote: ‘A damn fine jambalaya.’ Unquote.”

“I have a thought — why don’t we make the prototype of the genetically-modified killing thing bright neon orange? With a strobe light grafted to its head?”

“So, the sewers are full of evil mutant rats. Pump in three hundred gallons of cyanide, and let’s go for tea.”

“Okay, I get the point: they’re werewolves. This is an RPG-7V. With reloads. Let’s go play ‘Fetch’.”



The Cornered Cat.

When it comes to guns, I have a gaping blindspot regarding training the ladies in firearms-related things: I approach firearms from the military and law enforcement/SWAT perspective. Heading right off into Introduction to Basic Combat Pistol is not what 99% of the ladies are looking for when it comes to learning about guns.

Alas, this isn’t the biggest part of the blindspot: I am a male of the species. This doesn’t sound like much, until you realize that there are some aspects that I have no practical knowledge of, and will never gain any practical knowledge. This means that it is very difficult for me to honestly answer some questions — heck, sometimes it’s impossible — regarding guns from the distaff perspective.

For instance, I’ve never worn an evening dress. I have no earthly clue where one wuld conceal a CCW in a formal dress. I use inside-the-waistband carry a lot. Which works really well for jeans and slacks. I’ve never had to consider IWB carry in a sundress. Purses? Umm — don’t they usually hold some stuff…forget it.

Female physiology? I appreciate it, but from a very male viewpoint. I’ve never had to deal with the hips-bigger-than-waist issue– which means the world when it comes to hip carry of a handgun.

Ladies and gentlemen, there is a whole world out there, of which I — and a lot of other hairy-chested males — have no practical experience with.

Fortunately, my friend Kathy Jackson has a new web-site, The Cornered Cat , which is dedicated to women and the shooting sports.

If you are on the female side of the species and are interested in firearms for defense or for sport — or if you have female students — you can’t go wrong by taking a look at her site.


Presidential Pardons

Friends of mine whom I see regularly in the paint (as opposed to my on-line friends) have gently taken me to task regarding my thoughts on the possible future of Zacarias Massaoui. I have been informed that no sitting president would dare commute, not to say pardon, a convicted terrorist.


On April 4, 1980 eleven members of The Armed Forces of Puerto Rican National Liberation — better known by the acronym FALN — got snatched up by the Feds.

The FALN had had a busy set of years from 1974 to 1983: 72 actual bombings, 40 incendiary attacks, 8 attempted bombings and 10 bomb threats.

December 11, 1974. Claimed responsibility for the bomb at 336 East 110th Street in East Harlem that injured and permenently disabled a rookie police officer.

January 24, 1975. Claimed responsiblity for the bombing of the Fraunces Tavern, killing four people and injuring more than 50.

April 3, 1975. Claimed responsibility for four bombings. 51 Madison Avenue, the New York Life Insurance Company; 45 East Forty-Ninth Street, the Bankers Trust Company plaza; 340 Park Avenue South, the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company headquarters; and 5 West Forty-Sixth Street, the Blimpie Base restaurant. At least five people were injured.

June 9, 1979. Claimed responsibility for an explosion at the Shubert Theatre in Chicago. At least five people injured.

Remember that the total tally comes to: 72 actual bombings, 40 incendiary attacks, 8 attempted bombings and 10 bomb threats.

Those eleven folks got their trials and wound up getting convicted of various Federal charges, relating to sedition, conspiring to interfere with interstate commerce by violence, conspiring to build destructive devices, various weapons charges, and other interesting stuff. Of the eleven convicted, the following got sentences ranging from 55 years to 90 years (what I would consider to be life sentences):

Elizam Escobar. Total effective sentence of 60 years’ imprisonment.

Ricardo Jiménez. Total effective sentence of 90 years’ imprisonment.

Adolfo Matos. Total effective sentence of 70 years’ imprisonment.

Dylcia Noemi Pagán. Total effective sentence of 55 years’ imprisonment.

Alicia Rodríguez. Total effective sentence of 55 years’ imprisonment.

Ida Luz Rodríguez. Total effective sentence of 75 years’ imprisonment.

Luis Rosa. Total effective sentence of 75 years’ imprisonment.

Carmen Valentín. Total effective sentence of 90 years’ imprisonment.

Violent offenders, the lot of them. Actually blew things up — including police stations — rather than just talking about it. Committed robberies. Matter-of-fact, they got caught after attempting to rob an armoured car in Evanston, Illinois.

Gentle Readers, these critters actually did what Zacarias Moussaoui dreamed about. He talked about planning to crash a plane into the White House. These FALN clowns lit fuzes multiple times over, killed people, and robbed banks and armoured cars.

Fast forward the Way Back Machine to August 11, 1999. Sitting President Clinton commuted the sentences of these 11 critters, plus five more of their FALN buddies.
Enough political critters smelt the way the wind was blowing, and they got themselves a committee together. The reports are found here:
Executive Summary

Final Report

There is some suggestion that President Bill “Horndog” Clinton somehow got the idea that if he did the nice for these terrorists, the Puerto Rican contingent in New York might return the favour by elevating his wife to Senatrix of that State.

Voila! Commutation of the sentences of not one, but SIXTEEN bona fide murdering, robbing, blowing-things-to-hell terrs in return for a political favour.

Something to ponder over your evening Ovaltine.


The apple don’t fall far from the tree

Oh, the Kennedy clan.

Do these people not realize that they’re a laughingstock outside of their stomping grounds?

Speaking of, I can’t believe that people re-elect these parasites. I knew that the Kennedy White House was all very romantic, and all that bushwa, but it was forty years ago! Judas tap-dancing Priest, quit voting for these idiots based on your fuzzy recollection their dead relatives from forty years ago!

Now that that is off my chest, back to the story at paw:

Seems like Congress-critter Patrick Kennedy, offspring of Teddy “Frogman of the Chappaquiddick” Kennedy, just might have a substance abuse problem.

We will now pause whilst my Gentle Readers recover from the shock.


I wonder if they let Dear Old Dad sober up before breaking the news to him, or if they just figured that since he’s sauced most of the time, why bother to wait? Did an aide pass him a message, or did they let the tart du jour whisper it in his ear?

Of course, Congress-critter Kennedy announced that: “at no time before the incident did I consume any alcohol” and we all know that no Kennedy would lie.

Patty apparently slept through the Kennedy Standard Operating Procedure lecture series concerning witnesses, because at least two people saw him knocking back drinks at the Hawk and Dove just prior to him:

1) Driving a wee bit over the speed limit;
2) With his headlights off at 2 in the bloody A.M.;
3) Near-missing a marked PD cruiser going the other way;
4) Failing to miss the curb;
5) Failing to stop for the lights and siren in his rear-view;
6) Finally stopping — but only because he had rammed an innocent construction barrier.



Anyhoo, as if you couldn’t guess, when the officers approached the Congress-critter, he had bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, unsteady balance and the odor of an alcoholic beverage about his person.


I could write the PC for that one in my sleep.

Unfortunately, this being Washington “Putrescent Pesthole of Parasitic Pissant Politicians” Dee-Cee; and the good Congress-critter being one of the afore-mentioned Pustulant Pismire Politicians: the PD brass got involved and Patty got a courtesy drive home and three traffic tickets — none of which involved alcohol or dope– instead of waking up in the drunk tank in a pool of something you don’t want to think about while Listerine Larry uses the legislative leg for a pillow (and allowing Larry’s mechanized dandruff to recon, assault, and secure territory for use by allied forces).


I can dream, can’t I?

Of course, the Congress-critter has blamed this incident on his use of prescription Ambien and Phenergan. Apparently the drugs caused a sleep-driving effect and the good Congress-critter doesn’t remember anything of the evening. Total blank.

Except for the telling officers at the crash site that he never asked for any special treatment. He remembers that. But he doesn’t remember anything else.

He can remember exactly what he told the officers, but not anything else about the night? Horse puckey.

Hey, Patty, it’s not my place to offer advice to those who aren’t kith or kin, but here’s some advice, free of charge:

Washing down your Ambien and Phenergan with booze tends to erase the old mental hard-drive. That’s Mother Nature’s way of saying: Don’t do that ****, dumbass.

Moron. And people VOTE for him! Multiple times! “Hey, Edna! We need a representative — who should we vote for?”

“How about that nice Kennedy boy?”

“He’s a drunk. Rehab has a dedicated room for him. He’s an embarrassment.”

“Yeah, but JFK and Jackie were cute.”

“Oh, what the hell.”

Kee Riced All My Tea.


American politics — folks, we can’t make up stuff like this.


Now the fun starts.

The jury in the Moussaoui case apparently deadlocked on whether or not he should get a visit with The Silver Needle, so Moussaoui got life without parole, instead.

The Media immediately began a beautiful demonstration of one of my pet peeves: everyone interviewed thinks that Life Without Parole means he won’t ever get out of prison.

“He will be in confinement, he will not be released and we can all take pleasure or gratitude in that. He’s a bad man,” said Rosemary Dillard

“He’s going to be in jail for the rest of his life, which is exactly what this man deserves,” said Carie Lemack

“Moussaoui, 37, will likely spend the rest of his years in the “Supermax” facility in Florence, Colo” according to the Fox News drone who posted the above story.


Life Without Parole — or LWOP — is never that. Especially in a case like Zacarias Moussaoui.

Aside from the obvious — a LWOP prisoner has the ability to escape, while an inmate who’s pushing up daisies ain’t liable to — there are other avenues available by way of the Constitution.

An inmate who is serving a Life Without Parole Sentence is still eligible to be pardoned or have his sentence commuted by the Chief Executive. That’s either the Governor of the State, or the President in Federal cases like Moussaoui’s.

Folks will tell you that pardons and commutations hardly ever happen. Actually, some will tell you that pardons and commutations never happen to LWOP inmates, but that’s a blatant lie.

Debra Jenner-Tyler was convicted and sentenced by a jury to Life Without Parole for the crime of stabbing her three-year-old daughter to death. When she confessed to the crime to then South Dakota Governor Bill Janklow —

Let me repeat that —

when she confessed to stabbing her three year-old daughter to death to the Governor —

Governor Bill Janklow commuted her sentence to 100 years and eligibilty for parole.

She’s been applying for parole ever since. One of these days she’s going to get a sympathetic board member and she’ll get paroled.

Life Without Parole, my ass.

There are many other little quiet scenarios just like this one throughout the nation — and worse.

Remember Willie Horton? Sentenced to Life Without Parole, he was granted a furlough — F.U.R.L.O.U.G.H. As in: he walked out the prison door after promising to be back later — by then Governor Dukakis.

A stunt the good governor later regretted, because Mr. Horton took the furlough as an opportunity to commit rape and thus sink Gov. Dukakis’s future White House aspirations.

“But LawDog,” I hear you say, “Surely no sitting president is going to commute, pardon or furlough someone tied to the 9-11 attacks.”

Allow me to introduce you to the shadowy world of international politics and the even-murkier world of counter-terrorist operations. If releasing Zacarias Moussaoui will score us points, gain us a ally, aid a negotiation, or develop intelligence, then he’ll quietly walk out those prison doors.

Parole Moussaoui in exchange for intel? Commute his sentence to grease negotiations with a potential ally? Hell, yes, a sitting President will do that.

Anyone who doesn’t think so is an innocent who should not be allowed to walk down an Istanbul street without a minder.

And all of this doesn’t include folks deciding that Zacarias Moussaoui is a heee-ro, and a thus a reason for doing those time-honoured things that radicals do to free their heroes: hi-jackings, hostage-takings, coercion, blackmail, the usual fun things.

Zacarias Moussaoui should have been released on bail, and then quietly shot in the back of the head or had his throat cut by person or persons unknown in a mugging gone wrong that evening.

A dead Moussaoui gets a parade and nice little memorials in mosques around the wrold.

A live Moussaoui is a Hero of the Intifada, and a lovely poster-child for the next raving fanatic to use as an excuse to hi-jack, sky-jack, ship-jack or otherwise take hostages to bargain for his release.


Like I said, now the fun starts.


Cranky LawDog

We’ve finally received some rain. Which, I guess, is a good thing, however the moisture has caused whatthehellever plant I’m allergic to, to burst into full glorious bloom.

And, since my blood pressure is barely controlled as is, I get to take the “special” allergy medicine. “Special” because it doesn’t work worth a damn.


I can’t see, my ears are stopped up, and my snot locker has developed a direct patch into the Niagra Falls of mucous production.


And you know, you wouldn’t think it would be possible to have a sinus infection with three hundred cubic feet per minute of nostril slobber passing through your sinus cavities hour after hour after hour — but I do.

We have more storms building our West. I know this, because I’ve either got a pressure headache building, or there’s a hippopotamous in the lotus position meditating on top of my head.

Nobody is pointing and laughing, so I’m guessing on the pressure headache.

Right now, I’d rather the hippo, thagk yew bery much.


Well, let’s see … The Great Illegal Alien Siesta took place Monday. I may have to wait for more detailed study, but early results indicate that me and mine weren’t affected the least bit.

Pretty much what I figured. Others, on the other paw, learned a valuable lesson or two from Monday’s activities.

Such as, if you happen to be an “undocumented worker”, and you make your boss irritable because you didn’t show up Monday, your not-very-legal status means he can do more than just fire your protesting butt.

If you do your very best to make the point of the protests by costing your employer money, your employer is liable to make a counter-point by dialling 1-800-LA-MIGRA and giving the happy INS agent on the other end of the line all of your pertinent contact information.

On Tuesday morning, the local INS, excuse me, ICE agents were walking around like they’d just discovered the nice difference between boys and girls. Big grins all around.

And on that note, I’m going to go see if I can steam my schnozz open.

Later, all.


Open letter to my readers of the distaff persuasion.

Ladies, with the recent ballistic unpleasantness in Mesopotamia, I am noting a sharp increase in what I refer to as SquEALs.

Other folks call them Rexall Rangers, Ice Cream Commandos, Wannabees, Special Farces, Secret Squirrels, or the infamous Chairborne Rangers, among other (usually unprintable) names.

The above-mentioned are examples of a certain sub-species lurking amongst the male half of the population who apparently lack several important things, among which are a sense of honor, testicular fortitude, lack of hugs during childhood, a ‘Truth’ gene, or enough ass-whippings for fibbing.

These are the — I can’t call them guys — things? … who decide that it is a Good Idea to whiperingly tell folks of their Special Operations history, when the truth is that the closest they ever came to Special Operations was when they rented ‘Navy Seals’ from Blockbuster.

Amusing, yes. Pathetic, yes. Deserving of a sound ass-kicking, hell yes.

Unfortunately, the same lack of moral fibre that convinces them that lying through their teeth is a good way to feel like a man, also tends to allow them to pull off other stunts to feed their egos.

This is where I want to talk to the ladies.

Ladies, in my experience, hooking up with one of these critters never ends well. Most of the stories I run across wind up with the critter stealing property from the lady (both in minor and felony quantities), destroying her credit rating, wrecking her reputation, emptying her bank account, all the way up to physical, mental and emotional abuse, and even murder.

Some of the stories I hear would be laughable, if it wasn’t for the fact that the person telling me of these stories has had her life destroyed, been beaten, or it becomes necessary for me or someone like me to have to discover the story at second paw, because the lady is dead.

Listen to me. If you take nothing else from this blog, listen to this one thing: if someone you may be interested in starts telling you about his Super-Secret Special Operations Stuff — Check. It. Out.


Trust, but verify.

If anything he tells you about his military career can’t be verified, then a real operator wouldn’t have told you anyway. Period. Full stop. End of discussion.

This is a link to the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis.

The thing you need to bear in mind is: Standard Form 180.

The NPRC website shows three different ways to get a Standard Form 180.

If your potential schmoopie starts telling you about his special operations days, or the testosterone-soaked, manly missions in-which-he-was-the-only-survivor-but-he’s-going-to-be-strong-for-his-dead-buddies, or how a Hollywood movie (or book) was actually based upon his exploits, or any bushwa which sounds like it came out of a dimestore novel with parachutes, explosions and half-nekkid women on the cover, get your paws on a Standard Form 180, fill it out as completely as possible and mail it to the address given a the NPRC website.

Once you get a copy of his military records, take the copy to someone who can translate it for you. That person should NOT be your possible huggums or his best friend in the whole world.

Take the form to your nearest military recruiting station of the Armed Services branch that your pookie claims and have someone with a lot of fruit salad on their chest translate the results for you.

If lambie-toes claims to have been a SeAL, but his documentation says he was anything else: DROP HIM — PRONTO.

Someone who will lie about this sort of thing to make himself feel like a man will, I say again my last — WILL do other things to make himself feel like a man.

Including smacking you around.

Do this thing for me, okay? And do it for any female friends or relatives you care about that run across someone who matches the description.

I don’t want to deal with the after effects of a bullshit artist anymore, and I’m relatively sure that no other cop wants to, either.

And they wind up as cops, too. Just because he made it through an Academy, doesn’t mean that his stories of his SEAL days are true.

Trust, but verify.