By God, Winston Churchill

I think the pain meds are working

Must have been a ninja-level game

When Muslim jihad becomes workplace violence

Only when it's committed in Obama's Amerika. Nidal Hassan, in spite of repeatedly yelling "Allahu Akbar" while gunning down unarmed (don't get me started on this) American soldiers was not commiting jihad, he was stressed out and committed workplace violence.

Syed  Rizwan Farook and his Saudi-born bride Tashfeen Malik just "spontaneously" broke due to stress and committed workplace violence yesterday in San Bernardino, CA. Malik was chosen for her devoutness and willingness to wear a hijab (no pictures were available of her face, hmmmm.)

If there is such a thing as "modern" or "moderate" Muslims, that's okay. They're as big a target of jihadis as non-believers are, probably more-so. But I guarantee you, this will not increase the talk of halting Muslim refugees, because hey, it was just more workplace violence.

Granny's goats

Growing up, every summer would be spent visiting different elderly relatives and being free labor. I'd spend a  couple of weeks with Grandma E who taught me all about Slim Whitman and baking bread and rolls, smoking meat, and gardening; then I'd go across town (Canadian, TX) to spend a couple of weeks with Grandma D who, by God, would turn me into a proper Southern Lady. Bless her heart. And then my brother and I would head to Archer City Texas for the entire month of July, staying on Granny and Granddad's homestead. In July, the only thing between Archer City and Hell is a barbed wire fence, and it's usually down.

Granny and Granddad were actually my great-grandparents, Grandma E's parents. They had a large rambling farmhouse that had seen 7 kids, 19 grandkids, and more greats than they could count. They called us greats "boy" and "girl" and left it up to us to figure out who they were addressing. We got pretty good at it.

But I was pretty much a city kid compared to my cousins, and life on the homestead was full of new experiences, both wonderful and terrifying. It was where I learned fried chicken didn't come from a bucket, eggs didn't come from the grocery store, and animals REALLY liked to fuck. Cattle, sheep, horses, dogs, cats, that's pretty much all they did. All of the time. The goats, however, were the most memorable.

By the time I was old enough to help with chores, Granny's eyesight was pretty much gone. Often, I served as her eyes, her little snitch. "Child, what are those boys up to? I'm not hearing them working." And I'd dutifully fill her in on their fuckery and shenanigans. That was about the only thing she needed help doing. Everything else, she'd figured out.

Most of my chores were simple woman's things, helping with laundry and cooking, tending the chickens and gathering eggs, and milking. I've milked both cows and goats. I prefer goats for several reasons, mostly smaller teats and nicer personalities. Granny had a billy and four nannies, and she doted on every one of them. Each wore a leather collar with a bell on it, each bell with it's own tone so she could tell who was where. You'd hear the gentle ringing of the bells out in the pasture, and know who was out there. I got pretty good at telling them apart by my second summer. The billy didn't have a name, but his was the deepest tone. Lana was the oldest nanny and had a tenor, Veronica had an alto tone, Betty was soprano, and Vivian was just a touch higher. When they'd frolic you could hear the chimes ringing merrily, but there were other times....

I'd notice Granny would get a sly little grin when the bells would sound a certain way. Deep notes and one of the higher notes, in harmony and rhythm, getting louder and faster, and then suddenly stopping. She'd chuckle and I'd shoot her a questioning look she couldn't see. "Ah child, sounds like he got some Lana this morning (or Veronica, or Betty, or Vivian, did you notice the goats were all named after glamorous movie stars?)." There'd be a break, then deep notes and one of the other higher notes. And so on and so on. She never explained, I never asked.

And then I was coming back from the barn and stumbled across the billy and Vivian, going hard at it, bells ringing in that familiar rhythm and light dawned in the forest. Oh! Oh my.

Now every time I hear bells ringing, I think of a horny old goat and his harem in Archer City, Texas. Talk about Pavlovian conditioning.

Guess which one is Angel

Perspective

Regretting that margarita in the first trimester

Wirecutter's first Good Morning Girl post

Great representation

of every answer I ever gave in math and science. Somehow, I found my way through calculus, trigonometry, chemistry, and basic physics. I never had lower than a B in any class in high school, but as God is my witness, I have no memory of ever being in class or taking a test. Complete out-of-body experience.

The day I became agoraphobic

DragonBlasts: Sig Sauer

My EDC is a Sig 229 in 9mm. Yes, I've been told it's a sissy gun, a plastic gun, a fucking 9mm is worthless, etc. And while I'm growing quite fond of my 1911 .45, my Sig is still my baby. I'm most comfortable with it, it's easily concealable, and I'm quite proficient with it. For Glock people, I think my Sig is like James Bond, sleek, deadly, sexy, and Glocks are like the security guys at college rock concerts, big, blocky, dangerous but clumsy. If we're talking toys, Glocks are Legos and my Sig is K'Nex.

Apparently, I'm not alone in my Sig passion. A much more believable source than I, Dennis from Dragon Leather, is also a Sig fan. Go read his assessment HERE, and stop making fun of my little Sig. Remember, the caliber of the weapon means nothing if the owner can't hit the broadside of a barn. I am not that owner.

If I ever get a boat

We're still waiting....

I promise I will not let up on wirecutter about getting his memoirs written. I see Ken Lane at the top of the New York Times Bestseller list for "non?fiction" (some stretching and embellishing allowed), being interviewed by a bunch of left-wing reporters and commentators, guesting on Live with Kelly and Michael, taking on the world of literary snobbery. Winning the Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize in Literature, becoming the Poet Laureate of the renewed United States of America. Or just a really fun book for fellow knuckledraggers of the world. Either way, it WILL be done.

Why? Because of stories like THIS.

This picture made me think of his Pops after being hit by a snowball. Go enjoy today's installment of The Wirecutter Chronicles: Almost True Stories of an American Legend.

FYI: I don't care if it's not true