Wednesday, November 30, 2011

BMW Modifier

The picture is of a 4 pound sledge hammer I’ve had for over thirty years. It has been retired from work but sits on a shelf next to my front door as part of my home defense plan. As an “at risk” senior, I face less possible legal problems bludgeoning an intruder than shooting an intruder.

The time I used it to modify a BMW was in the 1970’s. My employer produced UBC compliant modular homes along with other construction activities and a new dealer was installing their first purchase from us. I was onsite for “tech support”. When we finished, it was late and dark. My route home was different from theirs. In a few miles, I hit dense fog.

For those who know Eastern King County, WA, my route home was on May Valley Road near Renton. At that time, the road was a rural narrow two lane road with no shoulders and a steep drop off. There may be darker places at night than Western Washington when there is an overcast and thick fog. Inside a mine comes to mind.

This vehicle comes up behind me. There were the headlights, driving lights, and auxiliary lights, all full blast. My speed was only 15 MPH, all the visibility would allow, and now the glare from this jerk blinded me. I pulled into the first driveway I came to and let him pass. Pulling in behind him, I kept my lights on park and left on my two yellow fog lights. Now he pulls into a driveway and then back in behind me. I stopped. After putting on my four ways, I walked back to the car, a decked out BMW with a couple in the front. The driver lowered his window a crack. I explained he was blinding me and requested he kill most of his lights. He wasn’t cooperative. He also had a lot to say including telling me what to do. OK. The sledge was in the back of my pickup. Very soon, the BMW had one only operating light. Priceless expression on the yuppies faces! As I drove off, they just at there.

No visits later from the police. Probably, they were too shocked to note my license number.

Recently, my daughter in law posted a comment on this blog.

FDIL said...
Forget the apple falling from the tree! I think they all grew on the same branch! The biggest difference between you, your dad, my hubby and my male children is that you, your dad and my hubby didn't have me running the show and raising you! LOL There is still hope for my young sons! (As long as they don't spend too much time around Grandpa!) :-)

Wonder why she would say something like that?

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Quiet Sunday in My Hood

Hostage situation two blocks away. SWAT, flash bangs, loud speakers, HAZMAT team and every off duty LEO in the area present to punch the overtime ticket. Film at eleven?

Unfortunate family trying to unload a truck one block away. Looks like they are moving in. Probably not the Welcome Wagon they were expecting.

Customer Service

Rodeo contestants are unique group who put in unimaginable hours.

The owner of the car dealerships I worked at for many years was a former bull rider. We had many customers who were involved in professional rodeos. We went out of our way to accommodate them. Sometimes, this became interesting.

A repeat customer was a young Wyoming bull rider. As a committed Christian, he took his young wife and three children with him. They traveled in a crew cab pickup with a self contained camper. One night on his way to a rodeo he stopped by and they traded in their ¾ ton Ford for a one ton dually crew cab Ford. As part of the deal, we needed to move their self contained camper from the trade to the new vehicle.

Since he didn’t have camper jacks, we opened the shop and backed in the trade to one of the hoists. We were able to remove the camper by lifting it with the hoist and pull the trade out of the way. The problem now became backing the dually under the camper. Much less clearance and a much larger turning radius made for very tight squeeze. By now it was two hours after closing. The owner, another salesman, the customers, and I were still at the dealership. The other salesman, AKA, was by far the best driver in the group and was finally able to maneuver the dually into place. The camper was lowered and bolted down by the customer. While this was going on, the rest of us were transferring the contents of the trade to the dually. AKA maneuvered the dually out of the bay, the customer drove off, and the rest of us went home. The customers still had a seven hour drive in front of them.

Strange as it may seem, in our world, this was a normal transaction. Whatever the hour, whatever the situation, we dealt with it. The old Jackie Cooper axiom, “Winners do what losers won’t”, was a “core value” with us.

From where I look, the only place you can always find that commitment is in our professional military. Good reason to hire a recently discharged vet. They know how to work.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Latter Day Saints

So Romney is a Latter Day Saint (Mormon) . So what? I’m far more concerned that he is a RINO.

I’m not LDS. I lived in Utah for a few years and have done business in “Mormon” country most of my adult life. Once worked for a company that had two Stake Presidents and one Bishop in management. Once had a customer who is a General Authority. Point is, I know more about LDS belief and history than most folks.

I can recall only two times religion was a factor in business. One time the folks involved didn’t know I wasn’t LDS and thought I was a backslider. When that was cleared up, the problem went away. In the other case, took the two brothers aside and explained to them they were acting like asses. The conversation got quite spirited but we came to an understanding. In fact, the Church’s doctrine forbids a Saint from discriminating against a Gentile. Against amoral pieces of shit, yes, to the extent of protecting oneself.

The most important thing to Latter Day Saints is family. I was a good family man. I didn’t just talk the talk, I walked the walk, all the time. My behavior, my wife’s behavior, and my children’s behaviors were noted. We were accepted and had no problems with our neighbors. Small things, like babysitters when we wanted an evening out, were never a problem.

So, do we disqualify a candidate who’s religion focuses on morals, integrity, self reliance, family and community service?

Doubt my party will even allow a primary challenger.

I hope we get a great candidate to oppose the Lightbringer. If Romney is the candidate, his being LDS won’t influence my decision. His damn flip flopping and past Second Amendment positions will.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Need To Be Able to Laugh at Ourselves

A "Progressive" friend directed me to this Facebook site.

I find this title hilarious. The author? Needs an enema.

Monday, November 21, 2011


According to the stat counter, this blog is drawing more page views every new posting. I see some new followers. Since I can't seem to figure out how to send you a welcoming email, welcome, and thank you.

This blog was started as a new way to run my mouth, to communicate with friends, and allow the members of my clan to have new material to "tsk, tsk" about, without having to expose themselves. Should you find anything of interest here, feel free to comment. I enjoy arguments! Some will think I'm a bubble or two off plumb. Feel free to say so; you will be right.

Again, to all who come back to read this blog, thank you. I am flattered.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Hunting With My Father

From an early childhood, I was involved with hunting. I was part of the group, but it wasn’t until I was a senior in high school my father and I, alone, went hunting together.

For many years, he guided hunters and provided horses and gear. This was a critical component of the family finances. Hunting was, for me, work. Pack in gear and hunters. Pack out game, hunters, and gear. We were always subsistence hunters. Guiding hunters was simply an extension of food hunting. No one worked harder, and put in more hours, than my father. I was expected to keep up. Sometimes, it was just the two of us packing, and we “hunted” as we packed, but the packing took priority.

By my senior year, my father had found a good paying, steady job, at the power plant. My mother had a job with the Forest Service. We had a small ranch but it wasn’t large enough to provide a steady living. With the acquisition of the power plant job, my father quit guiding.

We were hunting elk and were sitting on a rock, on the South face of a scrub oak covered ridge, waiting for the pressure of other hunters to drive something past us. At that time in my life, I had acute hearing. I heard an animal moving quickly from our West and alerted my father. He didn’t believe me at first. I got into position, aiming where my hearing indicated I would get a clear shot, and waited with my Model 94, 30.-.30, open sights. The bull came into view, about 150 yards below us at a trot, with a downward angle of about 45 degrees, and 90 degrees to us, i.e, broadside. Now my pride got in the way. Wanting to impress my father with my skill, and not spoiling any meat, I aimed for a brisket shot. Just as I fired, the bull stopped. I saw hair fly, then he was gone. Had I aimed for a neck or shoulder shot, he would have been meat on the table. We checked for blood and only found a few spots. Nothing to indicate a serious wound.

That day some “Sportsmen” jumped a elk herd a few miles from us and started shooting. They wounded more than they killed. We came across some of the wounded and put them out of their misery.
I came across a gut shot yearling cow who was so exhausted she stood bleating and watched me shoot her from less than twenty feet. Made me feel like a mighty hunter - not.

The game wardens managed to catch and prosecute several of the “Sportsmen”.

Turned out my father and I never hunted together alone after that. We hunted with others, but that was the only time it was just the two of us.

I read about other folk’s hunting experiences and wonder if I missed something. I enjoyed the outdoors experience, enjoyed the successes, the tracking and stalking, but only in the context of putting meat on the table. Always, there was an underling tension of not wanting, not allowing, failure. Hunting just for the enjoyment of the hunt I can understand, at a mental level, but I’ve never felt it.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

A Cop Created

This is dedicated to the late Duane Laeger, Weld County Colorado Deputy, Chief of Police, Platteville, Colorado and all my PEACE OFFICER kinfolk. Received this as an email.

A Cop Created

When the Lord was creating peace officers, He was into His sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared and said, "You're doing a lot of fiddling around on this one."
And the Lord said, "Have you read the spec on this order? A peace officer has to be able to run five miles through alleys in the dark, scale walls, enter homes the health inspector wouldn't touch, and not wrinkle his uniform."
"He has to be able to sit in an undercover car all day on a stakeout, cover a homicide scene that night, canvass the neighborhood for witnesses, and testify in court the next day."
"He has to be in top physical condition at all times, running on black coffee and half-eaten meals. And he has to have six pairs of hands."
The angel shook her head slowly and said, "Six pairs of way."
"It's not the hands that are causing me problems," said the Lord, "it's the three pairs of eyes an officer has to have."
"That's on the standard model?" asked the angel.
The Lord nodded. "One pair that sees through a bulge in a pocket before he asks, May I see what's in there, sir?" (When he already knows and wishes he'd taken that accounting job.) "Another pair here in the side of his head for his partner's safety. And another pair of eyes here in front that can look reassuringly at a bleeding victim and say, You'll be all right ma'am, when he knows it isn't so."
"Lord," said the angel, touching his sleeve, "rest and work on this tomorrow."
"I can't," said the Lord, "I already have a model that can talk a 250 pound drunk into a patrol car without incident and feed a family of five on a civil service paycheck." The angel circled the model of the peace officer very slowly. "Can it think?" she asked.
"You bet," said the Lord. "It can tell you the elements of a hundred crimes; recite Miranda warnings in its sleep; detain, investigate, search, and arrest a gang member on the street in less time than it takes five learned judges to debate the legality of the stop...and still keeps its sense of humor."
"This officer also has phenomenal personal control. He can deal with crimes scenes painted in hell, coax a confession from a child abuser, comfort a murder victim's family, and then read in the daily paper how law enforcement isn't sensitive to the rights of criminal suspects."
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the peace officer. "There's a leak," she pronounced. "I told You that You were trying to put too much into this model."
"That's not a leak," said the Lord, "it's a tear." What's the tear for?" asked the angel.
"It's for bottled-up emotions, for fallen comrades, for commitment to that funny piece of cloth called the American flag, for justice."
"You're a genius," said the angel.
The Lord looked somber. "I didn't put it there," he said.


Tuesday, November 15, 2011

And Another Evil Car Salesman Story

Dirty Al has been bugging me for another car lot story, Too much politics, he says.

Car sales people all have common foes, the buying public, and management. While mainly self centered, they will defend their pack. One young jerk learned this the hard way.

He pulled on to the lot, parked, and got out of his car. One of the black salesmen, Dandy Man, approached him. The jerk said, approximately, “Look, I won’t buy a car from a N____. In fact, I don’t even want to sit in a car a N____ has sat in.”

“No problem”, said Dandy Man. “Hey Sam, come over here a minute.”

Sam, Celtic, freckles, red hair, and pale as a ghost, took over. Two hours later the jerk was driving off the lot in his new, to him, used car. Done deal, he owned it. Dandy Man spots him and shouts, “Shit Sam, you done sold him my uncles trade in”. The outraged look on the jerks face only intensified as every salesman (and woman) within ear shot started laughing.

Somehow, I doubt Sam got many referrals from that customer.

Another blast from the past. Just because I looked like the biggest redneck around, giving me a Klan handshake only meant I was going to hurt you financially to the best of my considerable evil salesman talents.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

USMC Birthday

Good friend is a former Marine. Each year I call him and wish him a Happy Marine Corp Birthday. The conversation usually goes like this:

"Happy Birthday, Jarhead".

"Thanks, Ditch Boy, now go spit shine your shovel".

Monday, November 7, 2011

Watch the Circus

Link to a service that will send you emails on how your Congresscritters vote. You can specify your Congressional District and your Senators will also be reported.

What is interesting, to me, is how damn few votes are taken.

Friday, November 4, 2011

Country Folk (Redneck) Funeral

Recent humorous emails themed “Etiquette for Rednecks” sparked a conversation about how my sister, late brother in law, and I acted like we didn’t have “proper fetchins”.



5. Do not lay rubber while traveling in a funeral procession

Our extended family has a history of taking care of funerals for our members. Professional mortuary service are usually not used except for preparing the body and placing the remains in a casket, or boxing the cremains. A section of the old family homestead West of Craig. CO., has been set aside for a family graveyard.

My father had remarried at the time of his death and his wife wasn’t coping too well. Various family members prepared the grave. I conducted the services at the Community Church, while an aunt played the music.

A step brother and I picked up the body, in a coffin, at a Craig Mortuary in my late father’s GMC pickup for his last ride. We stopped in the small town of Maybell, CO for the service. That is where the trouble began.

The widow’s sister in law tried to take over. We damn sure didn’t need her “help.” My sister could see I was, quite literally, ready to kill. She got between us and put the sister in law in her place, with a hovering throng of kinfolk standing by, and we started and finished the service.

The ten mile procession to the homestead was outstanding. There were nearly forty vehicles. Strangers going Eastbound stopped their cars and trucks, stepped out, and paid their respects (love the Old West people). After a brief Odd Fellows graveside service conducted by a cousin, we closed the grave and everyone left except my sister, brother in law, and myself. We stayed there about an hour, talking quietly, and trying to calm down.

I had borrowed a cousin’s S-10 4x4. As we left, I started roaring around the sagebrush, kicking up dust, and generally raising vehicular hell, i.e. laying down rubber. My sister was whooping and hollering. My brother in law was silently and grimly holding on for dear life. If our father was watching, he was laughing and whooping and hollering too. That is just the kind of irreverent people we are. You can be sober, prim and proper, and solemn for only so long. In fact, I needed to decompress, before going back to town and the post funeral pot luck. I still wanted to kill that bitch.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

We Have A WHITE President????

Sure seems Mr. Obama is getting paler. Look at the four pictures.

Received my Democratic Membership letter. For the forth years, didn't send any money.

Like the slogan, "Winning the Future." Easy shorthand, WtF. Brilliant!