*sigh*

I feel it coming.

Congress is going to show their true selves and roll over so that the illegal immigrants and the Mexican government can scratch their fat little yellow politician bellies and tell them what good little gringos they are.

Hell and damnation.

The only good thing to come out of this, is the illegal immigration issue is going to do to Congress what the Assault Weapon Ban did to Congress in 1994. Whole bunch of Congresscritters who happily voted for the Assault Weapons Ban got tossed out on their treacherous asses at election time. Same thing’s going to happen to anyone who votes in favour of illegal immigration this time around.

I hope.

And, like the sodding Assault Weapons Ban, we may get rid of the traitors who stick us with bad legislation, but we’ll still have that fecking bad legislation hanging around our necks. And we’ll still have that simmering pot of shooting trouble down on our border.

Friends of mine are hinting heavily that I need to vote Libertarian this time around. Check me on this, but isn’t “Free and open immigration” one of the main planks in the Libertarian Party platform?

Seems like we’ve got “free and open immigration” as it is. Matter-of-fact, I want Congress to sodding well do something about the “free and open immigration”. I should vote for someone who’s been proudly campaigning for “free and open immigration” since before Ham goosed the moose?

‘Course, that describes most of Congress these days.

*sigh*

On the humor front, we had our very own protest march/boycott today. The only impact that I saw from the illegal population walking away from their jobs was a bunch of high school kids happily mowing lawns for $20 bucks each. I’m pretty sure the football team probably wouldn’t mind a couple of more months of boycott so that they can build up their bank accounts before going to college.

So much for “shutting down the local economy”.

Ah, well. Time for a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark over an ice cube, while watching the sun-set from the porch.

LawDog

One fine year the nearest big city decides on the Fourth of July that they were going to forego their traditional fireworks display.

So, my little town jumps up and announces that they’re going to have a Boom-a-Rama. For $5 per car, anyone who wishes can drive out to the city lake, where the grass has been cut, volunteer fire department and Rescue squad are present in force and – quite coincidentally – the city has set up food and soft drink stands for only about 400% above the going rate.

If you don’t think real hard about it, this sounds like a right proper idea. Give everyone a safe place to worship the gods of Big Noises and Fire, with public safety personnel less than a scream away, and the town makes a decent chunk of change.

What actually happened was one of the most concentrated collections of pure distilled dumbass that I’ve been privileged to see in my four decades on this green earth.

So. Here is the LawDog clan. And we are planning on making sure that on the morning of July 5, there won’t be a single evil spirit within about 300 miles of this town. We spent a lot of money on fireworks. And some of them may, or may not, have been supplemented by those of us with a working knowledge of pyro-chemistry.

Night falls, and we load up into three extended cab pickups and an SUV — when I say clan, I mean everybody — and we drive out to the lake.

And it is a pretty drive. From the highway there are these huge, beautiful bursts of red and green and gold and every other colour available to modern chemistry sparkling in the air over the lake. Gorgeous.

Then, we actually got out to the lake.

Picture, in your minds eye, an area roughly the size of two high school football fields sans sidelines or endzones, placed side-by-side.

Now, take every redneck in a town of 6000 with pyromaniacal tendencies, and put them in this area. Add a generous dose of the inhabitants of the nearby city of 100,000, who are determined to make up for their city’s lack of a firework display with one of their own.

Got that mental picture? Good, now add everyone in the eight surrounding bloody counties who feels slighted by the lack of an official fireworks display anywhere, and has decided to make do “Out at Bugscuffle Lake.”

Yeah.

You literally couldn’t go six feet without tripping over an artillery tube.

Looked cool as hell from the parking area.

The ladies, being the only of the clan who seemed to be actually, you know, thinking that night, promptly holed up inside the SUV with the children and locked the doors.

Us menfolk, all veterans and no strangers to bigger goat-ropings than this, promptly spat some chaw, hitched up our belts, picked up our two crates of go-bangs and trundled into the fray.

I should, at this point, describe the crates. Somewhere, one of the clan had found two crates about six feet long, maybe two feet or so across and about the same deep. Had rope handles on either end. On hindsight, they might have borne a striking resemblance to cheap coffins, but nobody thought to point that out to me at the time.

Bastards.

Anyhoo, off we trundle through the field, carrying our two … crates … of fireworks, mentally rubbing our paws and giggling.

The first problem came when we literally couldn’t find a place to set up. Everytime we’d think we found a decent spot, someone else would plonk down an artillery tube less than ten feet away and begin launching explosive stuff willy-and-nilly.

Finally we got located. We unshipped our mortar tubes, and began wiring a sequence pattern for the first barrage, when somebody — foster brother, brother-in-law, somebody — yelled, “Fire!”

Chortling indulgently, Chris patted this person on the shoulder and bellowed above the sounds of thousands of pyrotechnics going off, “Patience!”

“Patience, my ass,” said worthy replies, pointing, “Fire!”

Yeppers. Waist-high wall of flame roaring our way, gamely pursued by two aging pumper trucks.

I’m told that the sight of seven very large white guys, hoisting two vaguely coffin-shaped crates whilst hauling ass across a field followed by a grass-fire, followed in turn by two pumper trucks, had the ladies in stitches for the rest of the evening.

No comment.

Anyhoo, once the flames were beaten into submission by the VFD, we set back up, loaded our first pattern and launched it successully into the sky.

Many ooh’s and ahh’s followed, and we began a hearty round of congratulatory hand-shaking, in the middle of which my foster brother (I think, may have been a cousin) began to frantically slap the lids back onto our crates.

We were somewhat puzzled by this, until someone pointed out a fairly large-ish artillery tube about 15 feet away. Laying on it’s side. With a sparking length of cannon fuze disappearing into it’s depths.

Which we could see, because it was pointed right at us.

Kith dove left. Kin sprinted right, and foster brother just dropped flat in-between the two crates as the tube launched and the big red ball impacted about six feet short of our cases of low-grade explosive, arced over the top, bounced again about 20 feet further on and detonated in a beautiful burst of red and blue fireballs in the middle of a group of people who seemed to have been setting up about six strings of Black Cats.

At least, I hope that’s what they were doing, ’cause that’s what happened.

From the mighty cheer that went up, I can surmise that this feat met with approval from a great many people. I can also surmise that more than a few of them had been steadily violating the “No Booze” rule and were multiple sheets to the wind.

Anyhoo, someone, whom I don’t know, but apparently unrelated to the survivors of the artillery shell/Black Cat incident, decided that this required a stern response, right smartly.

Counter-battery fire came in the form of two artillery shells and a smoke bomb zeroing in on the culprits.

Passing over our crates in the bloody process, I might add.

This, of course, necessitated answering fire missions of several minutes duration, culminating in an artillery shell bouncing gracefully from roof-to-roof of several innocent vehicles merely watching the display, before detonating spectacularly above a hapless Plymouth Neon and bringing the attention of Johnny Law.

With the appearance of the local PD and the SO and DPS, the combatants were dispersed nicely, allowing kith and kin to emerge from our various positions of cover, and begin to — once again — set up our display.

By Thor, we got off two full sets of launches, and I was just getting into the proper spirit of things, when I get punched between the shoulder blades with a flaming pick-axe. Next thing I know, I’m face down in the dirt, can’t breath, mouth full of dry grass, and the distinct smell of flaming cotton fabric wafting gently in the non-existant breeze.

Trust me, I know what a burning cotton shirt smells like. Don’t ask.

I can also see, from my somewhat skewed perspective, what looks like a high-school-maybe-college-age girl with a mildly perplexed look on her face as she tugs on the sleeve of a slightly older man standing next to her.

He turns, and in the rockets red glare and the gentle illumination of bombs bursting in air, I can lip-read her say to the guy, who has been setting up another four-foot tall, sub-orbital, ballistic missile: “Baby, I think the rocket fell over.”

Heifer.

Next thing I know, everyone else is dumping the contents of one crate into the other crate, picking my gently smouldering carcass up, dumping it into the emptied crate, picking up both crates and –once again — taking off at a dead run across the field.

Now, remember the description of the crate earlier? Now. Imagine you are the distaff members of the clan. Your male relatives – minus one – come running past the SUV you have wisely holed up in. They are carrying – still one relative short – a large crate matching the description given above, with limbs, and bits and parts hanging over the side because I don’t bloody well fit, thankyouverymuch, heave the crate and aforementioned bits into the back of a pick-up and drive off at a high rate of speed.

Yeah.

They caught up when the driver stopped the pick-up at the closest cattle tank, and the rest heaved me and my crate into the water, to make sure that no bits were still warmer than they should have been. Kind of put the kibosh to the rest of the night.

*sigh*

LawDog

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,190902,00.html

That sound you hear is the Democratic leadership chasing Rolaids with shots of Mylanta.

To quote from the above linked story:

“A private security guard in McKinney’s entourage got into a shoving match with Scott McFarlane, a reporter from WSB-TV in Atlanta, McKinney’s hometown. The security guard threatened to throw the reporter’s ‘a– in jail.'”

It gets better. The quick-thinking reporter asked the $60,000 question, quote:

“‘Sir, do you work for the Capitol Police?’ asked McFarlane, to which the guard replied ‘no.'”

“‘Who are you a police officer with, sir?’ McFarlane asked as McKinney, the guard and an aide quickly climbed the steps.”

All of this just seconds before Ms. McKinney made her “formal apology” for the smacking of the Capitol Police Officer last week. Something we will discuss in a moment.

*scratch, scratch*

Someone enlighten me — 1) is it a felony to impersonate a Peace Officer in D.C. and 2)do we have enough Probable Cause here to arrest?

Just out of curiosity, of course.

Now, on to the “formal apology”.

“I come here before this body to personally express again my sincere regret about the encounter with the Capitol Hill Police. … There should not have been any physical contact in this incident,”

Highlighting is mine.

Since Ms. McKinney is/was accusing the Capitol Police Officer with “inappropriate contact” you have to wonder which “physical contact” Ms. McKinney is actually referring to — when he grabbed her arm, or when she smacked his chest.

I’d like to believe that Ms. McKinney isn’t trying to be cute with her apology, but I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.

LawDog

This story not only got around the Internet, it also got around law enforcement circles. I was attending a seminar some years back when I overheard someone in a group of cops telling the story of the kid in the t-shirt, and an officer I have never met in my life stated that he knew the guy this happened to.

*sigh*

Notoriety at last.

There I was: book in paw, a comfy chair, a huge mug of tea and good music in the CD. Two quiet days off tend to be a rarity in small departments — especially if you happen to be the only single officer in the department. I intended to enjoy that weekend to the fullest.

*ring, ring*

I don’t want to answer the phone, I am not here, I died and…”Hello.”

“Boy, the Shamu Squad are turning some jerk in a pink car loose ’bout 12 miles west of town. He’s been speeding since California, and I want you to get out there and slow him down afore he hits town.”

*sigh*

Small towns. We only had one radar unit in the department and it was installed in the night deputies cruiser to keep him awake during the wee hours of the morning. Guess who was the night deputy?

Being used to situations like this, I customarily kept a denim vest with a badge stuck to it hanging on a chair by the front door along with a shoulder holster holding a pistol, reload and a pair of cuffs. Mind busily trying to plot where to intercept this guy, I dress on the bounce out to the car, start the cruiser, fire up the radar, hit the freeway — just in time to see the unit light up.

98 in a 45.

I whip a U-turn, catch up to the driver and get him pulled over.

Now, I admit at the time I looked fairly youngish, so I was pretty used to odd looks when I walked up on a car during a traffic stop.

I walk up to the drivers side, knock on the window and the man behind the wheel gives me a startled look. Matter-of-fact, he just looks at me through the glass for the longest time. Finally I rap on the glass again, make a winding motion with my hand and down goes the window.

“Sir, my name is Deputy —-. I’m with the ——— County Sheriff’s Office. The reason I stopped you is that I clocked your vehicle doing 98 in a marked 45MPH zone. Is there an emergency that I need to know about?”

He looks at me awhile, then says, “No, I’m just in a hurry to get back to Massachusetts.”

“Ah,” I respond, “May I see your drivers license, registration and proof of insurance please?”

He kind of frowns. “Are you an officer of the law?”

“Yes, sir. Deputy Sheriff, with the ——— County Sheriff’s Office.”

He gives me this really wierd look, then digs out his info. I go back to the cruiser, and I see him with his head out the window, looking back at me and his eyebrows are kind of crawling up and down his forehead.
I write up the ticket and walk back up to the car.

“Sir, would you sign this here, please. Your signature is not a plea of guilty, it is merely a promise to appear in court.”

He looks down at the ticket, and back up at me and says, “Are you sure you’re a cop?”

*sigh*

I pointed at the badge all nice and shiny on the front of the vest: “I’ve got a badge,” I open the vest, “I’ve got a gun,” other side of the vest, “I’ve got handcuffs, and I can show you the jail, if you’d like.”

“No, no, that’ll be alright.” He scibbles his name on the ticket, and I hand him his documents and the courtesy letter, and wish him a safe trip.

It takes him a while to finally put the car in ‘D’ and leave, and I follow him to the city limits to make sure he keeps it to a reasonable speed.

I guess as soon as I was out of sight, he crammed his foot into the gas tank and took off again. Anyhoo, he hits my Mom’s hometown, and the local cops aren’t fooling around: they snatch him up and take him directly before the judge to plea his case.

He gets done paying the fine, and goes to the Dairy Queen, whereupon he begins airing his gripes to the world. The locals, being bored, listen sympathetically.

“What is it with the cops in Texas?” Everyone nods sagely, and refills his coffee cup.

“I mean, in this town they all look like they were cloned from the same mustache.” Smiles and nods all around.

“I hit the Texas State line, and I got pulled over by a mustache with a pair of nunchuks hanging off his belt, then two towns later I get ticketed by a bleach blonde grandmother.”

“But the absolute worst time,” he sputtered, almost in tears, “Is X number of towns back where I got pulled over by a redheaded kid wearing a Sheriff’s badge pinned to a BUGS BUNNY T-SHIRT!”

It was not a Bugs Bunny T-shirt. I emphatically deny owning a Bugs Bunny t-shirt.

It was a Tazmanian Devil t-shirt.

Well, how often do you think about what you’re wearing on your day off?

Wait, the worst of it is yet to come.

Every person in the diner starts counting towns on their fingers … X towns back … red-headed kid … Sheriff’s badge … the entire restaraunt turns as one and looks at Mom, sitting in the back.

*sigh*

Mom, of course, made it a point the next time she visited me, to tell the whole wretched story to a resturaunt full of gossips in my town.

I caught hell about the ‘Bugs Bunny T-Shirt’ for years after that.

Egads

I was drifting about Google, wondering who was looking at my blog when I came across the above link.

I had no idea that I was coming across as a stereotypical, misogynistic, racist, bigoted, Good Old Boy. Not to mention: “ignorant”, “hateful”, “disgusting” and “trivialized violence”.

Folks, I tell my stories to amuse people. The fact that apparently more than one person finds me to be, well, all of the above, is a bit startling.

I may need to rethink this blogging idea.

LawDog

UPDATE

When I started this blog, I fully expected to catch the occasional bit of hell for my comments and opinions. I await with bated breath for the moment when my stance on illegal immigration hits a couple of Aztlan websites.

One thing I never expected, though, was to catch hell because of my stories. Blindsided me a bit, there.

I have been firmly, albeit gently, slapped into place by my little* sister-in-law, who is enceinte again, and thus not any any mood for horse-puckey.

LD: “Someone thought one of my stories was disgusting.”

SIL: “Oh.”

LD: “Not to mention ignorant, hateful, and misogynistic.”

SIL: “Oh. Do we know this person?”

LD: “I don’t think so. I’m kind of wondering if maybe I ought to not post stories…”

SIL: “You moron.”

LD: “Huh?”

SIL: “We give a **** about the opinion of this unknown person … why, exactly?”

LD: “Umm…good point.”

SIL: “Yeah. Thought so. Now on to important stuff: where the hell can you find jalapeno relish in this burg and who do I have to kill to get a jar?”

So. The stories, opinions and comments shall continue, unabated.

After I locate a jar of jalapeno relish and some blueberry muffins.

LawDog

*I call her ‘little’ because she is five feet tall, not because of latent misogynistic Good-Old-Boy tendencies.

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,190831,00.html

For those of you who don’t wish to click on the link, it seems that the Mexican protestors have realized that the carrying of the Mexican flags by alleged American citizens is backfiring on them, and are currently trying their damndest to spin the facts.

Let us take a wee look at some highpoints from the above article, with commentary.

“But those who carried them [The Mexican flags], and scholars of the immigrant community, say that pride in their culture should not be misconstrued as a lack of patriotism in their adopted nation.”

That can be argued, and I’ll not second-guess what a stranger is thinking while carrying a flag.

How-bloody-ever, the burning of an American flag — as seen on national TeeVee — bloody well is a lack of patriotism. The fact that none of the so-called “patriotic” immigrants whipped the ass of the guy who set the American flag on fire is indicative of a lack of patriotism in the crowd as well.

The flying of an American flag upside-down and surmounted by a Mexican flag — as seen on national TeeVee — bloody well is a lack of patriotism. And, again, the fact that none of the on-lookers thought it appropriate to whip the ass of the guy who accomplished this, and actually actively cheered him on, speaks volumes regarding the “patriotism” of the crowd.

When a crowd pulls down and destroys a flying American flag in favour of a Mexican flag — as reported in national media — the message is sodding obvious, and no part of that message includes American patriotism.

“‘Nobody gets upset with the Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,’ said Gabriela Lemus, director of policy and legislation at the Washington, D.C.-based League of United Latin American Citizens, the group that organized most of the recent protests and is heading the dozens of marches and rallies scheduled across the nation Monday.”

Ever been to a St. Patty’s Day rally? The American flags outnumber the Irish flags by over ten to one. And those people who are carrying an Irish flag are usually proudly carrying an American flag also.

Something NOT sodding well seen at your little rallies, I might add. How bloody many American flags — you can’t count the ones that were on FECKING FIRE, either — how many non-immolated American flags did you fly?

“[The Mexican flag] definitely does not mean separation or nationalism in the sense that we want to go back to Mexico.”

I don’t give a flying fling at a rolling doughnut where you ‘want’ to go. Take your Mexican flag, and your lighter fluid, and your matches, and get your arse back to Mexico. Leave my country’s flag behind, if you please. Unburned.

Need help? Contact your local Border Patrol, or Immigrations office.

“Lemus said her organization is encouraging protesters to carry both the U.S. and Mexican flags to show their pride in both countries.

‘The American flag is a symbol of what they are trying to become — a U.S. citizen,’ she said.”

Let me get this straight: the flag that they are carrying is a symbol of what the are trying to become. So, those carrying Mexican flags are trying to become Mexicans? Fine by me.

All right, gentlemen, you heard the heifer: Anyone carrying a Mexican flag is trying to become a Mexican citizen. They can best do that in-bloody-Mexico. Toss their ingrate arses over the border.

Happy, Ms. Lemus? No? Tough.

LawDog

In Nigeria, one of the most vital domestic resources you have is your house geckos. These are pink lizards about the length of your little finger with huge eyes and translucent skin that you can see shadows of their organs through.

Charming little devils, the house geckos — called ‘chit-chats’ for the calls they make — are the answer to the bug infestations common to the tropics. Once the sun goes down, out come the chit-chats and they have this incredible ability to run up walls and across ceilings as fast — if not faster — than they can across the floor.

Anyhoo, at the bungalow we had a bar that had a light on either end and one long flourescent tube across the top. These lights attracted all manner of bugs.

One cheeky little fellow had claimed the bar as his hunting ground and had been adopted by the multitude of ex-patriates more-or-less semi-permanently camped out at our house. Each evening when he woke up, he’d stroll up into one of the lamps to break his fast, then he’d crawl down to the base of the lamp and look at whoever was at the bar with his throat pulsing gently.

Whomever was at the bar would then offer him a drink, normally by dipping your finger into your glass then holding it out to him, but it was perfectly acceptable for the more skittish types to dunk a bit of popcorn or piece of pretzel into the drink and then lay the alcohol-soaked goodie on the lamp base for him to imbibe.

Once he had satisfied his thirst, he would lick his lips, blink at you, then climb off the lamp, meander across the bar top and up into the other lamp to begin the serious work of reducing the number of bugs present.

Now, this doesn’t sound like much, until you understand that when the chit-chat is slightly shorter than your pinkie finger, this makes him considerably shorter than the common Nigerian house roach. Watching the nightly battles twixt the big, armored roaches and the small, quick geckos, everyone tended to agree that geckoes were: “Stout little chaps. Scrappy.”

One evening, the chit-chat who had adopted the bar had fought an hour-long hit-and-run battle against a horned beetle who was twice his size, leading one sloshed Brit to declare that the little lizard was obviously an Army gecko, and thus had earned the name, “the Major”.

Now, what Dad was doing in Nigeria was grinding ‘mud’. ‘Mud’ being the chemicals necessary to the proper function of an oil well, and Dad was one of the few suppliers, this led to buyers being invited to the house for supper.

One evening, one of these buyers was sitting at the bar with about four of the Usual Suspects, running his mouth about the country.

It was readily apparent that he did not like Africa, and was heavily involved with bitching about everything to do with Africa, while waving a whiskey-and-soda, when the Major ambled down out of the lamp and waited patiently for his wee dram.

To our absolute and complete horror, The Buyer took one look at the little lizard, snarled, “And how can you stand having lizards running all over the place!”, cocked his middle finger behind his thumb and firmly thumped the Major off his lamp, causing the chit-chat to arc gracefully across the walking area behind the bar, slam against the mirror and drop out of sight.

Everyone stared in disbelief at The Buyer as he wiped his finger on his shirt with every indication of disgust.

Mom took off for the kitchen with murder in her eye, Dad followed to prevent the tactical application of frying pans and/or rat poison, and everyone else just kind of gave The Buyer the old Hairy Eyeball, which (being thick as a brick) he never noticed.

Anyhoo, Dad gets Mom out of the kitchen, minus any implements of personal destruction, and the evening carries on, until one of The Usual Suspects leans back in a stretch and freezes.

The expression on his face was unusual enough that everyone at the bar (except the Buyer who was pouring a refill) immediately looks up.

Gliding smoothly across the ceiling was the Major. He paused and deliberately let go with three of his four legs until he was hanging by one foot, and made some calculations.

Altitude: Check
Crosswind: Check
DZ. No go.

The Major clamped all four sets of toes back on the ceiling and moved left about six inches, then pulled three sets loose again.

Altitude: Check
Crosswind: Check
DZ: Check.

The Major popped the last set of digits loose and, graceful as a leaf, HALO’d into The Buyers fresh whiskey-and-soda. Not wanting to see our gecko get swallowed by an overly-obnoxious fat guy, I opened my mouth to mention to the oblivious idiot that he ought to get another drink when Dad waved a finger at me: “Son, mind your manners. The grown-ups are talking.”

This had never been been an issue before, so I said, “Dad…”

The Buyer waved his drink at me, not noticing the small pink lizard holding firmly onto the far side of the glass. Dad held up a finger in gentle reproof.

Raising his glass in salute to Paternal Wisdom, The Buyer then moved the glass to his lips, thus allowing the Major to clamp all four mitts (plus tail) on the idiots nose before firmly attaching his jaws to the afore-mentioned proboscis.

Having an ambush sprung upon you from the depths of your drink by an enraged gecko must be awfully hard on the old nervous system, because The Buyer promptly sprang to his full and complete height, wheezing like a bellows, staring cross-eyed at this inch-and-three-quarters-length reptile who is attempting to Death Roll his nose right off his face — and passed out.

Mom gently detached the Major from the Snout and replaced him on his lamp, where the little lizard furiously bobbed his head, throat pulsing madly, for a good five minutes before stomping pugnaciously back up into his lamp.

One of the Usual Suspects blinked owlishly at Mom. “Commando brigade. Sneaky blighters. Getcha when you isn’t looking.” The rest nodded in alcohol-fueled affirmation, then raised their glasses to the honour of the Major.

The Buyer was revived and ushered firmly into a cab back to his bungalow.

That little lizard was still whacking bugs when we left there. I hope the folks who moved in after us valued him as much as we did.

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,190523,00.html

Lordy, lordy, lordy.

House Republicans are seeking to pass a resolution commending Capitol Police for their professionalism.

While interesting, and probably a sorely needed pat on the back, the REALLY interesting part of the whole thing is in the last paragraph.

Allow me to quote:

“[Patrick] McHenry, who at 30 is the youngest member of Congress, said he is routinely stopped by Capitol Police and asked for identification.
“When I’m not wearing my pin, I am always stopped,” McHenry said in a telephone interview. “I accept that as a due course of security.”

A smoking gun! We now have proof positive of the racism of the Capitol Police! We have independant verification of their racist policies! “Always stopped”, by God.

Here at the LawDog Files we are sure and certain that the NAACP, Danny Glover and the rest will firmly and proudly step forward and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with this other victim of the profiling policies of the Capitol Police.

<---- Congressman Patrick McHenry

*snort*

Right. Sure they will. About two hours before my legions of flying monkeys complete my quest for world domination.

LawDog

People who’ve never worked in Public Service (EMS, Rescue, FD, law enforcement, Coast Guard and such-like) get really confused when they ask me what being a Peace Officer is really like, and I tell them stories like the one that follows.

I blame it on Hollywood.

When the SVU officers spend three hours past oh-dark-thirty in 10 degrees below bloody zero weather walking every alley in town because the Alzheimer’s has told Grandpa Frickert to slip out the side door of the nursing home and go walkabout, then it’ll be true-to-life.

People always think of the dramatic stuff. Nobody on TeeVee ever issues a BOLO for a “Mixed breed dog, mostly white with a black face, answers to ‘Fluffy'” and have every officer in ear-shot looking because some 8-year-old kid is crying his eyes out.

Find me a TeeVee officer who’s ever answered a 911 call and wound up standing ankle-deep in water with a hand clamped around a ruptured water pipe while the owner goes to turn off the water. Or snaked into the spider-infested crawlspace under a house in order to pull out Suzy’s new kitten.

I got a 911 call once because a rattlesnake was slithering up a tree towards a nest full of baby birds. When I am going to get to see that one on ‘Law and Order’?

Speaking of, the TeeVee cops take themselves wwwaaaayyyy too seriously.

But that’s a rant for another time.

Which brings us to the story …

One of the nice things about working in small towns is the…unique…problems that you learn to solve. One such problem belonged to a sweet little old lady who lived in big, old mansion over in the old section of town. She had a …

*ahem*

… ghost infestation.

Now, most of the time this was all right (I think she liked the company), but once in a while the ghosts would get a wee bit rowdy. Thereupon, she’d call the S.O. and one of us would be dispatched to take care of the situation. We’d show up, she’d let us into the huge old house, the officer would go upstairs and read a stern warning to the ghosts.

I found that if you took George C. Scotts’ speech from Patton, complete with pacing back-and-forth and gestures, and cleaned up the language a bit, the ghosts would normally be impressed enough to keep quiet for a week or two.

Once you were done, you’d go back downstairs, where the lady would stuff you full of homemade cinnamon rolls and iced tea, and you’d swap gossip for a while.

One day the Sheriff gets A Bright Idea: we’d take care of this situation once-and-for-all. Plans are made. People are notified. We wait for the call.

And one Friday evening, she calls. Not only are the ghosts rowdy, it sounds like they’re having a party. And (delivered in whispered tones) she thinks she heard some girl ghosts giggling up there, and this Wasn’t Right.

The call goes out. We load up our full-time officers (all four of them), we get our Reserves (mostly Security from a local Federal facility), we don our Ninja gear, we mount our Trusty Steed (re-worked, Korea-era Ambulance) and we sway and sputter and backfire and shudder and creak our way over hill and through dale.

Once on location, a hasty whispered conference takes place. Who looks the least threatening?

That would be Yours Truly having hysterics in the back.

Up I go, I knock on the door, tell the little old lady that we’re here to solve her problem and seat her on the porch swing with a blanket.

*CRASH*

Twenty SWAT rhinos in full gear hit the door, clear the bottom floor tactically, flow the stairs, and then the shouting starts.

“Hey, you! YES, YOU! OUT, OUT, OUT!!”

“One here! Out, out, out! CLEAR!”

“You! Yes, you! Where do you think you’re going? OUT, OUT, OUT!”

Thus were our thoroughly scared and cowed (albeit invisible) subjects herded to the front lawn, where the Sheriff is standing on the roof of the ambulance — excuse me, SWAT vehicle — delivering his patented fire-and-brimstone, straight-path/crooked-path speech. Complete with finger-pointing, arm waving and emotional entreaties to what only a absolute cynic would consider an empty lawn.

Watched with great interest by all the neighbors — heck, most of the town — who promptly got out the lawn-chairs, the sodas and the snacks and basically started a block party.

*sigh*

Small towns.

Once we were done, and had allowed the thoroughly chastised and completely humbled spirits back upstairs, we sat in her kitchen (in black BDU’s, rifles, shotguns, etc.,) eating cinnamon rolls and drinking iced tea.

During this last part, the lady whispered to me that we had “Missed one.”

Never said I wasn’t fast on my mental feet — I promptly whispered back that he was too young to be subjected to such a scary action. She examined him closely and declared that I was probably right.

It took the ghosts almost three months to go back to their rowdy ways.

Heh.

LawDog