Sunday, July 22, 2012

Well, Perhaps To A Fudd

that Colorado idiots ammunition supply was 'mind boggling' but to a shooter he was nothing more than a slacker, or a Fudd.

Just read the following headline on the Drudge Report:

'mind-boggling' stash of ammunition in killer's lair.

Sure, they're people that believe a twenty or fifty round box of ammunition is sufficient for their lifestyle. Hunters just prior to buck season, that will head to the range and fire three rounds and call it good. Then climb their tree stands, and if they're lucky, get a shot off climb down and yell, "See you next season, Mr. Buck." For a Fudd a twenty round box of thirty-thirty could conceivably last them the rest of their lives.

I believe the news media printed he had six thousand rounds. To a shooter, like me or my friends, six thousand rounds makes you a slacker. I'm sure some liberal weenie just read the last line and has her thong in a bunch, but I don't give a damn. Six thousand rounds says to me you're goofing off. I can hit the range and fire Mr. Fudd's fifty round box in under thirty seconds.

Guess what, I too have purchased from, wonder if this makes me a criminal too. I guess the lib's next target will be to slap bans and regulate access to our on-line ammunition purchases. They'll try at least.

I said, even made a vow, I'd not get into this debate, and here I've made a liar of myself.

The guy's mind is twisted, he's sick. It's not the amount of ammunition you own that makes you a walking zombie with a desire to kill, it's those little voices inside your mind. Seek help.



Sunday Morning, Church & Fried Chicken

Before I begin with my ramble I have a request; will the person that clicked my blue follower button yesterday (or the day before) please give me your name. I'd like to properly thank you.


Now, as you well know my blog has suffered of late. Our life has become hectic and busy and filled with anxiety, and to a degree, sorrow. My writing has had to take a place far in the background of my daily life, and for this I do apologize.
Sweet Wife has a bad case of butt dragging depression. I have asked her to seek medical help. She turns to her Bible, which is fine, but I feel it lacks the proper support I know she badly needs. Enough.

She came into the family room this morning and asked if I'd attend church with her. She had spoken to a close friend this week and the friend had recommended a local Methodist church located in the university district not far from our home. She asked and then said, please. 

I'm not a church man. I don't like to attend church. Please understand the Good Lord and I are close friends. I believe in God and I hope the Lord believes in me. I'm fairly certain if Christ were to honor me with His presence we'd both sit and share a fine cigar and either a glass of wine or a good stiff brandy. I'm sure we'd discuss art, literature, world affairs, the sorry state of our nation, and of course, fine firearms. Without a doubt the good Lord appreciates the finer aspects of well bred bird dogs, and loves the quick rise of a covey of quail on a cold November morning. 

We'd share our thoughts as to why Gertrude Stein insisted Hemingway's 'Up In Michigan' too crude for publication, and why she was wrong. Why gold and silver should replace our current monetary system. God is, after all, one cool dude, and we like each the other.

Please understand I have nothing against churches. If you attend your local church and it helps you deal with life, then bless you, and please continue. My Sweet Wife loves church, and church life. Its not for me. Church was a creation of man, not God. Please, don't argue with me. It's my viewpoint and nothing more. Remember, it is written, where two or more are gathered. Church is where you are located, not where you attend. 

I do like physical church buildings, its architecture. Church's, for the most part, are beautiful. Cathedrals are by far so marvelous as to be out-worldly gracious and spiritually inspirational. I'll walk into a cathedral in a heartbeat just to light a candle. That, is church to me. Not the gathering of kindred souls for social reasons, or to hear a preacher spout a sermon, or to shack hands with my neighbors. Church for me are those quiet moments of grace where I ask my Lord to give me peace. Moments of such are rare indeed.

So, Sweet Wife stood before me, all lovely and very lady like in her Sunday morning dress with a tiny smile on her face and asked if I'd please attend with her. I am given thirty minutes to shower, shave, and dress. 

I can't say, no. I jump and within twenty minutes have my jacket in one hand, my handgun in the other and we're in the car and backing out of the garage. We arrived as the two little girls walk down the aisle with candles in hand. Cute. We take a place on a rear pew. Then stand and she sings. I observe. I count three men besides myself with ties. One is the minister and he doesn't wear a jacket. Suits are passe. 

The other men are dressed as if for a day at the fish market. Class tells. Listen, I don't give a damn how hot the weather, nor how cold. You are in attendance in the house of God. Show some class.  


For some time now, on my way home each evening I pass a restaurant. It only recently opened. Its called Cleoda's. The sign reads, 'Southern American Cuisine.'   Each time I pass this new place the parking lots are filled. Well, well.

This morning after church I asked my lovely bride where she'd like to eat lunch. She didn't care so I drove to Cleoda's. 

We had a jump on the Baptist - when those good folks are released they're not unlike a wave of locust descending on a field of corn. We beat them by thirty minutes. We parked and were met inside Cleoda's by a nice elderly lady and given a window booth. I was pleasantly surprised. Jazz themed art covered the walls. The wait staff were helpful and kind. I noticed a sign, 'We serve soul.' Well hell, why not.

Our waiter came over and said Sunday was family dinner day. We had our choice of two meats. Then we each were to agree on three vegetables and side dishes which we'd each share. The list was long. We chose fried chicken, and smothered pork chops, with mashed potatoes, greens, and butter beans. Gravy. 

The food was excellent. The fried chicken was the best I've eaten since, well, I cooked it last. The pork chops were wonderful and reminded me of my late mother's Sunday dinners. I sucked the bones. My only criticism was the lack of homemade biscuits or cornbread. They served out of the package yeast rolls. The iced-tea was excellent. 

When our meal was finished our young waiter asked if we'd like desert. I glanced over the menu and selected bread pudding with bourbon sauce and told him to make it to, if you'll excuse me I think I'll give it a try.

I'll save you a bite.