Miguel Gonzalez

To those who say that citizens armed with AR15s can’t beat the Federal government, I remind you of the events that happened a decade ago…

Every red blooded American should be reminded of the events of April 12, 2014.

The day the Bundy family got their cattle back. pic.twitter.com/3ZK2slClIz

— Tall Bill from NH (the/man) (@billisajoke) April 13, 2024

 

Female residents shoots would-be burglar in south Toledo | wtol.com

See? Now you are feeling better. Great stories with happy endings always cheer good people up.

Hat Tip @ShootyMcBeard

Rental car won't start because renter drove it to a park in the boondocks.  Rental agency recommends she sleep in the car and see if it starts in the morning:

Over the weekend, a trip to the Californian boonies by Guardian journalist Kari Paul turned into a cautionary tale about the perils of the connected car and the Internet of Things. Paul had rented a car through a local car-sharing service called GIG Car Share, which offers a fleet of hybrid Toyota Priuses and electric Chevrolet Bolt EVs in the Bay Area and Sacramento, with plans to spend the weekend in a more rural part of the state about three hours north of Oakland. But on Sunday, she was left stranded on an unpaved road when the car's telematics system lost its cell signal. Without being able to call home, the rented Prius refused to move.

But I'm sure that the software in autonomous cars will be able to anticipate problems like this and figure out a way around it.  Suuuuuuure.

Andrew Gillum’s Family Under Investigation For Engaging In Voter Fraud

I had to laugh at this report from Canada.

It started when an insurance company gave David a quote — roughly $4,500 a year, if he bought the Chevy. He had a collision and a ticket or two on his record, which helped boost the premium.

Then, he had an idea. He asked the insurer what his costs would be if he were a woman. He was told his annual bill would sink to roughly $3,400 — a $1,100 difference.

"I was pretty angry about that. And I didn't feel like getting screwed over any more," he said.

"So I asked them to change my gender on my auto policy, and she's like, we can't do that."

David, who was 23 at the time, says he learned he first had to change his gender on his birth certificate and driver's licence before he could have it reflected on his insurance policy, to get the cheaper rate.

After doing some research, he realized he needed a doctor's note to show the government he identifies as a woman, even though he doesn't.

"It was pretty simple," he said. "I just basically asked for it and told them that I identify as a woman, or I'd like to identify as a woman, and he wrote me the letter I wanted."

Under the rules in place at the time, Albertans needed to produce a doctor's note to switch the gender marker on their personal documents. In June, the government scrapped the doctor's note requirement for adults, allowing them to declare their marker as M, F or X, for those who don't fit into a strictly male or female binary.

David shipped the note and other paperwork off to the provincial government. And, a few weeks later, he received a new birth certificate in the mail indicating he was a woman.

"I was quite shocked, but I was also relieved," he said. "I felt like I beat the system. I felt like I won."

With the new birth certificate in hand, he changed his driver's licence and insurance policy.

All to save about $91 a month.

"I'm a man, 100 per cent. Legally, I'm a woman," he said.

"I did it for cheaper car insurance."

There's more at the link.

That reminds me of a couple of guys I know, whom I won't name for reasons that will become obvious.  They wanted to rent a house together to save money, but kept running into landlords who didn't want to rent to "frat boys" (even though they don't belong to that species), or who preferred "actual couples".

On a whim, they decided to register for a domestic partnership, or whatever the preferred term is in their state for a gay couple.  Certificate in hand, they not only found a very nice place to rent together, but also took advantage of special insurance, medical coverage and other deals offered to "couples".  They reckon they're saving several hundred dollars every month.  They routinely have their girlfriends over to stay the night, and everyone has a good laugh over the fallibilities built into the politically-correct gender-bending scene.

Peter

First, allow me to present the pretty picture for today’s post:

You might have to take my word for it, but there really is a bar to go with “CWFLs Revoked and not Reinstated”.  The “problem”, so to speak, is a matter of scale.

From 01OCT87 to 31MAR17, Florida has issued 3,518,256 Concealed Weapon or Firearm Licenses – their version of a “concealed carry permit”.  As of 31MAR17, 1,747,635 of those licenses are still active.  Likewise, as of that date, 11,916 permits had been revoked, but 1,048 of those revoked have been reinstated leaving a total “revoked but not reinstated” of 10,868.

In other words, out of the literally millions of permits that Florida has issued over the past almost-30 years, they have had a failure rate of only 0.309%.

On the other hand, in 2015, the total violent and property crime rate (since any felony alone is sufficient to get a license revoked, not just a violent crime) in Florida was 3,275.1 per 100,000 people.

Given that the total violent and property crime rate in 1988 were 8,937.6 per 100,000 people, it is entirely reasonable to state that Florida Concealed Weapon or Firearm License holders are at least 10 times less likely to break a serious law than “average” Floridians.  

Gun-grabbing grifter Gabby Giffords recently attempted to use the killing of Albuquerque Police Department officer Daniel Webster to argue for more infringement on the rights of American citizens.

Webster’s widow Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Detective Michelle Carlino-Webster, is outraged at Gifford’s attempt to exploit her husband’s death to go against everything he stood for in life.

Former Congresswoman Gabby Giffords’ recent visit to New Mexico to call for restrictive firearms legislation is further evidence that House Bill 50 and Senate Bill 48 are products of a national gun control agenda. Her organization, Americans for Responsible Solutions, joins the chorus of outside groups led by billionaire New Yorker Michael Bloomberg pushing for burdensome regulations on the sale and temporary loaning of your personal firearms, even to people close to you, such as friends, neighbors, co-workers and even some family members.

I am offended by the tactics that some of the sponsors, advocates and organizations backing these bills are using to push their unpopular proposals. It is bad enough that they have poured more than a quarter of a million dollars into our state over the past few months in an attempt to influence elections and legislation. Then, at the public hearing on HB50 before the New Mexico House Consumer and Public Affairs Committee, it became more personal for me. The bill’s author, as well as her lead witness, both invoked the name of my late husband, Albuquerque Police Department officer Daniel Webster, to promote the measure. Along with the media, they continue to imply that had these proposed laws been in place, my husband’s death would have been prevented; in doing so, they actually remove accountability from the criminal who caused it. Focus must be placed on the individual who committed the horrific crimes. We, as a nation, have gotten too far removed from self-accountability and responsibility for one’s actions.

I am not okay with this, and I know Dan would not have wanted his name associated with this bill either. He was against expanded background checks of any kind and stood behind our Second Amendment rights with honor and appreciation. The idea of him having to go to a licensed firearms dealer, complete federal paperwork and pay a fee for a records check on his buddy at work or on my dad if he wanted to sell or loan a gun to either of them is not only ridiculous, but intrusive. He certainly did not believe this type of gun control would solve the larger problems in our communities.

Dan believed that tough-on-crime legislation, such as increased penalties and stiffer sentencing, would have the most positive effect on violence in our state.

The post Gabby Giffords Dishonors Slain Police Officer, Gets Slammed By Widow appeared first on Bearing Arms.

When Sebastian was telling me the tales of different types of ice cream trucks he had available to him growing up based on whether he was at home or visiting an aunt or grandmother, I joked that there were ice cream truck turf wars that kept those boundaries in line.

I was joking because in America the idea that one would get violent over ice cream – especially when trucks often sell different types of ice cream novelties and cones – is just completely absurd. It’s insane.

But, apparently, the NYT reports that it’s the typical business model in New York City. It started out with trademark infringement that resulted in more than $765,000 in legal awards (that haven’t been paid by the offender), but then it elevated to surrounding competing trucks and beating on them. A driver for New York Ice Cream, the offending company, admits that they get physical with other drivers in an effort to enforce “turf” illegally. There’s apparently a decades-long history of violence among other companies, too. One driver in 1969 was kidnapped and had his truck blown up. More recently, a couple was beaten to critical condition with a wrench.

Talk about New York Values. It’s amazing that the city wants to leave the victims unable to defend themselves. Well, it’s not shocking since we’re not talking about America here.

Just taking it slow in the back yard.
And by "lazy", I mean Belle of course, not my visiting mom.

The local company that supplied aero service into, and out of, Warri International Aeroport had a pilot named Bob.

Bob wasn't Russian.  Matter-of-fact, Bob would go on at length -- in a nigh-unintelligible Russian accent, usually while potted on vodka, and waving his arms with their Cyrillic tattoos -- as to his not-Russian-ness.

This being West Africa at the time, the old hands simply agreed with him, and ignored his singing of Soviet marching songs at the top of his lungs at three in the AM.

Bob was also an excellent pilot, and his baby was a C-119 Flying Boxcar that was the major hauling aeroplane for our little patch of the jungle.

The company that Bob worked for had an extremely logical training process.  If you were brand-new to Africa, you would fly with an old Africa hand until said worthy decided you were less-inclined to prang an expensive aeroplane (and kill yourself in the process, but that wasn't as important), and you got a plane.

Well, Bob got this new kid with a brand-new pilot's licence and a hankering to see Africa -- and it was not a happy match.

Seems like Africa wasn't exactly matching up to the kid's expectations; high on the list being the fact that Bob was frequently one-and-a-half sheets to the wind when flying.

One day the kid stomps onto the 'plane past the locals, the livestock, something angry in a sack (Fact:  if you get on a bush cargo plane with bunch of locals, there is always something angry in a burlap sack.) up to the flight deck, where he learns that Bob isn't aboard.

Short search finds Bob -- completely and totally fit-shaced -- asleep in the pilot/radio shack/tower.

This is the Last Straw as far as Junior is concerned.  There are regulations, damn it!

Junior goes and grabs another newbie -- this one apparently still with egg yolk behind his ears -- and our intrepid birdmen mount their steed for the trip into Lagos.

The locals, who aren't exactly gormless, immediately grab Co-Pilot Egg-Tooth, gently loft him out the back door, carry Bob from the pilot shack, plant him in the left seat and begin to ply him with coffee, all much to the sputtered indignation of Junior.

Bob surfaces enough to figure out 'up' from 'down' (fairly important for a pilot, I'm told), and they take off.

Not very long in the air, and the locals decide to celebrate their victory by building a fire on the back deck and spit-roasting Angry Sack for brekkie.  Angry Sack apparently held opinions most firm about this, and as soon as the sack came open, did a runner.

This, of course, led to the locals snatching up machetes and tear-arsing off after their breakfast.

Angry Sack made three laps through the flight-deck (the locals only made two) before Junior Lost His Tiny Little Mind, screamed, leapt to his feet, vaulted into the back and uttered thundering denunciations of Africa in general, and the passengers in particular.  Fingers were waved!  Regulations were cited!  Heritage, manners, sexual proclivities, and level of civilization were denounced in fine rolling language to the deep appreciation of the locals, who were passing a gurgling jug around the back deck in silent admiration of a fine oration.

Unfortunately, Junior didn't realize that his vault into the back of the aerocraft had landed him standing four-square in the campfire built for the roasting of Angry Sack.

When the C-119 landed in Lagos, Junior was carried off in a litter to a standing ovation -- which he apparently didn't appreciate in the least -- but before being loaded into the ambulance managed to snarl a series of promises to Bob, not the least of which was that Junior believed that not even the Nigerian government would let Bob fly anywhere without a co-pilot, and that would give Junior enough time to have Bob's licence to fly yanked.

Bob belched meditatively, and while the plane was being refueled, he wandered over to the edge of the tarmac, paid ten Naira for a chimpanzee and another Naira for the gimme hat the chimp's previous owner was wearing.

He then boarded the plane, buckled the ape into the co-pilot's seat, crammed the gimme hat onto the chimpanzee's head, clamped the radio headset over the hat, and took off for Warri International.

Fast-forward to the landing, my father and his best friend are in the radio shack, just kind of chilling.  Dad is sipping his first cup of coffee and Tom is swearing creatively at his whiz wheel.  In comes Bob's plane and my father comments, thoughtfully, "I wonder where the chimp got that hat?"

Tom immediately bounds to his feet in shock.  "Honestly, Jim!  You Yanks!  I can't believe you just ... Bedamned.  That's a monkey."

Dad takes another sip, "Bet he's sober."

"Huh.  Good point."

Heh.

Africa Wins Again.

LawDog

Intake officer gives me a call from the Intake section and I scoot on over there.

Seems an elderly gentleman has arrived in our jail by way of the local Municipal Court. 70 years old -- plus or minus -- and has exactly zero criminal or traffic record of any kind.

I look at this gentleman -- eyes clear, back straight, looking around with mild amusement -- and I ask what brings him to us. Surely community service would be a better way of dealing ...?

The old gentleman fixes me with a gray eye, and in slow drawl he says, "Son, I spent 1951 to 1953 in Korea, trying not to get my boys killed. I figure that there makes me a man grown."

I nod, cautiously, not exactly sure where this is going.

"Now I figure that since I am a full-grown adult -- and I know the risks -- whether or not I wear a seatbelt isn't the business of a bunch of panty-waisted jackasses down in Austin."

Oh.

"My wife asks me to wear the damned thing -- I wear it. I'm her business. My girls ask me to wear the damned thing -- I wear it. It's their business. Everyone else needs to tend to their own knitting and leave mine alone."

Gotcha.

"So I take this ticket to the city judge, and he asks me if I was going to plead guilty or not guilty. I say that I don't know about guilty, but I definitely wasn't wearing the damned thing that day. He asks how I'm going to pay the fine, and I tell him he'd better stick me in jail, because I wasn't going to pay someone for putting his nose off into other peoples business."

I look at the Intake officer, both of us trying not to smile.

He grins at me, "So, here I am."

I head for the Intake Sergeant to suggest that maybe some kind of accelerated time-serving might be considered. Maybe a passing of the hat, or somesuch, when I pass the GenPop tank and notice one very large, very familiar figure glaring balefully at me.

"Waldo," I say, carefully, "What's on your mind?"

Waldo the Wonder Biker sneers at me, then spits off to the side.

"He was riding down Main Street wearing a chrome Nazi helmet, dark glasses, combat boots and a smile," says the Intake corporal, contemplatively, "Seems there was stuff flapping in the breeze that God never intended to flap."

I grimace, "There's not enough brain bleach in the world to fix that ..."

He grins, "Gives 'tank-slap' a whole new meaning, don't it?"

"Oh, for -- enough!  Eww!"

I look at Waldo, "You've been guinea-pigging the product again, haven't you?" My answer is an extremely eloquent extended middle finger.

*sigh*

Well, at least they got some clothes on him.

I find the Intake Boss, he agrees that the older gentleman doesn't need to be in Durance Vile for any longer than strictly necessary and I leave to chase down the Jail Administrator.

Twenty minutes later, I'm back with an Order of Release, scoot past the GenPop tank ... and the older gentleman is sitting on the bench, talking softly and gesturing gently.

With Waldo and two of his buddies sitting on the floor in front of the bench, listening raptly.

On this date in 1933, the 21st Amendment to the Constitution repealed the 18th Amendment. The Great Experiment was called to a close when the state of Utah ratified the 21st Amendment at 5:32pm.



At the same time as he signed the proclamation officially ending Prohibition, FDR asked that saloons be prohibited and he "enjoined all citizens to cooperate with the government in its endeavor to restore a greater respect for law and order, especially by confining their purchases of liquor to duly licensed agencies."

Governmental control of substances such as alcohol, tobacco, and coffee (yes, coffee!) have a long history as an article in today's Weekend Wall Street Journal makes clear.

Although the U.S. is indelibly associated with Prohibition, authorities the world over have long regarded the pleasures (or vices) of alcohol, tobacco and coffee with deep suspicion. Concerns about these habit-forming substances’ potential health hazards didn’t provoke the official hostility. Instead it often came from paranoia over what the masses might get up to if allowed to let off a little steam without supervision.

What "the masses" might get up to including overthrowing their masters' yoke. It was in the coffeehouses and taverns of Boston and Philadelphia that men such John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and others gathered to discuss the idea of an independent nation.

So whether it is alcoholic beverage control or gun control, the key word is always going to be control. Government, you see, just doesn't trust us.

It is that time of year again, ‘tis the season, ‘tis the season for noun! Inspired by other bestselling Christmas novels about jars, boxes, letters, and sweaters, I decided that I too was entitled to write a Christmas novel featuring the magical powers of a noun.

This is the 7^th annual celebration of badly written Christmas adventure. When I started this star studded Christmas tradition, little did I realize that it would become a phenomena that would sweep the multiverse.

Here are our previous installments.

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2008/12/22/the-christmas-noun/ Excerpts from my first epic Christmas novel, only with more Cthulu, zombies, and chainsaws. Young Tim overcomes his hatred of Christmas to defeat the anti-Claus in the Peppermint Thunderdome.

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 2: THE NOUNENING http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2009/12/08/the-christmas-noun-2-the-nounening/  The much anticipated sequel to the greatest Christmas story featuring a noun ever. In this episode, Tim fights Stabby the Snowman and uses the Global Warming Power of Love.

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 3D: THE GRITTY REBOOT http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/12/10/the-christmas-noun-3d-the-gritty-reboot/  Christmas goes hard core as Rudolf leads the Reindeer Separatists in a jihad against Christmas.

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 4: OCCUPY CHRISTMAS NOUN http://monsterhunternation.com/2011/12/19/christmas-noun-4-occupy-christmas-noun/ Tim and his adult son Tim Jr. have to save Christmas from being occupied by the 99%.

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 5: FIFTY SHADES OF NOUN, CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE EDITION http://monsterhunternation.com/2012/12/13/chirstmas-noun-5-fifty-shades-of-noun-choose-your-own-adventure-edition/ Okay, that title pretty much explains this one.

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 6: YES, WENDELL, THERE REALLY IS A CHRISTMAS NOUN http://monsterhunternation.com/2013/12/23/christmas-noun-6-yes-wendell-there-really-is-a-christmas-noun/ Tim and Wendell the Manatee travel through time to save Christmas from a legion of footy pajama wearing hipster douchebags.

And now excerpts from our feature presentation

THE CHRISTMAS NOUN 7:  Attack of the Social Justice Noun

Written by Larry Correia.  Directed by J.J. Abrams. Soundtrack by Depeche Mode.

Opening Narration by Ron Perlman

In the catacombs deep beneath Oberlin College, a new threat to Christmas arises. An artifact of incredible power, capable of altering the very fabric of reality, has been forged. Made from the tears of a hundred Tumblr feeds, the flannel of a thousand lumbersexuals, the wood pulp of a million unsold Lena Dunham books, and baptized in oil rendered from the blubber of Chris Matthew’s tingly thighs, the Social Justice Noun was born.

For Tim, a routine trip to the mall turns to terror. Each time the Social Justice Noun is activated, the world is further twisted toward its nefarious vision of perfection. Hang on… The script uses the words equality and diversity like they’re bad things.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Equality and diversity sound awesome, until you realize SJWs want “diversity” only as long as everyone is diverse in the exact same approved way and “equality” as long as you’re equally as miserable and bitter as they are.

Okay. Groovy.

Because Christmas. Christmas never changes.

***

From the Prolog

The mob of Social Justice Warriors clustered around their new Social Justice Noun, eager to conquer the world. They’d decided to start in the mall parking lot, because it symbolized decadent capitalism, plus there was a big sale at the Apple store they could hit afterwards.

Unfortunately since all they had was gender studies degrees, the SJWs were completely incompetent, and couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. After a whole lot of crying about the racist neo-colonial patriarchy didn’t turn on their device, eventually one of them had the bright idea to hold a Kickstarter to fund the hiring of someone who could figure out how to operate the Social Justice Noun for them. Their campaign was a huge success and eventually a republican guy named Frank—who had a real job and a STEM degree—showed up, plugged the Social Justice Noun in for the SJWs, got paid, and left. Afterwards the SJWs complained on Twitter that Frank failed to provide them with a trigger warning before plugging the MALE power cord into the FEMALE electrical socket, and thus was guilty of cis-patriarchal privilege.

The Social Justice Noun awoke and began tearing apart the very fabric of space and time.

***

From Chapter One

Tim had already saved Christmas twice this year, and it was very important for Christmas warriors to enjoy their downtime, so he was in the rec room of his Black Tiger Kung Fu Dojo and Mall Santa Prep Academy for Inner City Youths playing Xbox with CorreiaTech CFO and part-time Ghost of Christmas Future-Past, Wendell the Manatee, when Sally Love-Interest joined them.

“Hey, guys. What are you doing?”

“Mooooowhoooooooooo,” Wendell said from inside his giant fish tank. He had to pay extra for water proof controllers.

“Manatees are spawn camping bastards,” Tim complained to his lovely wife. He may have been a mighty Christmas warrior from a long line of Christmas saving warriors, but his Black Tiger Kung Fu skills didn’t translate to Call of Duty.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeen,” Wendell answered, as he brutally no scoped head shot Tim from across the map.

“Oh, that’s nice. I’m going Christmas shopping,” Sally told her Christmas warrior husband and his large aquatic friend. “You should come with me.”

Despite Wendell’s lack of opposable thumbs, the manatee was victorious again, so Tim rage quit. “That’s it! I’m out of here. Let’s go to the mall, Sally.”

“Floooooooooon?”

“Fine. We’ll bring you back a barrel of Cheetos.”

***

They’d fixed up the local mall since Stabby the Snowman had driven a tank through it, but since Tim had been too busy saving holidays, and there was that whole thing with the restraining order, he’d not stopped by since.  “Hey, there’s a Game Hole. I’m going to get a new game.” Tim was tired of being mercilessly beaten by a manatee.

“That’s nice, honey,” Sally Love-Interest said, but she wasn’t really paying attention because she’d gotten her shoelaces trapped in the escalator.

Inside the Game Hole, Tim browsed the new games. He picked out something that had giant fighting robots being driven by hot cartoon Japanese school girls on the cover. “Hey, this looks good,” Tim said.

The clerk joined him. “Yeah, it rocks. There’s chainsaw ninja zombies and a heavy metal soundtrack for the sexy—

EQUALITY! boomed a giant voice with lots of reverb.

“Whoa… Did you hear that?” Tim asked the clerk, but then Tim realized that the clerk had been replaced with a pajama boy wearing ironic glasses and footy pajamas. “Oh no. Not this again.” Then Tim looked down and realized that the awesome video game had magically transformed into something dull that Kotaku had given 11 stars.

“As I was saying,” the pajama boy said, “this walking simulator explores the transsexual dynamics of the paradigm of colonial privilege.”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

“Cispeople!” The exasperated pajama boy rolled his eyes. “It means that everybody your character talks to wants to have gay sex with you.”

“Oh, so it is just like Dragon Age 2 then?” Then Tim realized that all of the games had turned into boring socially conscious crap, designed to satisfy critics and whiners, and he fled the Game Hole in terror.

Tim knew that something was horribly wrong. He would have gone to the movie theater to check, but the North Koreans had already messed it up, so he went to the bookstore to test his suspicions. “Excuse me, do you have any Larry Correia novels?”

“Why yes,” answered the bookstore clerk. “They’re over here in the section where the covers are mostly exploding rocket ships and hot chicks in chainmail bikinis. That is our most popular section. It is so manly that the books literally bleed testosterone down the shelves.”

“Thank goodness. It was just a false alarm.”

DIVERSITY!

The clerk looked around, confused. “Wait a second… They were here, but it appears now all of our books are award winning works designed to raise awareness of important social issues.”

Tim read a few back cover blurbs and discovered that all of the books were about ending binary gender and global warming. “But nobody actually likes reading this preachy stuff. Readers want fun and enjoyment, not checklists.” Then Tim realized that the helpful clerk had suddenly gained an ironic beard and a beret. “Crap.”

“Trigger warning! Bad Think! Security! Security!” The clerk blew his rape whistle. Suddenly two giant threatening gingerbread men appeared. “Take him to Mandatory Sensitivity Training!”

Tim got into his fighting stance. It wouldn’t be a Christmas Noun story without lots of violence against a legion of faceless mooks. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but your gingerbread men are no match for my Black Tiger Kung Fu!”

“That’s sexist and abelist! They’re GENDERbread PERSONS!”

***

From Chapter Two

After a brief fight scene, Tim was covered in gingerbread crumbs but otherwise unhurt. All around him the mall was descending into bland, self-righteous, nonsense. The shoppers were transforming into humorless, finger shaking scolds, and then trying to out Social Justice each other. It was like they were being mind-controlled by communist puritans.  Tim would have preferred actual zombies.

Luckily, the Social Justice hadn’t spread too far yet. If Tim could find the source of this foulness, he could stop the contagion and rescue Sally Love-Interest (who of course, had been captured already, because that was sort of her thing., and worst of all her captors had already sent Tim tweets lecturing him that the damsel in distress was a sexist stereotype).

***
From Chapter Three

There was a Christmas concert in the food court. It was country superstar Darius Rucker singing a beautiful rendition of I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Luckily, the crowd was still made up of normal people.

TOLERANCE!

Suddenly the crowd turned into Social Justice Warriors, who began to boo and throw things at Darius Rucker. Apparently White Christmas was racist.

“But the song is about snow!” Darius Rucker pleaded for sanity. “Snow is white!”

“Lynch that black man for equality!” shouted a SJW. With a roar the angry mob charged the stage.

Tim still had Hootie and the Blowfish on his playlist, so he wasn’t about to let Darius Rucker get torn apart for Social Justice. So Tim grabbed onto a banner and swung across the mall, pirate style, picking up Darius Rucker just ahead of the mob and saving him in the nick of time. Tim dropped Darius Rucker off at the next balcony.

“What is up with these morons?” country superstar Darius Rucker asked once they were safe.

“I don’t know, but unfortunately for you, current events have drafted you as a special guest star in a Christmas Noun story.”

“Just like Christopher Walken?” Darius Rucker asked. Tim nodded. “That has always been my worst fear in life.”

“Trigger warning,” Tim warned special guest star Darius Rucker.

“I thought that was a SJW thing?”

“No.” Tim handed Darius Rucker one of his .45 automatics. “Really, this thing has like a three pound trigger on it, so be careful you don’t blow your nuts off.”

“Got it. I’m no Lance Henriksen, but I’ll help you save Christmas, Tim.”

 

***

From Chapter Four

Tim ran through the mall doing his best to stay ahead of the army of genderbread persons. Because it is the new hotness and Tim is an action hero, he was doing all sorts of cool parkour moves, like leaping off balconies and stuff. As he passed the TVs in the electronics store every show on every network had turned into Girls. The sports store had banned football because of toxic masculinity and the dangers of concussions.

Tim took cover beneath a non-binary, non-religious, all-inclusive, winter holiday celebration decoration and called Santa Claus on his cell phone. Tim and Santa were tight.

“Ho Ho Hello, Tim!”

“Santa, we’ve got a Code Red. Social Justice Warriors are taking over Christmas. They’re altering reality somehow and sucking the fun out of everything. It is some sort of mind control thing that causes people to spout gibberish. Call up the Marines and all the Christmas Ghosts. I repeat, Code Red!”

“But Tim, we can’t call it red because the Washington Redskins is a racist macroaggression and red is an aggressive inherently male color. Plus red states are the ones which traditionally house hillbilly-Americans and thus could be seen as a thesis of institutional cis-abelism—”

“No! Not Santa too!”   Tim hung up on Santa. This was much worse than he thought. Whatever was happening was perhaps the most dangerous thing to ever threaten Christmas!  It was time to call in the big guns.

***
From Chapter Six

Wendell was pwning newbs when he got a call from Tim.

“Mehwhoooo?”

“Wendell! I need backup! Get down to the mall ASAP! Bring all the Christmas Ghosts, past, present, future, whatever! Hurry. They’re about to—”

The call was disconnected. Wendell sighed and went back to his game. He’d get down to the mall in a minute, but his team only needed a few more points to win this round of domination and he was on one heck of a kill streak. “Hoooooon. Gurgle. Gurgle.” Wendell smack talked with the best of them. Then he tea bagged the corpse he’d just murdered to rub the humiliation in.

Suddenly there was a great disturbance in Xbox Live, as if a million foul mouthed twelve year olds cried out in terror… and were suddenly silenced.

A voice filled the internet. “Hello, gamers. After our successful struggle against the patriarchy, violent cis-abelist games have been banned because of their toxic masculinity. From now on games will be all about important social messages and education. Now enjoy your complimentary copy of Depression Quest.”

“Mehoooowhoooooooooon…” Wendell stated ominously as he got the keys to his monster truck. Now it was personal.

***

From Chapter Eight

Christmas was about spreading joy and love, but SJWs only cared about spreading guilt and misery.  Tim shed a single manly tear as he had his plot-necessary Profound Christmas Spirit Realization Moment.

The mall was a scene of absolute horror. The SJWs had gone from finger shaking scolding to eating each other in a cannibal frenzy. Even though everything had been forced to confirm to their statist view of the world, the SJWs had become addicted to being victims, so had to continually find new sources of outrage. Books that catered to Social Justice causes before suddenly weren’t devoted enough to some new cause, and so the previously approved authors were burned at the stake.

Suddenly minorities weren’t “authentic”. Men who agreed with SJWs were “mansplaining”. Anybody who deviated slightly from the accepted group think was committing “gentrification”. Basically, everybody was guilty of some buzz word and needed to be punished. Once the SJWs were in charge, everything turned to chaos.

Tim would have said it was a very Lord of the Flies moment, only the SJWs had destroyed every copy of Lord of the Flies because of its lack of female and transsexual characters and fat shaming the Character Formerly Known as Piggy.

***

EDITOR’S NOTE – What have I done? The Social Justice Noun is too powerful. It is bleeding into other realities and dimensions. I’m afraid the SJN has intruded into the real world like some sort of Lovecraftian—wait… Who is Lovecraft? I think he was the old white cismale who was replaced with Octavia Butler. I must warn everyone! I must warn them about… cismale gendernormative fascism. Let me try again. Warn everyone about… fat shaming for transqueer abelists. Wait… That isn’t what I meant to type. Cisgendernormative hate monger neck beard. AH! It is too late! Tim is our only hope!

***
From Chapter Ten

Tim, Sally, and Darius Rucker had taken cover as the SJWs inevitably turned on each other in violent purges.

“You’re invading my Racially Segregated Safe Zone!” screeched one SJW at another. “Hate speech!”

“No! You’re invading MY Non-Binary Gender Segregated Safe Zone!” wailed the other. “Rape culture!” Then they began to blow their whistles at each other. Eventually GenderBread Persons came and hauled both of them off to the gulags for “reeducation”.

“There’s the source of all this.” Tim pointed toward the Social Justice Noun, which was hovering angrily over the mall. “But every time I try to approach it, I get blocked by an invisible force field that demands I Check my Privilege. Even though I grew up dirt poor and Christmas killed my whole family, apparently I’ve got action hero privilege.”

“I tried, but I’ve got pretty girl privilege,” Sally said sadly.

“I’m a rock star and a country music star,” Darius Rucker apologized. “Sorry, Tim.”

“Darn it! It is almost like no matter what SJWs have made it so the nefarious concept of “privilege” is always there to make sure anything you say or do is dismissed. We need someone who is immune to their evil magic!”

Suddenly there was a crash as a monster truck plowed through the mall. Wendell the manatee parked his monster truck through the front of the Orange Julius and got out. He had  painted half his face blue like on Braveheart. Wendell’s fish tank was mounted inside a CorreiaTech cybernetic battle suit.  “Hoooooooooooooon!” Wendell let out the battle cry of his people.

“Wendell!” Tim shouted. “You’ve got to try to get through the force field of privilege!”

Wendell nodded in grim determination and set out toward the Social Justice Noun. The GenderBread Persons saw what was happening and tried to stop them. Tim launched into a furious assault of kung-fu shootery! (EDITOR’S NOTE: Shootery is as much a real word as gendernormative! Go Wendell!)

As Wendell’s battle suit hit the force field, the Social Justice Noun roared, “PRIVILEGE!”

Wendell faltered. Sparks flew from the battle suit. “You’ve got to keep going, Wendell!” Sally urged on their noble manatee.

“Nothing can withstand that much smug!” Darius Rucker warned.

Only Wendell was a mighty Christmas warrior, upheld by the global warming power of love and the Christmas Noun. “HOOOOOOON!”

Only the Social Justice Noun didn’t recognize Manatee. In fact, like most Social Justice things it was a product of snooty white suburban academics. “CULTURAL APPROPRIATION!” Lightning bolts struck Wendell.

But luckily, Wendell’s battle suit was equipped with a voice translator. Wendell turned it on. It made him sound just like Stephen Hawking. “I am an aquatic-American.”

The Social Justice Noun burst into flames. It immediately apologized for the carbon footprint, but counterattacked with “INATHENTIC HOUSE MANATEE!”

Only Wendell was far too clever for such games. “I live in the ocean. I do not have house privilege.” Wendell battled on through the self-righteous onslaught.

“MICRO AGGRESSIONS!” Then Wendell opened fire with his missile launchers. “ACTIVE AGGRESSIONS! AHHHH! PHALLIC SYMBOLS OF COLONIAL OPPRESSION! SHITLORD! NECK BEARD! DUDEBRO!”

“I am a mammal that lives in the ocean. I require a protective layer of blubber to keep me warm. Why are you fat shaming me?”

The Social Justice Noun was getting desperate and used its ultimate weapon. “RACE CARD!”

But Wendell was ready. He mashed one flipper down on the Big Red Button.

“Endangered Species Card…”

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” The Social Justice Noun had been hopelessly out-victimed. “TRIGGER WARNING! TRIGGER WAR—” Then there was a terrible explosion.

The privilege field went down. Tim leapt through the swirling smoke and sparks to a sweet heavy metal guitar riff, and karate chopped the Social Justice Noun with the power of the Christmas Noun!

(insert dramatic explosions here)

***

Final Epilogue Narrated by Ron Perlman

Christmas was saved and reality was restored.

After the Social Justice Noun was destroyed, Santa quickly returned to normal. Some embarrassing mix ups remained in place however, and many children on the Nice List were accidentally given Lena Dunham’s autobiography for Christmas. Santa apologized profusely for this horrific error and created a special task force of elves to investigate the matter.

Darius Rucker retired from Christmas warrioring. He remains friends with Tim on Facebook.

Frank, the capitalist republican who had to turn on the Social Justice Noun for the helpless SJWs, was disappointed when their check bounced.

Xbox Live returned to being a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Wendell wouldn’t have it any other way.

The surviving Social Justice Warriors took to Twitter to complain about literally everything. They remain useless, bossy, and convinced that everyone is having fun wrong.

Wendell the Manatee continues to serve as CFO of CorreiaTech. He was nominated for Time Magazine’s Person of the Year, but lost to the Ferguson Protestors. The National Enquirer recently alleged that Wendell is involved in a relationship with supermodel Kate Upton.

Tim and Sally Love-Interest returned to their Black Tiger Kung Fu Dojo and Mall Santa Prep Academy for Inner City Youths to enjoy Christmas together. For Christmas, Sally got Tim one of those rocket scientist bowling shirts with the sexy ladies printed on it that the SJWs hated so much, and Dragon Age 3, but Tim vowed that if this one sucked like the last one, he was writing BioWare off forever.

Because Christmas… Christmas never changes.

***

Merry Christmas, Monster Hunter Nation!

Good Lord, has it really been since Easter?

Between Herself going for her BSN, and my Sheriff deciding to tweak the scope of my job a bit, my muse has buggered off to parts unknown, the hussy.

Unfortunately, the expanded duties have fallen right off into Sekret Skwirl territory -- not necessarily unknown turf to me, but doing so at Small County Government level is a whole different kettle of fish compared to the Federal government level, I'm here to tell you -- and seems to involve a great deal of desk work, interspersed with long runs of Being Diplomatic In Public.

Long-time Gentle Readers (the two who are left) will probably remember that deskwork and Dealing With People are not my preferred activities, introvert that I am.

For the last year or so, I find myself getting home after about nine hours of smiling at people instead of giving them the smack with a cudgel they're desperately crying out for and shaking hands with individuals who would greatly benefit from a decent throat-punch; crawling into the recliner, and dozing off until the whole thing starts again in the morning.

That sort of thing tends to play Merry Hob with the old creativity.

Anyhoo, I find myself desperately missing writing, and thinking: "Man, if there were only some forum on which I could ... Derp."

I'll not promise any stellar literary works -- mental exhaustion and all -- but we'll see about firing this old thing up again.

LawDog

7 broken ribs, a broken collar bone, and a bruised lung. I was lucky that the lung didn't collapse or get punctured. They had me in the ICU for almost 24 hours. The guy in the next room didn't make it this morning. I guess it could have been worse.

We were riding along route 98 getting ready to turn left to cross the bridge to Navarre beach. Traffic was stopped at the light.

Construction was under way, and the turn lane had had the blacktop ground down, ready to be resurfaced. There was a lip in the road top which I was watching.

What I didn't see were the craters under the old blacktop, and my front tire dropped into a valley that wouldn't let the wheel turn. The bike wrenched down, hard. On me.

It was nice that almost instantly there were a half dozen people around helping. One guy lifted the bike off my leg. A waitress from Waffle House put a towel under my head as a pillow.

I had only been going 10 MPH coming up to the light. I think that going either slower or faster would have let me keep control.

I didn't do an inspection of the bike but it looks like it's OK other than the windscreen which was busted up. Maybe there's more wrong but that will have to wait.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

     Not a total fail; the Data Viking and I went to the antique-radio club meet (a fairly small one) and had a nice, if definitely chilly, time.  Drove back to Indy, stopped in at Zest and had a very nice breakfast, came home and, at 1:30 in the afternoon, I ran out of energy.

     One hundred percent o-u-t.  DV headed back home home and I laid down, figuring I'd nap awhile and wake when Tam came home from her day's adventures.  Didn't happen; I woke up hungry about ten p.m., made some soup that did not set well, and went back to bed, from which I  arose very reluctantly shortly after six this morning.  --And to which, I do believe, I will return soon.

From 'Ultimaratioregis', one of the contributors at 'Bring The Heat, Bring The Stupid', concerning the resignation of US Attorney General Eric Holder:

Eric Holder is a malignant tumor to the liberties of a free people.  A race-baiting, gun-grabbing, lying, cheating, bullying Communist of the most corrosive ilk.  You can bet he is not going of his own accord, despite what his public proclamations might be.  Someone has something on him, big enough that Obama wants him under the bus, otherwise he would not be going anywhere.  No matter what it is, Holder can be guaranteed a Presidential pardon from Bath House Barry, or from Hillary Clinton, if we are faced with that particular catastrophe. Holder is an enemy of freedom, and of the Constitution.  He is without honor, without any redeeming value whatsoever.

Gee, Ultima, don't hold back - tell us how you really feel!

(Not that I disagree with him.  Considering Holder's legacy, one has to wonder whether he'll need a Presidential pardon to avoid prosecution . . . )

Peter

The anti-gun crowd seem to be in the throes of their biennial panic about "marketing guns to kids".

Look, if you think that the firearms industry is actually spending advertising dollars to market its products to a demographic that is going to save enough quarters from their allowance to buy a Glock,  toddle into the gun shop, reach up on tiptoe and slide their piggy bank across the counter, only to be told "Sorry, kid, you gotta be 21 to buy that"...

If you think the gun industry is that dumb, well then you just need to let them keep on doing it, because nothing that dumb can possibly survive outside of Congress.
.

Unpossibly, nutjob violates weapons policy and starts shooting people. Went to re-load the shotty and was pounced on by others. I only wonder why those tackling him didn’t beat him to death.