Wednesday, January 16, 2013

The Dogs of War

Once more dear friends. Let slip the dogs of war.

Click here. If you have the email addresses of your parents, uncles and aunts, children over the age of one, nieces and nephews, grandparents or neighbors - send a letter for them too. I'm sure one of them owns at least a sling-shot.

Seriously, fight.

Thank you.


Mr. President, This is my tongue

Mr President, picture me with my tongue, in all its glory, protruding from my mouth in your direction.

Just to show you how much I don't care I made every effort to order a couple of spare twelve (that's 12) round magazines for my daily concealed carry handgun.

I forgot, you're a liberal bean sprout munching poodle walker so I shall write this in Ebonics...ready?

Today I told you to kiss my butt and purchased two more 'high capacity bullet holder clips.'

By the way I shall leave these nice normal capacity magazines in their packaging because as soon as your restrictions take place they will triple in price. So not only will I disobey your silly unconstitutional laws but will profit from the same.

I must admit my search for the two spare magazines took me a few minutes and three websites but find them I did, in stock no less. They should arrive soon.

Trust me, your disregard for our nations Constitution and God given rights has created a nation of outlaws.


(For those in the know - Numrich.)



I stepped from the shower this morning and felt good. After a quick shave and slap of smelly stuff I dressed quickly and walked out to the kitchen. Sweet Wife had lunch bags ready. She turned to greet me with a big smile plastered on her face. Then she began to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

She placed a hand over her mouth, and I swear, was red in the face. After a few seconds she regained her composure but continued to giggle.


"Oh, nothing. Are you ready for work?"


"Are you sure? Haven't forgotten anything, have you."

My satchel is where I'd placed it the night before and I see my carry piece and spare mags are on the counter. My boots stand in the laundry room where I'd left them and my hat and cover shirt are in place, ready. I was fairly certain I could hit the street and boogie as soon as my boots were laced and had the truck keys in hand.

Again, she doubles over in laughter. I can't help but smile, after all, I'd had a full nights sleep; the first in days and I felt good. Why in the world was she laughing at me.

Screw it, I thought, and turned and gathered my boots ready to stitch the laces. Back in the kitchen screams of laughter continued. Enough.

I walk back and stand like a chastised child and in my most sincere voice plead, "Please, Honey, why are you laughing at me?"

Between snorts, she walks over and gives me a sweet gentle kiss and said,

"Sweetheart, perhaps you should put on your pants."