Boomsticks: Gratuitous Gun Pr0n No. 25

Beretta 96D and Beretta Airlight pocket knife. (Note the clever placement of other "Beretta Lifestyle" items in the photo. The marketing hype victim discerning sportsperson could stroll afield clad head to hoof in Beretta togs, if only Beretta would get on the stick and make some shoes.)

That's just wrong.

Okay, I know that all the professional critics have been piling on this dog for the last week or so, but far be it from me to pass up the chance for a late hit or a cheap shot:

I don't care what Rachel Tolkien says; Gandalf doesn't sing.

Boomsticks: Weekly Check on the Lies Bias.

Jeff at Alphecca has his Weekly Check up, and this week it includes a blurb from lying reporter Ken Schram of KOMO-TV in Seattle.

I'm sorry, but this oft-repeated lie is one that triggers the same reaction in me that the red cape triggers in the bull in Bugs Bunny cartoons: my eyes turn red, steam comes out of my nostrils, the works...

Are you ready for the lie? Here it is:

Yet even though there are more than 11,000 people a year murdered by guns here in the U.S., more guns are more easily available then ever before.

Ken, this is bovine exhaust of the first order; how you can repeat it with a straight face is lost on me. The fact is this: Buying a gun has become more and more difficult over the years in this country, not easier. At no time in this nation's history has buying a firearm been more of a pain in the butt. If the intimidating "pro-gun lobby" has all the politicos in DC shaking under their beds, then how come every law those politicos have passed has been to make it harder to buy a gun, not easier?

In 1933, you could send money to Sears and buy a machine gun through the mail, with no questions asked.

In 1967, a fifteen year-old could walk into a hardware store and, showing no ID other than some pictures of Andrew Jackson and filling out no paperwork other than the warranty card, walk out with the handgun of his choice. The only background check might have been the proprietor asking "Is this for you or your dad, Bobby?"

In 1986 a teen could walk into a sporting goods store in a mall and buy a semiautomatic rifle and five hundred rounds of ammunition after filling out one small form and undergoing no background check, and walk her purchase out through the mall, no questions asked.

In 1994 you could drive to Georgia from Tennessee and buy the scariest-looking riot shotgun on the rack with your photo ID and, again, no background check.

In 2006, to buy a simple single-shot .22 rifle, of the type used to teach gun safety and marksmanship to Cub Scouts, here in the gun-friendly state of Tennessee, you must show current photo ID, the address on which must match your current residence address. You must fill out a page and a half of a big tri-fold form, and then wait for the seller to fill out the rest. You must wait while an invasive background check is performed on you and the serial numbers of the gun (even if brand new) are checked to make sure it is not stolen. You must give your thumbprints, for Vishnu's sake.

...and this, this is "more easily available."

Ken, you're either too dumb to be a reporter, or too dishonest to look in the mirror while shaving.

Which is it, Ken?

Idiot?

Or liar?

"Yes, but can it play Counterstrike?", Part Deux

I think I'm in love.

Not only can you take it everywhere, it also looks like a prop from a hip, low-bujit BBC sci-fi series. Plus, it's got the screen size to handle two of the three legs of the Successful Computing Gizmo Triad (games and porn) and built-in wireless (for email.)

If something like this catches on, just think of the great new excuses we'll have for traffic screwups!

Mohammed Taheri-Azar: "Vengeance for my fellow Muslims? What? No, I was just trying to kill the boss monster at the end of level three and wasn't paying attention to where I was going. It's all my wrist computer's fault."



(H/T to BobG.)

What have I done to deserve this?

Sorry about the light posting for the last two days. Remember that flu I got over about two weeks ago? Well, it (or its cousin) suddenly remembered me. Right back to the explosive coughing, head like a faucet, light-headed-with-fever that made the first bout so fun. The only upside is that it wasn't quite as bad this time 'round, and seems to have abated overnight.

We'll see...

One week from today...

... is Opening Day.


Hooray!

Somebody has to make the joke...

From the AP:

"That trust was shattered Saturday morning, when Huff opened fire in a house full of ravers dressed like zombies in dark clothing and pale makeup, killing six of them and injuring two."

Well, they were dressed like zombies, for god's sake!

Blog Stuff: Isn't it ironic...

...that I was maybe the only woman in America going through messy break-up type stuff in 1995 who didn't buy a copy of Jagged Little Pill? Well, technically that's not in itself "ironic", but neither is a "black fly in your chardonnay". The latter is gross, maybe, but not ironic. Use some of those royalties to buy a dictionary, Alanis. Anyhow, I picked up the Alanis Morissette CD as well as Love And Rockets' eponymous '89 album at McKay's on Friday afternoon (so now I can lay my worn-out Love And Rockets cassette to rest.)

Driving home and singing along reminded me of one of the great "Don't Try This At Home, Kids" experiences of my misspent youth...

It was a Friday. The company I was working for was shutting down its Atlanta customer service department, which meant that all of us would be out of work or transferring to corporate HQ in Frozen Butt, Minnesota come Monday, so we did the only thing to do in such circumstances: We went out and drank on the company dime. It was fun but poignant, like the last day of summer camp, with many tearful promises of keeping in touch forever being exchanged. I also seem to recall a lot of vodka being involved. One of my co-workers, who we'll call Don, brought his girlfriend, and she and I hit it off well. As the party broke up, the decision was made that Don would drive my jalopy home for me, while us girls would continue our conversation in her car, a Porsche. (I had just sold my 924S, which was how our conversation had started.) The rendezvous was set for my apartment down in Virginia Highland, a tony in-town neighborhood consisting of a rat's warren of little residential streets.

We barrelled out of the parking lot and on to the interstate and, as she fiddled with the CD player, she said "Feel around on the floor behind my seat; there should be a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses." I attempted to gracefully pour two glasses of Merlot as she aimed the car south and we rocketed into the Georgia night. So there we were, sunroof open in January, 130 MPH southbound on the Downtown Connector through ATL in a bucks-up Boche roller skate, sipping vino and belting out the lyrics to You Oughta Know at the top of our lungs. (Remember how empowering it was to sing out the "F-word" with Alanis, all loud and proud? ;) )

When we got to my apartment, the wheels began to come off. She didn't have her cell phone with her. Meanwhile, Don couldn't find my crib, and so was frantically dialing my home number on his cellie. Except the door key to my apartment was dangling from the steering column of the car he was driving, so all she and I could do was listen to the phone in my apartment ring with our faces pressed to the outside of the living room window. There was a half-hearted break-in attempt through said window, but neither of us was dressed for, or athletic enough, to get boosted far enough up the brick wall to leverage our way in. That, and neither of us had a screwdriver handy. Then the bottle of wine we'd been swilling from began to have its effect and, locked out of the house, we had to... well, there were bushes around the building, okay? At least one could keep watch for the neighbors while the other answered Gaia's call. Then I put one brand-new heel into a pile left by the neighbor's illicit hound...

What had started as a harmless episode of Cheers was rapidly devolving into Fear And Loathing In Atlanta. Gradually realizing that Don would never find the place, we piled our frostbitten selves back into her car and set off more circumspectly across town to his house (coincidentally right down the street from the on-again-off-again beau who was letting me sing along so enthusiastically with Alanis...) It was the kind of bonding evening that only comes from adversity, much like the one experienced by the Donner Party, but we did get to Don's place in one piece and without any detours through the Atlanta city jail (for which I am eternally grateful.)

I would warn anybody against such insane behavior, and would never pull such a damfool stunt again as long as I live.

But I wouldn't have missed that one for the world, and I remember it every time I hear that CD. You Oughta Know better, indeed. ;)

Boomsticks: The Year in Cordite...

The 52nd Weekly Carnival of Cordite is up as a fabulous double issue. See new stuff. Stroll down Memory Lane.

Books: Score!

Guess what I just found on Amazon? A copy of The Barbarian Princess, by Laura Buchanan, which is supposedly the absolute best historical bodice-ripper of all time. I can hardly wait 'til it gets here.





(Fellow fans of Miss Florence King will already get the joke; the rest of you can get to Googlin'. ;) )

Fashion and Flying Brass.

Heh. Denise speaks truth.


Incidentally, a less-than-totally-firm grip on a Desert Eagle in .50AE seems to cause the brass to fly straight back. I've never minded being hit by brass. Being hit by flying, red-hot wastepaper baskets, on the other hand...

Boomsticks: "Oh my God! The chicks are packing heat!"

The title alone is enough to get me spun up: "Women Getting Trigger Happy". It seems to hover somewhere in tone between "Ain't that cute?" and having a missing, but implied, "Uppity" as the first word. Well, Mr. Reporter, why don't you put this here apple on your noggin, and I'll show you some "trigger happy":

The gun industry is catering to women with everything from more girly guns and apparel to all-female hunting trips and free ladies nights at the range. It's clear the feminine touch is adding up to big business.

Why is it that when some bright spark in the marketing department at Apple, Cannondale, or Pontiac notices that slightly more than 50% of the planet's population is setters rather than pointers, it gets two column inches on page 24 of the WSJ, but when their counterpart at Remington or Smith & Wesson does likewise, it calls for a panting TeeWee news spot from ABC? Build a Saturn that has room to stow a purse in the front passenger compartment, and nobody notices. Make a SIG small enough to fit in that purse, and shoulders get dislocated in newsrooms across America as folks reach for dusty tomes by Freud. Weird.

"If you look at statistics, there are more crimes of passion committed by men than there are women," said Sandra Froman, president of the NRA. "But I say that everyone has their emotions, and one of the things you learn when you take firearms classes is you learn to control your emotions."

Appropos of nothing, we get introduced to the good Ms. Froman via an out-of-context quote chock full of "passion" and "emotions". You know, the ol' subliminal "Oh, jeeze, they're so emotional. If they have a gun, they might blow me away during that time of the month." I don't think you need to be worried about that, sport. We're no more likely to shoot you at "that time" than we are to run you over or shiv you with that nice JA Henckel chef's knife you got us last Christmas. (No matter what time of the month it is, though, I'd recommend kevlaring up before swilling the milk from the jug. We have glasses for a reason, honey.)

But not everyone is convinced encouraging women to carry a gun is a good idea. According to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence, it's at least 20 times more likely that you'll use your weapon to shoot someone in your home rather than using it to protect yourself from an intruder.

Fact check on Aisle Five, please. Where in heck is this data from? (Even leaving aside the fact that your attacker is very likely to be somebody you know, rather than a random stranger.) But again we have the implication that we chicks are just not to be trusted. Ask yourself this question: If you had a gun, would you just up and kill someone you love? No? Well then who in the hell are these putzes (putzii?) to claim that you are too flighty to resist the alien brain control waves emanating from an inanimate object?

"Every time you pull that trigger you feel that rush," she said.

She's just what the gun industry is hoping will represent the next generation of pistol-packing women.

...and a titillating quote to close on. Substitute "push that plunger", "heroin ring", and "smack-shooting" in the appropriate places, and you get the sort of message that the author of this steaming little pile was going for.

Jerk.

(Oh, and just by-the-by, the evil manipulative gun industry control committee would like me to remind all of y'all that Tuesday is Ladies' Day at CCA. Free range time. Yay!)

Attention, Citizen X in Willowbrook, IL...

...yeah, you. The Comcast user browsing with Firefox.

Congratulations for being the 50,000th visitor at View From The Porch.

Email me to collect your choice of the following fabulous prizes:

1) A genuine dead migratory ladybug dug from the innards of the ceiling fan at VFTP Command Central.

2) An empty Diet Mountain Dew (also known as Rant Fuel®) can.

3) A free range pass to Coal Creek Armory to use the next time you're driving through K-town on your way to the land of Mickey Mouse, Bluehairs, and 'Gator Farms.

Thanks for stopping by! :)

Boomsticks: If you haven't already done so...

...go read the Weekly Check On The Bias over at Alphecca. It's a good 'un this week.

There's some drollery regarding various of the Northeastern S.S.R's frantically trying to scapegoat adjacent free states as the causes of their criminal ills, while conveniently avoiding mention of the fact that said free states don't seem to share the same problem, despite being the source of "easily available guns". (This always used to confuse me while noshing on my late night dinner and watching Law & Order reruns: If those "easily available guns" in Virginia or Georgia are causing all the problems in NYC, shouldn't Virginia and Georgia be ankle-deep in blood?)

Also, he hits on the recent "Oh My God! The Chicks Are Packing Heat!" "Women And Guns" article that's been recently mentioned at SayUncle and TFS Magnum.

Not that the latter is a hot-button topic with me or anything, but I feel a rant coming on. Watch this space.

Oh noes! Kitty has no legs!

"Kitty lives overseas, and has to work in a sweatshop for Kathy Lee Gifford. Won't you please give to the Legless Kitty Fund?"

Sorry, old inside joke from back when me and Marko were roomies. Mittens always used to sit around the apartment like this (which was where the gag line above came from,) but this was the first time I've seen Random Numbers in the "Gear Up" pose for more than two minutes that I can recollect. She even just sat there and held the pose while I fumbled about trying to get fresh batteries in the camera, then didn't even budge when I botched the first flash photo and had to take a second. That's probably the most relaxed that that psychotic and high-strung little critter has ever been in her life...

A jog around the blog.

Marko: Kindergarteners in Cancun.

LawDog: Secret Agent Man.

Les Jones: Going to Yankeeland. Voluntarily.

Xavier Thoughts: Don't let 'em up now.

Hound bites Bugs Bunny; Elmer Fudd goes to jail.

Stephen Bodio alerts us to a new silly law being proposed in the Land Of Silly Laws (also known as California.)

Alarmed to find out that the cousins of their beloved toy poodles are being allowed to follow their natural tendencies and do, you know, icky carnivorous things like chase and kill varmints, Sacramento legiscritters are proposing a new law stating:

[A]ny person who knowingly engages in any activity in which a dog is left untethered and allowed to track and pursue any rabbit, hare, or fox and that results in the injury or death of the rabbit, hare, or fox is guilty of a misdemeanor punishable by imprisonment in a county jail for a period not to exceed 6 months, by a fine not to exceed $1,000, or by both that imprisonment and fine.

As someone who lives in an old lakefront cottage and who is delighted when her feline companions discover a "self-propelled cat toy" and do what comes naturally, I'd like to remind Assemblywoman Hancock just why in the hell people started keeping dogs and cats in the first place. It's not because they look cute with painted toenails, honey; it's because they chase and kill the mice in our houses and the rabbits in our gardens.

Personally, I blame Beatrix Potter and Richard Adams. Generations of urban and suburban kiddies have been raised to see the bucktoothed destroyers of crops as The Good Guys. Now these thin-blooded putzes are in a place to write laws, and when they find out that their neighbors not only set their hounds on Bunny Fluffkins, but are actually delighted when Rover catches and kills it, the results are predictable.

How far we have come from our agrarian roots...

Why did nobody tell me?

Via LawDog, I find out that yesterday was "Meatout 2006", a day for the more shrill-voiced of the tofuista set to sanctimoniously proclaim the virtues of a diet that mostly seems to cause whey-faced complexions and an inordinate fondness for black turtlenecks. Not being properly forewarned, I was unable to do anything to uphold the honor of my team beyond the bacon cheeseburger I had for lunch, unlike Phlegmfatale, who managed to celebrate the day with a trip to a Brazilian-style steakhouse.

I admit it: I am not just carnivorous, I am almost belligerently so. When a friend took me to the old Eat Your Vegetables restaurant at Little Five Points in Atlanta, I (after making the gaffe of asking to be seated in the smoking section) appalled her by asking why there were no meat items on the menu. After all, most nicer steakhouses have vegetarian entrees to accommodate the herbivorous, so shouldn't the grass-eaters reciprocate on their turf, since they're all about the tolerance and everything? In revenge, I took her to a place not known for overly aging or marinating its beef, so that my big ol' rare filet bled all over my plate like a Wes Craven flick, causing her to be visibly distressed and me to snicker on the inside. On another occasion, I was out shopping with the same friend and found that a cajun joint that had opened at the Perimeter Mall food court served crawfish. Delighted, I wandered back over to the table with a big basket of them, and made her squirm by holding two-way conversations with the yummy little mudbugs as I ate them. (I had to provide their end of the chatter, of course, in a Mister Bill-esque voice.) When she pointed out the squeamish teenyboppers at the next table, I couldn't resist making the little crustacean in my hand wave its claw at them before sucking its brains out. They left. Quelle dommage.

Remember, kids: Meat is murder.

And murder tastes good. :)

The Latest On Google: Okay, now I'm officially confused.

First, Google told the .gov to go piss up a rope.

Then a judge announced he was going to order Google to fink.

Now he has apparently ordered them to only kinda-sorta fink, only not. Sort of. Which is good. Or bad. I'm not sure.

Dogwood Winter.

It's sleeting outside. Hard enough to knock the blossoms from the pear trees. Festive.