Guns ‘r fun

After studying the Hungarian language for years, I can confidently conclude that had Hungarian been my mother tongue, it would have been more precious. Simply because through this extraordinary, ancient and powerful language it is possible to precisely describe the tiniest differences and the most secretive tremors of emotions.

George Bernard Shaw

Uh-oh.

circuit boxI had intended to post this yesterday, but somehow the power company didn’t get the bill to the bank in time for the bank to pay the bill in time to prevent the power from being disconnected. It all got resolved this afternoon.

When the guys came to reconnect the power they couldn’t find the box with the circuit breaker that was hidden behind the vines.  After a few minutes they clawed their way through and left a quasi-clearing to the switch.

Two headlines from recent news stories caught my attention.

  1. Guns won’t be allowed at the Republican National Convention according to the Secret Service.  That was the GOP’s best shot at stopping Trump. Puns aside, if the convention were being held in Houston or Phoenix you know the boys would be carrying openly.
  2. The National Rifle Association has updated fairy tales so that leading characters are locked and loaded. Most stories I’ve read feature Lil’ Red Riding Hood.  So I’ve updated the NRA’s version of the tale (I sort of covered LRRH in yesterday’s post, but here we go again).

Deep in the forest Grammamaw woke early to make breakfast for Lil’ Red, who slumbered deep in dream with the covers pulled tight around her chin.  Grammamaw fixed the girl grits and bacon and as Lil’ Red was too young for coffee, she set a steaming pot of hot chocolate on the table. Lil’ Red was dreaming about the firing range and taking her Glock there, spending the day pumping round after round into targets.  Before he died, Gramps had given Lil’ Red the Glock, his last words being “sleep with it under your pillow. You never know when some sonbitch want to blow you away.”  So she did.

It was almost dawn, just the slightest of crimson layers developing on the horizon, just enough light that you could spot the wolf moving carefully towards the cabin. He was able to glimpse Grammamaw through the curtains that were just slightly parted. He smelled the bacon, the hot chocolate and wished for coffee. The aromas of coffee and bacon would have been ideal, but he thought about skinny Grammamaw, who would be delightfully crunchy.

The wolf crept closer to the cabin, distracted slightly by wind rustling the quaking aspens’ leaves, but he made his way to a window, raised himself up on his hind legs and peered in.  He could just barely see the outline of a body in a bed:  a small human, most likely today’s lunch.  Maybe leftovers for tomorrow. His legs were a little unsteady and he began to slip a little on the damp leaves, his front paws  scratching at the window, then the window frame. Grammamaw entered Lil’ Red’s room to wake her and leaned over to kiss the girl awake.  She looked up when she heard the noise outside and let out a scream when she saw wolf’s maniacal contorted face.  Lil’ Red woke with a start, whirled around pulling the Glock from under the pillow and let Grammamaw have three rounds right in the chest.

Being a white girl, standing her ground, feeling threatened, etc. etc. Lil’ Red didn’t face charges.

Marc Ribot

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