Actor Alec Baldwin is lobbying Congress to take more of my tax money and give it to the National Endowment for the Arts.
Didn’t this gator-mouthed, gecko-butted jackass promise to take his pookie bear and his security blanket and go to some other country a while ago back?
Sweet jumping Vishnu, you just can’t count on some people to follow through.
*sigh*
Anyhoo, I’m ambivalent about this whole NEA thing. I understand the desire to fund arts, despite the fact that the arts did just fine prior to the formation of the National Endowment for the Arts in 1965.
What I don’t understand is why Mr. Basinger — sorry, Mr. Baldwin — feels that it’s perfectly okay to pilfer my paycheck for the funding.
Alec, you git, trust me, I fund the art I like. So does everyone else. Turn loose of my money, and let me get about funding more of it.
And I’m fuzzy on why Congress thinks they ought to have a say in the whole art thing, the Constitution of the United States being a bit lacking when it comes to mentioning art.
Not only this, but the very idea of a Government Agency funding art is disturbing on a fundamental level. In order to fund art, you must first decide what is, or isn’t, art. You must, in a word, define art.
Does anyone really think it’s a good idea to let the Federal Government define what art is?
So, here is one of those radical ideas of mine: It’s my money. I sweated, and toiled, and occasionally bled for it. I would think that I should have a say in what art the money I bled for should support.
Something that damned sure isn’t happening right now, I can tell you.
Yet, here is Mr. Baldwin who apparently believes (or wants everyone else to believe) that without Congress stealing a significant portion of my hard-earned dosh to fund an agency created in 1965, art will just dry up and blow away.
Folks, art has been around longer than politicians. In some cases the only traces we have of early people is their art. Art has survived the extinction of the Neandertals. The Pharaohs are dust, the Roman Empire is a memory, and yet art survives. Dark ages, Renaissance, Industrial Age, the basic human desire to create art has survived them all.
12,000 years ago, a caveman who spent his day dodging cave bears, dire wolves, sabre-toothed cats and mutant giant sloths with anger management issues, managed to paint beautiful pictures of local wildlife on cave walls.
I seriously doubt that lack of a NEA grant affected his artistic endeavours.
Nor, I suspect, did lack of NEA funding adversely affect Twain, Thoreau, Poe, O’Keeffe or the countless others who used art to express themselves in America for decades (if not centuries) before the NEA stumbled onto the scene.
If the NEA is that good of an idea, it’ll do fine on it’s own. Cut it loose from the Gummint teat, and let it sink or swim in the private arena.
Let folks keep their cash, and use it to fund — or not — the art(s) of their choice.
LawDog
Places not to stash your cocaine.
Since we were located on a four-lane divided highway located almost midway between seven digit cities in separate states, the highway tended to bring us a lot of business that we would have been quite happy without. Always seemed to me that once folks got away from the lights of the big cities, they decided that either what they had planned was perfectly acceptable in small towns, or that there was no chance of them getting caught.
Could have done without some of that excitement, I’m here to tell you.
Ahem.
In the mid-90’s or so, we got a call from a task force located way, waaaay down the highway to inform us that they had received a search warrant for a certain car. Unfortunately, they had (ahem) lost track of the car, however they had information that the car was due to drive through our county sometime that evening, and they suggested that we really, really wanted to search that car.
The Sheriff contemplated over a cup of coffee and decided that I was going to be bored that night, so I wound up running traffic on the major highway through our county.
A little after midnight, I see said described car blow through a red light in town, so I swing in behind it, verify the plate, and turn on the lights. Ten or so miles later, he pulls over and I wander up to talk to him. The Sheriff and a back-up officer arrive just after the driver signs the ticket, I ask him for permission to search the vehicle, the driver vociferously declines, the Sheriff agrees that that is his right, but mentions that a K9 unit is on the way. Things get a bit rambunctious; the driver winds up in the backseat of my cruiser in handcuffs.
The girlfriend of the driver and her cousin, both being students of the Federalist Papers, demand to know the reason for the search. We inform them that we have good reason to believe that 210 grams of crack cocaine wrapped in Cling Wrap and green ninety-mile-an-hour tape, and further sealed in a pink Ziploc bag (quart size), is located somewhere in or about the vehicle.
The girl promptly takes off running like she’s training for the Summer Felony Games, with the Sheriff in hot pursuit, while her cousin (rather professionally) prones himself out on the asphalt before the other deputy and I could blink.
This was one of the cases where even if you weren’t able to define Probable Cause, you knew it when you saw it.
Anyhoo, we’re waiting for the drug dog to show up, and I decide to search the two male subjects (pay attention, ’cause this is important), and I don’t find anything on them other than the usual pocket litter.
Being the only bit of excitement in the area, several officers from other jurisdictions show up about the same time that the K9 and his handler get there, out comes the coffee, and we have a gossip session as the K9 and his buddy go around and through the car. Wouldn’t you know it, but the K9 gives a good alert on the drivers seat of the car.
We search the car — don’t find anything. We search the car again — nothing. We tear the car apart — nada.
Finally, the Sheriff puts the girl and her cousin in the car, uncuffs the driver and walks him up to the car while delivering a stern lecture, and something just isn’t right about the driver. I’m not talking about a little warning bell going off in my mind, I’m talking a full Japanese drum, gong and bell chorus. I just have to pat him down again — and this time I hit something.
I spin the driver around, grab the suspicious object, and I yelp: “What the hell is this?”
Critter says: “Man, that’s my [graphic description].”
My brain kicked into high gear, as everything else slowed down. I remember thinking something along the lines of: “That’s a hammer and breech end of an semi-auto pistol/I missed a gun/I wonder who’ll tell Mandy/feels like an cutaway slide/I missed a GUN/that trigger happy idiot is behind me with a Mini-14/open slide – [deleted], it’s a Beretta/.25? .380? .380 – [deleted]!/he’s going for it/I’m going to get shot from both sides/why didn’t I propose to Mandy/I. Missed. A. [deleted]-ing. GUN./fall backwards, get out of the line of fire, idiot – do something!”
All this and more is going through my head, my normally closely guarded mouth is on auto-pilot, and I respond:
“That’s the hardest [graphic description] I ever felt.”
Just before the critter becomes ground zero for a pig pile.
*sigh*
Mind you, I don’t remember actually saying anything along those lines, however, several of my brother officers felt it was germaine enough to the case that they included it in their narratives of the incident.
*growl*
To make things even better, the hidden object turned out not to be a gun, nor his [graphic description] — it was the rock of cocaine, hidden in his jockey shorts.
During the trial, the judge had to call an hour recess so that the jury could quit chortling.
*sigh*
LawDog
A radical proposal
By way of Zendo Deb, we have this link. There is a picture there which is more than a little disturbing, open with care.
Seems that a number of Muslim men have taken it into their heads to declare open season on women who don’t wear veils.
I have a proposal to deal with this problem. A proposal which is so simple, it may even qualify as radical. Bear with me, and see what you think:
Shoot the bastards.
Take your lady to a shooting range. Better yet, send her to a shooting school. Let her try some pistols, and then buy the one that she likes and give it to her as a gift. Do the same with your daughters.
And the next time some mis-anthropic little sociopath decides that God has commanded him to subjugate an unveiled woman, give the Light of Your Life the ability to centre-punch the sonovabitch and let God explain things to him in person.
Seriously.
I would imagine that when the third gut-shot would-be rapist dies while crawling to the nearest Emergency Room, the local Muslim idiots will experience a religious epiphany.
Hell, enough rapists experience a Mozambique drill up close and personal and who knows? We might get to witness a Religious Reformation that would make Martin Luther weep with jealousy.
Oh, wait. The victims are in Australia and Europe. Guns and the carry of same are banned in those … civilized … countries.
You know, there’s an ironic punch-line there, but the same folks governments who refuse to allow law-abiding citizens to carry firearms for defense against this kind of brutality wouldn’t understand it.
*sigh*
LawDog
Oh, Judas Priest on a flaming pogo stick.
Brady Press Release
For those of you who choose not to click on the above link, let me paraphrase it for you:
Little Sarah One-Note has decided to get her panties into a wad concerning coloured guns.
*blink, blink*
Sweet Jeebus, there must be several hundred villages out there suffering from severe Idiot Depletion Syndrome. Think of the children! Children need idiots to learn from! For God’s sake, get back to your villages, do it for the children!
I should refrain from calling the Brady Center to Prostitute Prevent Sarah Bradys 15 Seconds of Fame Handgun Violence “idiots”.
I’m doing a tremendous disservice to hardworking idiots everywhere.
However, does anyone else have a mental image of several dozen people laying in the dirt outside the Brady Center doors, with a wad of bubblegum stuck to the bumfuzzled expression on their faces, or is it just me?
Forgive me, that was petty. I have every confidence that a significant number of the folks who work for the Brady Centre to Prevent Handgun Violence are able to multi-task both the walking AND gum-chewing sub-routines.
Let me say this just as slowly and gently as I can, you mouse-brained morons: Those folks who leave guns around for children to point at cops are NOT going to pony up the amount of cash necessary to have GlockMeister or a NIC-trained shop re-finish their pistols.
Yes, my pin-headed little dacoits, it costs a significant amount of money to refinish a pistol through the places you want to stop refinishing pistols.
No, you syphilitic catamites with delusions of adequacy, the kinds of folks who use coloured guns to commit crimes aren’t going to pony up $200 – $500 of dosh just to refinish their Glock. If, for some heretofor unknown reason, they want a pink Glock, they’re going to shoplift a can of Krylon, or a jar of Testors model paint and do the job themselves in the garage.
I want you to put down the Kool-Aid and hook your eyeballs on this monitor, because I’m not going to repeat myself: There are problems out there — after 13 years of law enforcement service I could write books about the problems out here — HOWEVER — baby blue Glocks and pink AR15’s aren’t any part of those problems.
Now back to your regularly-scheduled series of 15 second soundbites.
LawDog
Court guns and BBQ guns.
I know that Texas doesn’t have a lock on court guns, or their kissin’ cousin, the BBQ gun, but someone always asks me what they are.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid they’re a dying breed. At least in this part of the country. Back in West Texas every lawman worth his salt has a court gun. Around here, everyone has gone to polymer framed pistols, and I’m here to tell you, ain’t no way this side of the Styx than you can turn a Glock into a court gun.
Sorry, ain’t gonna happen. It is technically, physically and aesthetically impossible.
So, down to brass tacks.
A court gun is the pistol that you wear during your court-type duties.
Usually a Colt Government Model or clone or a Browning Hi-Power, although any metal pistol with removable grips will do. Either blued or stainless is just fine, and have a small amount of tasteful engraving done to the slide.
Replace the grips with burlwood or stag. Fancy wood is acceptable, and can be minimally engraved. Understatement is the word of the day here.
The gun leather for your court gun should be dark in colour, with the classic basketweave pattern and a Ranger buckle. A subdued floral or Celtic pattern is acceptable, as long as the leather engraving is not a different color from the rest of the belt. In the past, the best gear was custom-made by inmates of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, but I don’t know if they’re still doing that.
Some philistines have asked about nylon carry gear, or — God forbid — kydex. The only stuff good enough for a ‘court gun’ is leather. Period. Full stop. And for God’s sake, don’t have your name engraved on the back of the belt. That’s just…just…tacky.
For accessories, consider one open-topped magazine pouch and a belt-mounted badge. Polish your boots, press your jeans and wear a starched long-sleeve shirt.
Now, a BBQ gun is a whole different animal. A BBQ gun is what you wear to barbeques, baby christenings, formal balls, and any other place where a fancy jacket or outfit would be worn.
Get your paws on a revolver. Smith & Wesson or Colt would be best, although I understand that Brazilian products are becoming accepted. Polished stainless at a minimum, and full-blown nickle is a better. And pony up for full engraving. Have the trigger, hammer, screws and ejection rod anodized blue, gold, or colour-case-hardened for the traditionalists.
Now, look in the mirror. Is your mustache over 50% grey? If so, go for pearl grips. 49% or less on the grey-meter, and you’d best stick with ivory. If you go for mother-of-pearl, have it carved or inlaid. Steer heads are a classic pattern, although badges and stars are always safe.
If you go the ivory option, have the ivory inlaid or scrimshawed. Floral patterns involving roses and the Texas flag are good, as well as the state of Texas, a tasteful rendition of a young lady, or long horn cattle. Any scene from the battle of the Alamo is a surefire crowd pleaser. For those souls living outside the Great State of Texas, the flag raising at Mt. Suribachi may be substituted for an Alamo scene, and anything involving Marines is acceptable engraving material.
I would advise that you stay away from morbid or dreary themes in your engraving — unless it is extremely well done.
The leather for your BBQ gun should be of a floral pattern, with the engraving a different color than the rest of the leather. The engraving pattern should extend to the buckle and any other metal hardware which should consist of silver and be polished bright enough to shave in, although gold is acceptable if carried with the proper attitude.
Accessories should be limited to a reload and a pocket watch.
No BBQ outfit is really complete without hand-made boots made from the hide of a critter that is guaranteed to send your local PETA petter into orbit. Pressed jeans under a Western-cut jacket, with a bolo tie, and a black Stetson complete the ensemble. The bolo tie should have a chunk of rock slightly larger than a baby’s fist and the Stetson should have a hat band made from the cousin of the critter on your feet.
For some of the best examples of court and BBQ guns around, I strongly recommend visiting the Texas Ranger Museum in Waco, Texas.
LawDog
Migrating liberals, part II.
In my previous post, I attempted to gently express how irritated I get when someone with Left Coast plates jumps up with a Hollywood horse-hockey version of what some poli-critter in Newt Yack City, or Maryland, or Cali-Ore-Washing-stan would like the law to be and expects me to enforce it, and no questions asked.
Second only to that on the LawDog Irritation-O-Meter, is the kiddies who want to bring their Los Angeles/San Fran/Seattle problems to Texas.
Like the vegetarian girl with Washington plates who cussed out a cowboy, and then spit into his basket of french fries, all because he was eating a burger.
(By-the-by, ladies, a valuable lesson was learned here: if you’re going to Say It With Saliva, make sure your boyfriend can take a whuppin’.)
Anyhoo, can we possible leave our angsty little problems back at the old homestead? Please?
Ahem.
Once upon a time…no, wait, wrong format.
Our evening deputy was cruising the northwest section of the county when this towering pillar of black smoke sort of catches his attention.
He hares off down a Farm-to-Market road, finds the lease that the smoke is coming from and notices that the gate at the cattle guard is standing wide open. He goes over the cattle guard, and then down about half-a-mile of badly rutted dirt/clay/gravel road, to find a yellow late-model Mustang high-centered on one of the ruts. The drivers side door is standing open and one white male is standing behind the car, attempting to rock it off of high center.
‘Bout a hundred yards down the road, there’s a pump-jack totally engulfed in flames.
Deputy Frank figures that there’s probably a young lady somewhere, but he really wants this car out of the way, because there’s a bunch of fire trucks about to come down this road, and the local VFD isn’t too particular about how they move obstructing vehicles, so he gets out of the cruiser to give the young man a hand.
Young man looks up, and then promptly hauls butt into the surrounding mesquite thickets. More on this later. Heh.
Frank begins inventing new swear words, and stomps over to the Mustang whereupon he Makes Some Observations: A) The inside of the car reeks of gasoline; and
B) There’s a brand new pack of road flares in the passenger seat, only there appears to be one flare missing.
While we may be Small Town, that doesn’t mean that we’re dumb.
Other deputy shows up, they get the Mustang pushed out of the way just before the fire department roars down the road and does their best with the conflagration.
Anyhoo, Himself comes out, inspects the scene and we find the back seat of the Mustang plumb buried under hand-written pamphlets, mimeographed manifestos, and other such niceties.
Seems like the lad had a case of the hips regarding “Energy conglomerates and the rape of the petro-chemical wealth of the planet”. Or somesuch.
The Sheriff sighs, has a reserve deputy and myself sit on the hood of the Mustang in case Todd the Eco-Warrior makes his way back, while the on-duty deputy gets to drive up and down the FM roads surrounding the lease with orders to snatch any hitchhikers.
Let me see a show of paws from the people who have experience in North Texas mesquite thickets.
*snicker*
Mesquites have very long thorns, and they grow very low to the ground and very close together. In addition mesquite thickets are the favoured lairs of ticks, no-see-ums, wheel bugs, tarantulas, fire ants, red ants, spiders and pasty-faced men with chain saws. Not to mention that cactus, jumping-getcha, devils claw, and other anti-social plants also like thickets.
The wind doesn’t ever seem to get into the mesquite thickets, but the humidity does. And the heat. And here’s our critter, in his black no-dye tissue-thin batique cotton drawstring drawers and his politically-correct black hemp guyabera shirt and his black cordura sandals.
Anyhoo, Bubba and I sat there juggling a can of Deep Woods Off for about twenty minutes before hearing this blood-curdling yodel and we see Todd the Revolutionary, black bandanna pulled up bandit-style over his lower face, burst forth from the mesquite in a buzzing grey cloud and sprint for the open drivers door of the Mustang, ululating every step of the way.
We watched him cover the hundred or so feet at a dead sprint, and then Bubba casually reached over and pushed the door closed, causing Young Toddy to ricochet off the closed door and into the dust, much to the delight of the mosquitoes.
I waved the car keys at him. I suppose I need to read the Anarchist Handbook, because this is apparently a gross violation of the rules of the game. All five foot, six inches, one hundred thirty pounds of halitosis and macrobiotic methane jumped to his feet, struck a bee-yoo-ti-ful tai chi stance and proclaimed: “It took six LAPD pigs to take me to jail. I’m not afraid of you!”
*snort*
He went to jail.
LawDog
Migrating liberals.
Tamara’s rant concerning west coast liberals invading her state is a near and dear hot button for me, but for a slightly different reason than Tams.
Ahem.
Good evening, folks.
Today I would like to rant about a particularly irritating habit I’ve noticed developing amongst the horde of carpet-bagging, mouth-breathing, bunny-hugging, veggie-gnawing, mono-synaptic, close-minded dacoits who are tip-toeing through my fair State like a horde of lobotomized, politically-correct, apron-hanging rhinocerii.
You. Yes, you. The weasel with the organic hemp clothes, the questionable hygiene, and the index finger inserted knuckle-deep in your sinus cavities.
Listen to me carefully. I’ll go slowly so that you may grok the entirety of what I am attempting to express:
‘Law and Order’ is a TV show. ‘The Practice’ is a TV show. They are written by brain-burned colleagues of yours who have about as much understanding of Law as an amoeba has of a tesseract.
And here’s the important part: The “laws” that Hollywood twists beyond all reason and sanity for the sake of drama are loosely — very loosely — based on New York laws. And California laws. Not, I say, NOT Texas law.
The next one of you invertebrates who tries to metaphorically beat me about the shoulders with a bastardized Hollywood version of a liberalized California Penal Code is going to get ridden out of the County on a rail. Covered with asphalt. And synthetic chicken feathers.
Write this down:
Texas does not have a law entitled “brandishing”. And even if we did, carrying your rifle from your pickup to your house would not violate such a dumb-bunny law.
Texas does not have any laws concerning the carry of shotguns and/or rifles. Yes, he can carry his rifle over his shoulder as he walks down the farm-to-market road. Deal with it.
Texas does not have any laws concerning ammunition. It is not against the law to have loose ammo in your vehicle. Or your pockets. Or in the change plate at church.
Texas does not register guns. Period. Suck it up.
Texas does not have the legal term “assault rifle”. It’s a rifle. It’s legal. Shut your pie hole and evolve into a spine.
Deputy Friendly will explain this to you once. Maybe twice. The third time he has to listen to your snivelling, whining, lying claptrap, he is going to turn into Deputy Irritated. This should be taken as a warning.
It should not be taken as a reason to refer to the Deputy as a “jumped up prison guard”; and I should warn you that threatening the Sheriff of a Texas County with the disfavour and/or wrath of a Mayor or a Chief of Police does usually get met with giggles.
If things were that great back whereverthehell you came from, why are you polluting my county, hmm?
We’re happy with our laws. Texas laws have worked just fine for Texas. If we wanted the California garbage they call a Penal code, we’d have moved to California. If New York is that great, I-35 is that way. Leave your daughters at the state line.
Oh, Sam Waterson nothwithstanding, Texas Law does not require a Breathalyzer to arrest someone for Public Intoxication. And yes, we know what marihuana smoke smells like. And yes, being stoned on mota, standing on a public road, trying to tell a deputy sheriff that a man doesn’t have the God-given right to carry his own damned rifle on his own damned property is pretty much a text-book definition of Public Intoxication.
Thank you for your attention.
LawDog
We don’t have to settle for mutant seabass after all…
Our nutty little geniuses at DARPA have created a “neural implant” that would allow engineers to do wild and wicked things to a shark’s think box by way of remote control.
Some folks figure that the DARPA boffins have been reading a skosh too much cyberpunk.
*snort*
This is exactly what happens when you take three uber-geeks, one case of Ye Olde Panther Whiz, an Austin Powers DVD, and leave all of the above in a basement for the weekend.
The beta version sounds good. All sorts of detailed gobbeldy-gook about “detection capabilities”, “stealth surveillance” and other esoteric goodies.
I will bet you dollars to doughnuts that somewhere, buried in the plans, probably under a Three Letter Acronym, are designs for a “Frickin’ Laser Beam Attachment Point And Control Circuit”.
It’s there. You know it is.
LawDog
Pull the strings — watch them dance.
By way of the lovely Tamara from A View From The Porch, we discover this story.
For those of you who aren’t keeping score, Ms. Rachel Corrie was the brain-dead, umm – congitively-impaired, umm – what is the current term — Hero Of The Revolution? — who decided to listen to the advice of puppet-masters people who knew better than to risk their own pink skins, and knelt down in front of an Israeli bulldozer. The fact that said bulldozer was prepping to knock down a house being used to conceal a tunnel full of explosives, guns, RPG7V’s and spitball launchers not really being germaine to Little Miss Corrie’s thought processes FEE-EEL-ings.
Unfortunately, Little Miss Corrie chose to trust her companions. Which was the second worst mistake of her short life, because her little buddies then proceeded to videotape the slowly moving bulldozer as it turned Miss Corrie into crinkle-cut people patties.
Do note, Gentle Readers, the point about the bulldozer being slowly moving. (It must also be pointed out that since the bulldozer was being used in a war zone, the cab is armoured. the driver can only see out through a tiny slit, and was not able to view the area where Little Miss Corrie was placed decided to kneel. A fact that should not –and I will guarantee did not — have escaped those who planned this photo opportunity.)
Yes. Rather than taking three steps forward and jerking Little Miss Dumbass out of the way of the bulldozer, her Noble Companions decided that it was more important To The Cause instead to videotape her being killed. If they had taken the three steps and prevented her from becoming One With The Earth, it would have been, at best, a One Night Wonder. Her gruesome death is much more useful to The Cause.
Which leds us to the above referenced story. For those of you out there who aren’t as cynical as Your Scribe, the following may come as a surprise:
Those Who Chose Not To Get Sacrificed The companions of the erstwhile Little Miss Corrie have announced a memorial…
…wait for it…
PANCAKE FEED!
YES!
Was anyone who has dealt with revolutions, insurgencies and/or subversive political movements in the past actually surprised by this? Are there any students of history, or Machiavelli fanboys, who didn’t see this one coming?
These critters were out of the news. Their cause didn’t even qualify as parrot age liner anymore. What better way to get back into the limelight than by outrage?
And do not doubt: This is outrageous. It is causing folks to wax eloquent about the insensitivity of this stunt: Girl flattened by bulldozer = pancake feed. Goodness.
The blogsphere is reverbrating with bad jokes concerning bulldozers, pancakes and Orange Crush.
All of which serves to catapult those who stood by and did nothing while a SLOW. MOVING. bulldozer crushed the life out of a sacrifical lamb, and those who ordered this to happen for the sake of The Cause, all of this punts them, and said cause, back into the public eye.
If I were running this op, I’d do the same thing.
LawDog
An old aikido post.
I wrote this description of a dojo I visited in response to a question regarding “bad martial arts.” I’d like to go on record here as saying that I have spent some time in an aikido dojo many years ago, although one not quite as anal-retentive as the one I wrote the following story about.
Both dojos were big on instilling the idea that aikido was, for lack of a better description, a way to make fighting civilized.
I can’t wrap my mind around that concept. Civilized behavior is what happens prior to a fight, and after a fight.
A fight itself is the antithesis of civilization, and should remain so. A fight is savage, brutal and barbaric. It should tweak the reptilian hindbrain and draw out your inner Viking.
If it doesn’t, and you go up against a foe for whom it does — you’re going to lose.
There are a considerable number of people out there who don’t like to hear that. I am sorry, but not liking to hear a fact does not make that fact go away.
Is aikido a good art? To me, no. It doesn’t suit my personality, although I have used bits and pieces blended into other skills successfully.
For other people, aikido may be the best thing since sliced bread.
Just take that mindset about civilized fighting with a large box of salt, okay?
Ahem.
Co-worker of mine waxes enthusiastic about this aikido school he’s going to. Insists that some friends and I just have to come and learn at the feet of this sensei.
I’m curious and I’m always up to learning something new. So co-worker and I and one of my buddies load up one evening and drive 200 miles to this class.
I’ve seen at lot of unarmed combat instructors, but this guy was the first one I’ve ever met who wheezed when he talked. And I guarantee you that he’s never missed a meal. And most of them were baked cheese or something.
And he’s got this Martial Arts Death God thing going. Folks, I completely understand and agree with the requirement to show respect to the dojo and to the sensei, but I’ve this thing about grovelling. It’s the stiff Scottish neck, or something. Can’t do it.
Anyhoo, sensei waits until the class has grovelled to his liking, then makes his Pronouncement for the Day and class begins. I guess. I think.
He does a technique, and then gestures grandly to the class, and they try to imitate what he just did while he screams and wheezes at them.
Seriously. I’m talking purple-in-the-face, veins-popping, dude-you’re-gonna-have-a-coronary, slobber-slinging abuse at the top of his lungs.
Well. Co-worker is flying around the dojo, banging his forehead off the mat every time sensei walks by and my buddy (I’ll call him Bob) and I are looking at each other with our eyebrows climbing into our hairlines and wondering if we’ve stumbled onto a secret Oriental S&M training camp, when sensei deigns to notice our presence.
He stops the class(?), waddles up to us and asks what we think we know. Bob respectfully (never insult an S&M practitioner in his own home) answers that we’ve studied kickboxing, some stick-and-knife stuff and a little bit of grappling.
Sensei opines at the top of his lungs that he will teach us things [wheeze] about the knife that lesser arts [wheeze] will never know. Or things to that effect. Student is summoned, runs up, bangs his forehead on the mat, runs off, comes back with a rubber training knife, bangs his forehead on the mat (what is it with the forehead banging?) and sensei tells him to attack.
Student stabs, sensei grabs his wrist, pulls him left, pulls him right, pulls him left again (I think), grabs the students face, student goes flying, all other students bang their foreheads on the mats.
Very pretty.
Sensei tells Bob to attack his senior student. Bob asks how the student would like him to attack. Sensei replies that the ki [wheeze] of the senior student will allow him to sense and [wheeze] react to any attack Bob could come up with. Sensei furthers instructs Bob to [wheeze] go full speed and to try to [wheeze] do his best, so that Bob will learn [wheeze] how much he has yet to learn.
Or things to that effect.
Bob shrugs, takes the knife, lunges into the student, slashes him twice across the chest, student grabs Bob’s wrist, Bob twists his wrist loose, fires a thrust kick into the students tummy, steps to the right and slashes him twice across the side of the neck as he bends forward, then leaps back into a low guard.
Standard streetfighting smash-and-slash attack.
We’re summarily ejected from the dojo.
*sigh*
LawDog