Tam:

If you’re being attacked by someone within arm’s reach, you don’t have a gun, y’all have a gun. It’s probably best if it stays in the holster until you’ve bought enough space to make it just your gun again.”

The Brady Campaign to Cling to That Sweet, Sweet Non-Profit money says that the NRA is a terrorist organization.

She slams Trump for his crony capitalism from eminent domain abuse.

It’s bad enough that a school would go on lock down for a kid saying the word “gun”. But, it turns out, the kid said “gum”. I guess, in their defense, schools are gum free zones. And, also, holding students in an extended class period is not a lock down, apparently.

Jim Wilson on kids and guns.

Could lose money running a gambling operation.

Graphing firearms carry in the US over time

the hypothesis of more guns = more gun violence cannot be true. In other news, he’s been doing that for 6 years now.

Another confiscation proposed. This time it’s regular capacity magazines.

First Russia got the memo, now Israel:

Israel eases gun laws in bid to cope with Palestinian ‘lone wolf’ attacks

Because:

In recent weeks many citizens have helped the Israel Police subdue terrorists who carried out attack

Hey, Kool Aid

Artistic details on gold guns

Tactical 34

I didn’t catch in live, I was traveling. Heard coverage on the radio today and perused the transcript. A few things:

Unlike the Republican debate pitting candidates against each other, this debate lacked the Candidate X said you suck, respond bit.

Bernie thinks the greatest security threat to us is people who disagree with him politically. And YOU GET FREE STUFF AND YOU GET FREE STUFF AND YOU GET FREE STUFF.

I’m glad the democrats are pushing gun control again.

And we’ve reached a point where the socialists can be open about being socialists. I guess that’s good.

When Bernie Sanders mentioned closing the so-called gun show loopholeone of the most widely supported gun-control measures on the left. But theres one problem: the gun show loophole doesnt actually exist.

Common sense, right? Sure. But this came from The Politico.

Getting ride of white privilege in comic books.

I like how he sticks it to the media. But, remember how he’s made billions using eminent domain. He thinks eminent domain is a wonderful thing.

Armed guards protect Senate Democrats as they demand new gun-control laws

Will the SCOTUS take up an assault weapons ban? I don’t think the votes are there, right now. We’ve done such a good job of arguing that cosmetic features don’t mean much and, I think, the court would use that logic to say that since they’re not important, it’s OK to ban them.

Heh

A cure for depression. Or, you know, you cowboy up and do it.

“It is easier to buy a gun than buy a book.”

Doing this dumbass livestreaming

Coming to Maine

7.62 SCAR

CZ Scorpion

Engraved lower

Marked all as read. So, if I didn’t respond, it was due to volume.

Before the Mrs. and I got married, we did the honorable thing and lived in sin for a while. I highly recommend it. But this isn’t a post about that, this is a post about this:

Men aren’t big on decorating. I never was. My old condo had white walls in every room, Berber carpet, and black furniture. Oh, the dining room was oak. One thing noticeably absent (I know this because people came in and said I notice that absent is . . .) from my condo was wall art (no pictures or paintings) and knickknacks (you know, little things that sit on your end tables). All that was on my furniture was lamps, coasters, and the occasional glass. My condo was, to use the phrase of a friend, very Spartan.

Then the soon-to-be Mrs. moves in. Suddenly, my natural habitat was disturbed. I now had on my furniture many knickknacks, such as various framed pictures of people I didn’t know, a basket for remote controls (I stored them in seat cushions), and various ceramic/glass/porcelain things strewn about the house in a seemingly random (though entirely purposeful) fashion. Also, I had wall art: pictures of flowers, more pictures of people I didn’t know, and a painting of this solemn looking boy staring out into the sea. And candles. Lots of candles. Single men don’t have candles, they like to use Mag-Lites and other gizmos when the power goes out. The candles were scented too.

Then the painting started. We spent an entire month painting every room in the condo but one, which we left white. It was my toy room/office. The wife said the white walls made it look like a hotel room. At the time, I was working in public accounting and traveled a lot. So, I found the hotel room look familiar and comfortable.

After the placement of various knickknacks around what was formerly my bachelor pad, me and the soon-to-be Mrs. were watching television. It was winter. I was laying on my black leather couch and the Mrs. was on the matching love seat. I started getting hot. So, I shifted my blanket a bit. Then I was still getting hot, particularly my feet were really warm. I shifted my feet again.

That did the trick, I was comfortable. A minute or two passes and my feet feel as though they are on fire. I re-situated my feet again and all of a sudden from under the blanket erupts a giant fireball. I, understandably shocked that a fireball had just come from my blanket and having watched one too many Discovery Channel specials on spontaneous human combustion, was a bit alarmed. I leapt to my feet (bad move, my socks were on fire), grabbed the blanket and threw it on the floor. Then I jumped up and down like a mad man on the blanket in an effort to extinguish the fire on the blanket and my feet. I then grabbed the blanket, used it to extinguish my feet, and rolled it up with the fire in the middle. The fire was out. By the way, I doubt stop, drop and roll works on feet.

You would think that the love of your life would notice that her soon-to-be husband was on fire. No, she intently watched Friends while I was trying to put myself out. Then I started cussing. She, concerned now, asks What’s wrong?.

I was shocked. She missed the fireball, missed me extinguishing myself, and missed the smell that burning blankets make because she was watching some tired, old repeated joke on Friends.

I instruct her (and by instruct mean yell loudly) that I was on fire. I show her my socks (which are burnt black), I show her the blanket (which was burnt black), and I showed her the armrest of the leather couch which was singed in such a way that the mark looked remarkably like a Christmas tree. Then, she starts laughing hysterically.

You’re probably wondering how my feet caught fire. Actually, you’re also probably wondering why my feet exploded into a fireball. It puzzled me too so I put on my arson investigator’s hat and determined that:

I was laying under a blanket that had little, frilly threads on the end. One of the newly acquired candles mentioned above (an item only recently introduced into the SayUncle habitat) was on the end table by my feet. I had apparently re-arranged my feet and, while shifting, the candle ignited the frilly threads. Then when I noticed my feet were a bit warm, I rearranged in such a fashion to place the end of the blanket under my feet where it smoldered for a bit, burnt my couch, and ignited my socks. When the heat was unbearable, I arranged my feet again at which point the oxygen hit the smoldering cloth and ignited a fireball.

The moral of this story: your future wife may or may not notice that you’re presently on fire. And if she does notice, she may find it funny.

From 2002.

I have a few pet names for my lovely wife, such as sweetie and honey. I also refer to her, at least weekly, as the light nazi. My wife has this superpower to detect wasted electricity almost instantaneously. For example, if I leave a light on and exit the room, she immediately hones in on the room using her bizarre extrasensory capabilities (seriously, the Department of Homeland Security could probably use her to detect unusual electrical fluctuations). Upon her discovery that I am heating the neighborhood or letting the flies out, Im in for a quick reminder to turn out lights and shut doors.

One problem I have with her ability is the fanatical zeal in which she enforces her duties as the sworn protector of home electrical efficiency. Another example: when I am in our office and have the lights on then decide Id like a refreshing beverage, by the time I return from the kitchen the lights are off in the office. Also, in her zeal, she has turned lights off on me while Im still in the room reading. She seems so obsessed with saving that quarter that she occasionally fails to notice that someone is actually benefiting from the use of the electricity in question.

My wife apparently has been saving up all this electricity usage for the holidays. Every year, me and the wife also get into an argument over Christmas decorations. The argument stems from the fact she wants to put the decorations up right after Labor Day. Whereas, I prefer them to be put up about the second week of December. This past weekend, satisfied that she had saved up enough electricity to warrant decorating for the holidays, yours truly wound up doing a lot of work in preparation for the upcoming holidays. Until this past week, the wife and I were the only ones living in our subdivision. We just got a new neighbor so I suppose the new neighbor was the cause of the tackiness that is holiday decorations. Since, other than us, hell be the only one to see them. Unless of course people start driving down a new subdivision to look at houses in the dark.

On Saturday, the wife and I pulled all the holiday knickknacks out of the attic and started decorating the house. I argued about it less this year than ever. I basically said honey, its not even Thanksgiving yet? and she replied with but Thanksgiving is late this year. I shrugged and said Oh. Learned helplessness has finally set in. I can just agree and do it quicker than I can disagree, argue, and wind up doing it anyway. Ah, the holiday spirit.

We put out our Frosty the Snowman salt and pepper shakers, put up our Christmas tree, put a Nativity scene on the mantle, and put out all the other stuff from the eight boxes that were in our attic labeled Christmas. This took up half our day.

Sunday rolls around, and I find out the wife had bought about nine boxes of icicle lights. Yours truly was then taken to task to take said nine boxes of lights (at 300 lights per box) and trim the house with them. A friend came by to help. Fortunately for me, my friend had done this before. I hadnt.

Your average SayUncle is about six feet, one inch tall and weighs about 170 pounds. Your average SayUncle is also lethargic on the weekends. And your average SayUncles natural habitat is some primitive, oblong, leather bedding (commonly referred to as a couch) where the SayUncle stalks its prey, the elusive Sam Adams and the only slightly less-elusive rum and Coke. Your average SayUncle is also poorly equipped for climbing steep inclines, which is a required skill when hanging 2,700 icicle lights. The reason the average SayUncle is so poorly equipped for climbing is because the largely sedentary SayUncle often catches several Sam Adams or rum and Cokes per day on the weekends, in between naps of course. Mind you, the only known SayUncle in existence hasnt lived in its natural habitat since it wed the SayAuntie, who is hell bent on destroying the SayUncles natural habitat.

The friend shows up. We put the ladder up to the house and he climbs up. Then I climb up. I realize in about five seconds that my boots are poorly equipped for walking on the roof. You need something that allows you to bend your ankles. It was also at this point that I realized Id never really used a ladder to climb on a roof before. And that I didnt really know how to get from the roof to the ladder, and subsequently to the ground, safely. After my friends instruction, I figured the whole ladder thing out, climbed down, and put on some sneakers. Then its back up the ladder to discover my friend had already placed one box of lights. Then, I cut myself on the gutters. I refuse to climb down and am content to finish the job while bleeding on the hangers. We then develop a system in which I place the hangers and my friend inserts the icicle lights into the hangers. About three hours later (when its dark, but were working with lights so . . ) were done.

I call the wife. The friend calls his wife. And we all stand around outside looking out over our icicle lights and the lighted garland on the porch. My wife looks me lovingly in the eyes and smiles, shes happy. I look at her and smile. The whole time thinking that we will waste more electricity on these Christmas lights this year than I will waste by leaving lights on for the rest of my life. Also, I hope our only neighbor appreciates the holiday display because I dont think anyone else is going to be driving by our subdivision to look at our lights. I put my arm around my wife and smile again because I know that I’m bleeding on her holiday sweater.

With the light nazi appeased, the SayUncle was allowed briefly to return to his natural habitat before bedtime.

Happy holidays!

From 2003:

There are a few things my loyal readers should know. One of which is that I have a penis. This is not a post about me having a particularly extraordinary penis but a report on how the penis affects thinking and cognition. Penis-bearing beings have several deficiencies but Im only discussing one of those deficiencies today. Apparently, a penis affects visual capabilities, particularly color recognition. A human being with a penis can only distinguish about eight or so colors, even though according to Windows 2000 there are at least 24 million colors (all of which are distinguishable to entities that do not have penises). More interesting is the fact that the amount of time devoted to the penis is inversely proportionate to the number of colors distinguishable. For example, my pup spends a great deal of his time engaging in the following activities:

Showing his penis to our other dog.
Showing his penis to me and the wife.
Sniffing his penis.
Showing his penis to any strangers that may be near.
Licking his penis.
Pointing his penis in the direction of the Sun.

The result of all this attention to his penis is that he only sees in black and white. My conclusion is not based on any scientific evidence but merely the fact that he seems not at all impressed by my 60 inch color television. A friend of mine used to have a Labrador. This Labrador was not particularly smart as he could do only one trick. The command for this trick was Show me your dude and Ill let you guess what followed. Later this Labrador was hit by a car and Im convinced that the reason he was hit by a car was because he was completely blind from showing people his dude all the time (even the neighborhood kids picked up on it).

This past weekend, the wife and I cancelled our vacation (damn SARS!) and decided to spend our time painting the master bedroom and the master bath. I hate painting for two reasons: 1) I dont enjoy it and 2) I suck at it. If youre marriage can survive the painting experience, you will enjoy a long life together. If not, one of you will be dead.

Prior to this weekend, our master bedroom was a color called China Doll. Now, every penis-bearing person reading this is thinking China Doll is not a color, its an oriental figurine or the name of a porn star. See, China Doll is a very, very light shade of brown or possibly a dark shade of white. There is some debate in the scientific world of color evaluation as to what color it really is. We (and by we, I mean the wife) decided that we needed to change from China Doll to Apple Butter. Again, penis-bearing individuals are thinking that Apple Butter is something you put on biscuits or the name of a porn star. Apple Butter is a slightly darker shade of brown (or possibly white, were still not sure) than China Doll.

Also confusing to penis-laden individuals is why there is a need to change one shade of brown (or possibly white) to a slightly different shade of brown (or possibly white). The reason for this is only known to non-penis-laden individuals. After the wife made the first stroke with the roller, I said I cant see the difference and her response was Youre blind.

This time, the wife and I managed to paint two rooms without getting divorced or killing each other. The last time we painted, we were at each others throats the entire time. It got so bad that I pondered whether or not a psychiatrist could convincingly testify in court to the fact that inhalation of paint fumes combined with indistinguishable shades of brown (or possibly white) could cause temporary insanity in particular penis-bearing individuals.

Next up was the bathroom (which was China Doll as well). The new color for the bathroom is Savannah Moss, which again penis-bearing individuals are thinking Thats not a color, thats a fungus in Georgia or a porn star. Savannah Moss is light shade of green (or possibly white). This time, however, I could distinctly see the difference between Savannah Moss and China Doll.

Next weekend, the wife and I need two new porn stars to do the guest rooms.

So simple kids get it

Couple of weekends ago, our neighborhood had a garage sale. We set out to rid our home of various useless crap. Being neighborhood wide, we had hundreds of people come through. Junior gets the brilliant idea that, since these shoppers are in the hood for a long time, some of them must be thirsty and they’ll buy lemonade. She makes up a pitcher and sells out quick at a $1 a pop. On her second pitcher, I introduce some reality:

Me: So, for every lemonade you sell, you know I get fifty cents, right?

Junior: What?

Me: Well, you’re using my water, my lemonade, my cups, my sugar, my table, my chair and you’re on my driveway.

Junior: But I’m doing the work!

Me: With my stuff.

Wife: Oh stop it.

Me: I’m just trying to teach her something.

Junior: Oh.

Me: And you’ve got to pay taxes. I’d figure if you’re selling it for an even dollar 8 cents or so should cover sales tax. Then F&E taxes. And income taxes. Plus you probably need a permit and an inspection to make sure there are no cooties in your lemonade. And you’ll probably have to buy some sort of approved device for maintaining the lemonade at a safe temperature.

Junior: It’s called ICE.

Me: Yeah, but it melts.

Junior: That’s stupid. I’m keeping the money.

Me: Good girl! But you’re still paying me.

Junior: *evil stare*

The kids were, as they often do, having one of their nonsensical arguments. I forgot what it was about but it probably involved stop touching me, get on your side of the couch or some other thing kids have fought about for just about ever. I tell them to knock it off and then, thinking I thought it, I instead said I can’t believe you guys argue about the dumbest crap. Junior then pipes up: You argue about dumb crap too. Thinking she may have heard about my blog, I say Oh do I?

Her: Yes, you argue about dumb crap too.

Me: No I don’t. And don’t say crap.

Her: Oh, yes, you do.

Me: When have I argued about dumb stuff?

Her: Always.

Me: I do not.

Her: Uh huh.

Me: Oh please.

Her: You’re arguing about dumb stuff right now.

Me: Well played, Sparky.

And I laughed hard. I was both taken aback and proud that I was outsmarted by my 7 year-old daughter. Still brings a smile to my face.

Update: Rage comic by Michael:

Heading to an unsecure and, I guess now, disclosed location. Blogging will be sporadic. May queue up some re-runs.

It’s interesting to me that I did some research on the place and, of course, guns are banned as are pocket knives and pepper spray. It is apparently common for the locals to keep hornet spray to fend off invaders. I find that amusing. Of course, they are subjects.

Looking at the weather, it may be an interesting trip.

According to John Tierney. There are only a few things that are economically practical to recycle (aluminum and cardboard come to mind) and the rest is cost prohibitive. Even The City (My The City) acts this way. See, we have a local recycling center ran by The City (My The City). When you show up, you have to show ID proving you are a resident, or else they won’t let you drop it off. If recycling is good and profitable, why would they turn anyone away?