The UN's Gun-Grabbers have landed

Thank heaven for John Bolton! He'll back us all the way...till the end...of his tour. After that? Well, Komradina Hilary---or whichever flaminglibber takes the helm next (if not next election, eventually)---will undoubtedly appoint something on par with Sarah Brady or Susan Sarandon, Barbra Streisand or maybe Michael Jackson, some rabidly anti-common-sense idiot with has no connection to us rank'n'file commoners, to "represent" us in that hallowed hall of conniving geopolitical bureaucrats---the UN.

It's our own fault, really,(I'm lumping us together with our fathers and grandfathers, of course, in a multi-generational dropping-of-the-ball)for allowing the insidiously "creeping separateness" (to borrow an apropos term from CS Lewis) to grow, like a cancer, between us commoners and that bunch of neurotically self-important New World lords and dukes and earls in Washington. It's not like we couldn't see it coming.

Just imagine if ObL was to hold daily press conferences, announcing his every step along the path to our destruction and enslavement...? Would we sit back and write meaningless letters to our "representatives," 98% of whom are the root of the problem?

No, I thougt not.

...because deep down we know that it's a war on our rights, a "cold war" to be sure, nevertheless a real war for our precious freedoms and, especially, our ability to defend those freedoms. Regardless of whether our freedom and safety comes under attack from a bunch of laughably harmless F-Troopers holed up in a parking garage in Florida...or, far worse yet, from a patient, calculated and protracted series of hilltop battles led by the powers-that-be (those same men and women that we, as naively-trusting citizens, sent to Washington to protect those same rights); if we fail to act, we will in the end undoubtedly lose those the precious few shreds of freedom which haven't already been usurped by our fearlessly incompetent "leaders."

...now where's that darn blood pressure medicine...?

So...what to do?
1) Take your favorite (or least-despised) lawyer to the shooting range and show her that guns, besides being a kick in the pants, are really NOT going to turn around and shoot their owners the first time they get the chance.
2) Complain bitterly in your local paper each and every time your rights are assaulted, be it a 50 caliber ban or a moratorium on using cockroaches for testing eyeliner.
3) Join GOA, TODAY! Gun Owners of America
(I assume that if you're reading this you've more than likely already got an NRA sticker on your pickup's rear window)
4) Get proficient with your chosen tools of self-defense, be it a Barrett or ball point pen.
5) Purchase another gun, and buy a couple thousand rounds for it while you're at it (it may be your last chance, if Sarah's posse has anything to do with it).
6) Support ONLY legislators with EXCELLENT grades from NRA and/or GOA.
7) Buy your mother a Glock, or an XD9, or some other equally idiot-proof "self-help tool," and teach her how to use it...and buy her a couple thousand rounds while you're at it.
8) Ditto for your son.
9) ...and your daughter
10) ...and your niece and nephew (who cares what your sister-in-law says)
11) lastly...assume the mindset that you are indeed in life and death struggle for your freedom (and your grandchildren's freedom); view each and every gain and loss in that battle accordingly; take every opportunity to "spread the gospel" of common sense---that same Common Sense that Thomas Paine wrote about.And take action...NOW!

Now, pardon me while I go retorque the stock on the HS Precision .338 Lapua

Rabidly Yours,
TheBigBang

DISCLAIMER: WHOA! Call off the dogs! This is NOT a call to arms against the government and/or any of its agencies or its agents. Just a reminder that you as an American citizen are ethically and morally bound to defend your constitutionally-guaranteed rights and freedoms, which our forefathers fought and died for...should they come under attack...by anyone...ever.

My last foray into the shady world of organized crime (i.e. Las Vegas gambling) was at the LV airport about 5 years ago. Stu, my 12 year-old son, and I were on our annual sojourn to go snowboarding in Utah, yawning away a two-hour layover in Las Vegas, when I had the brilliant idea to impart a bit of sage experience to my impressionable son.
"Well, son, see all those losers standing hypnotized in front of those noisy, obnoxious machines....blah, blah, yadda yadda...well, let me give you a lesson in how gambling really works." I pulled 5 dollars out of my pocket, handed it to him and asked him if he'd like to try his luck. He nodded greedily and was only mildly disappointed when I informed him that he'd have to stand behind the line and watch from a safe, legal distance, as it was entirely possible that my whole body could be suddenly sucked into the evil little financial black hole, thus leaving him a penniless orphan. He didn't appear to be all too concerned with his father's mortal peril as I inserted his $5 bill in the machine---all the while naming off all the great things we could've purchased with our soon-to-be-someone-else's 5 dollar bill: "mmmm...Cold Stone Sweet Cream on a chocolate dip cone?...an In-n-Out double-double and a large fries?...two-and-a-half minutes of phone sex on your favorite 900 number?.." He waved them all off, willing to forgo such boring everyday creature comforts for the chance to win big.
I had my doubts about my methodology when I noticed the twinkle in his eye and saw him licking his chops. Normally---on the very rare occasions when I feel the need to willingly hand over my hard-earned profits to the Las Vegas gambling establishment---when all is said and done, and I'm down maybe 25 bucks, I feel horrible, like a rape victim. Worse, I feel like a rape victim who has willingly gone back to the home of her attacker and said, "OK, let's try this one more time." Nevertheless, this time I felt a teensy bit less moronically foolish simply because I was "teaching my son a lesson." I had the moral high ground, and after all, I wasn't even trying to win. It was a lose/win proposition as far as I could tell: I lose, Stu wins...in the long run.
Of course, as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I pressed the button marked "BET IT ALL" and approximately seven seconds later I was absolutely sure I'd miscalculated the value of this lesson when the three wheels stopped spinning. The lights lit and the bells & whistles started a frantic racket and the quarters began piling up in our bucket. Truthfully, and I hate to admit it, but the look on Stu's face---his perma-grim seemed to take on a golden glow as he stood across the aisle watching the seemingly endless jangle of quarters stream out of the machine like a sparkling silver waterfall from heaven---it was actually worth the realization that I had perfectly bungled a very important lesson.
"WHOOOOOAAAAA!" he said, gently rubbing my nose in it, "Great lesson, dad!"
All totaled we made 95 bucks on our one pull. I considered dumping it all back in to demonstrate "what gambling is REALLY all about," but Stu put his foot down, opining on the foolishness of such wasteful lunacy..."Dude! We can use it for an extra day of snowboarding!" I concurred and we lugged our 400 quarters over to the cashier as I explained that our good fortune was at the expense of all these other poor fools still dumping their hard earned never-to-be-savings in the machines...blah, blah, yadda yadda....
Stu just nodded and tried to keep his smile from wrapping completely around his head, no doubt thanking good fortune for such a dim-witted, albeit lucky, father.

right now

geysers blast
embryos grow
woodchucks dive
humpbacks blow

newborn foals wobble and shake
mothers coo as babys’ steps first take

sun blasts the horizon
bluefin chase flying fish
rain falls for an eave
splashing a forgotten dish

purple flowers fold, turning in for the night
teenage dolphins joust and fight

an orangutan meditates
a flying squirrel leaps
the snake hangs in ambush
a steaming bison sleeps

mosquito larvae slowly rise from the muck
tiger cubs fight for a nipple to suck

the blue planet spins
inside magma boils
the endless march continues
soil to soil to soil

marrs maniteaux

....what have I done?

He wakes up in his comfortable bed, next to his comfortable wife, in his comfortable home tucked into a comfortable little neighborhood on the comfortable side of town, and he wonders….
…..what have I done?
And he thinks….and he dozes….and he wakes….and he thinks….
He gets up and pulls on a bathing suit and walks outside to the edge of the pool. He puts his feet together and leans forward with his hands on his knees and catches his reflection in the water.
“We haven’t done a fucking thing,” it says, shaking its head in disgust.
“What the hell are we supposed to do?” he shrugs.
“It’s been three years since we woke up to what’s happening in this country,” it says, “and what have we done?”
“We bought some guns, and we stored up 6 months worth of supplies.”
“Wow. That oughta scare the bejezus out of Washington.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do? Start our own war?”
“Why not?”
“That oughta do a helluva lotta good. I can just see the headlines now, ‘Constitutionalist sentenced to 300 years-and-a-day for plotting overthrow of government and stockpiling weapons…’”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. What’s the point? Might as well throw in the towel. I mean, you can’t shoot the bastards, yet.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, no, I know what you meant. You meant that you’re not about to join one of those mid-life-crisis whacko Idaho militias—they’ll all be spanked and sent home with their collective tail between their legs anyway—and you’re not about to go around like some loose cannon taking meaningless potshots at whatever target-of-opportunity happens to cross your reticle.”
“Exactly! I mean what’s a guy supposed to do, short of selling everything and cashing it in on for gold coins and millet and heading off to four-corners to wait for Civil War II?”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.”
“…………………well, I guess that’d be…..”
“…………a start?”
“Yeah. But it sounds a little too much like a replay of the Mormon invasion.”
“Well, so what, so they were a century-and-a-half ahead of their time. So maybe it takes a philandering megalomaniac to bring things to a boil, to bring the insidiously grasping aspect of democracy to the surface where it can be dealt with.”
“Maybe.”
“The David Koreshes.”
“The Randy Weavers.”
“I see your point. But, do we really want to be lumped into that ball of dough?”
“Do you really want to hand down to your grandchildren the broken mess we’ve created, which, by the way, we are just as responsible for as George Bush and Hilary Clinton?”
“Do we have any choice? I mean, it’s like global warming, even if we knew for sure where to start, who knows if even our great grandchildren would see any change in their lifetimes. I mean, without completely razing the whole bureaucratically entrenched clusterfuck in Washington, what difference will it make whether or not a few million people are ‘allowed’ to own guns?”
“Or whether or not they take 57% or 63% of the fruits of our labor?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe Ayn Rand was right.”
“Just let ‘em have the reins?”
“Exactly.”
“Let ‘em run it into the ground.”
“Full speed ahead.”
“So you think there’s no turning the ship around?”
“Actually, I think the more apropos metaphor is a train, and the tracks are laid.”
“Not even possible to turn it around?”
“Exactly.”
“All hope is lost.”
“Hope is never lost. We can always destroy the tracks.”