Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:
- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
- Why the early bird gets the worm;
- Life isn't always fair;
- and maybe it was my fault.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).
His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well- intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.
Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.
Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.
He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;
I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim
Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the majority and do nothing
Monday, October 12, 2009
I don't know
Sorry, no title today. I'm not in much of a thinking mood. There are so many things going on out here that my mind is incredibly occupied. This company is really good at keeping people busy, even when they aren't doing anything. It's an amazing feat. I don't much care for that, though. It means I don't have a lot of time to think about things like home, and family, and important stuff like that. Not that I really have a place to call home right now, but you get my point.
There is so much beautiful country out here. I've only seen a little tiny bit of it, and I've only seen it during a short period of one season. I don't think I could ever get tired of the natural scenery. It's changing from day to day, whether it's because I'm driving through somewhere different, or the weather makes the appearance different.
It doesn't matter, though, because there are a lot of things going on at home that I want to be a part of. One person in particular I miss like crazy. I'm sitting here in the rain, two thousand miles away, wishing I could have just one hug from her. It's hard to take. Everything I see, I want her to see too.
My family is in the middle of the yearly get-together in the U.P. right now. I know they are waking up to some nice, crisp, early winter mornings, smelling the campfire and bacon and coffee, talking about everything and nothing, listening to nothing but nature whispering for miles around. I look so forward to that time every year. I don't even care much about the hunting. It's the solitude and companionship that mixes so strangely up there.
I suppose I should probably get to sleep, I'm gonna have to drive at some point tomorrow, and this is not going to make for a very good day. I'll sign off for now. Maybe there will be time again in the near future for more writing.
I like it out here, but I miss home.
There is so much beautiful country out here. I've only seen a little tiny bit of it, and I've only seen it during a short period of one season. I don't think I could ever get tired of the natural scenery. It's changing from day to day, whether it's because I'm driving through somewhere different, or the weather makes the appearance different.
It doesn't matter, though, because there are a lot of things going on at home that I want to be a part of. One person in particular I miss like crazy. I'm sitting here in the rain, two thousand miles away, wishing I could have just one hug from her. It's hard to take. Everything I see, I want her to see too.
My family is in the middle of the yearly get-together in the U.P. right now. I know they are waking up to some nice, crisp, early winter mornings, smelling the campfire and bacon and coffee, talking about everything and nothing, listening to nothing but nature whispering for miles around. I look so forward to that time every year. I don't even care much about the hunting. It's the solitude and companionship that mixes so strangely up there.
I suppose I should probably get to sleep, I'm gonna have to drive at some point tomorrow, and this is not going to make for a very good day. I'll sign off for now. Maybe there will be time again in the near future for more writing.
I like it out here, but I miss home.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
For Little Lizzie
I've been asked a few times why I carry. I'm really awful when I'm put on the spot, so I usually say something like "it's legal", or "it's my right". When I open carry, I think I'm going to start saying something along the lines of "to protect my family and myself", or more likely "It's my right, It's legal, and I'm tired of being pushed into the closet by the people who are unnecessarily frightened by guns". It's the truth. Guns are not bad. The vast majority of gun owners are not bad. Most of us do reside in the closet, though, because society has been trained to believe a bunch of lies. I've run across the following story a couple times, and considered posting it. Now I've finally broken down and done it. It's a good read. Enjoy:
“Why do you carry a gun?”
If I had a nickel for every time I've been asked that question, I'd have, uh ... as many guns as his firearm-festooned Editorial Immenseness, Roy-Boy. It's been asked of me by all flavors of folks in all slices of society, with attitudes and expressions ranging from angry-arrogant to curtly-contemptuous, to brainless an' befuddled. My answers to it have sorta formed three phases in my professional gun-carrying life. During that first and longest phase, I answered all of 'em sincerely and articulately, often following up with stacks of historic and legal documents. After many years, I concluded only a semi-significant sliver of people even heard what I was sayin'. The rest had already made up their muddled minds.
Finally, I just got sick of it, and moved on to Phase 2. If those asking seemed to have teensy open spaces in their minds, I gave 'em S & A: "Sincere & Articulate." The more harshly-bleating sheep, however, often got exchanges like this:
"So," queried Snidely Snotworth III, lookin' down his unbusted but needed-bustin' nose, "Why do you think you have to carry a gun?"
"Well," bellowed the Brutish Neanderthal (that would be me): "Because you're not QUALIFIED to carry one. You haven't got the skills, the judgment, the sense of responsibility, or the courage for it."
This answer often popped out after I'd just returned from some Heart-Of-Darkness where every living soul knew that the difference between slaves and free people is having the means and determination to defend their lives, property and liberties. That meant having guns and guts and God-given rights. Most of those people would quite literally die fighting for the freedoms so many Americans casually give away, and proudly bear social responsibilities those sheeple * won't even recognize.
* Sheeple: Sheep-like people, many of whom deny the existence of wolves, and vote to pull the teeth of the sheepdogs who protect the flock.
The Voices
Then I matriculated to Phase 3, where I started having some fun with the Snidely Snotworth types. When they asked the Big Question, I'd go all hunchy-shouldered an' secretive, then lean in close and mutter, "Because of the voices, ya know?" "The VOICES?" sniveled the Snidelies, suddenly scaredy-cattish. "Oh, yeah, the voices ... They told me to be, you know, prepared for when the killer clowns come ... " I'd furtively goggle around. "The voices say the killer clowns are comin' ... They're cannibals, some of 'em, and ..."
About that time the Snidelies would be skitterin' away like mice on polished marble.
Yeah, I know, the "killer clowns" answer might not have been "helpful," but it did just as much good as giving S&A answers to the sheeple, and it was a lot more fun for me. I know you already know why we carry these cannons. But sometimes, just sometimes, we all need a little reminder. That includes me, and I've got one to share with you. One that got me where I live.
The Connor Clan has been nomadic, and we've lived in a number of places. In one of 'em, we shared a side yard and friendship with a young woman we'll call Miss Maine, and her knee-high daughter, Little Lizzie. Miss Maine quickly bonded with the Memsaab Helena. Clearly, Helena's Amazon-warrior spirit and skill with arms impressed Miss Maine mightily, and much of their time and talk revolved around that fierce self-confidence--and guns.
As for Little Lizzie, the munchkin almost duct-taped herself to the Mem's leg. She followed Helena everywhere, but always, always, kept glancing back to check on her momma, as though she were the worried parent.
There was something guarded, something hurt and defensive about both of them, and that fearfulness extended to me for a while. They got over it, thank God. Then I sorta became a moving bunker for 'em, representing cover and protection. Finally, we learned the story.
Miss Maine had been attacked--brutally and viciously. You don't wanta know the details. As with so many such crimes, it wasn't really about sex. It was about hate and domination, cowardice and cruelty. And an even younger Little Lizzie had witnessed it. I like to think the Memsaab and I helped them to recover emotionally.
Then one day Lizzie came and snuggled into my shadow, visibly disturbed. That morning her kindergarten had put on "Frighten The Munchkins Day." Some schools do a pretty good job of alerting children to predators--don't go with strangers and that kinda thing--but others do more harm than good. All they do is terrify the tots and give 'em no operating options. Lizzie already had twin tears glistening, ready to fall when she grabbed a tiny fistful of my trouser-leg and asked, "Connor-Sir, will you a'ways be here? Wouldja be here ... When the bad mens come?"
My knees cracked on the sidewalk as she slammed into my shoulder, shaking with sobs as the hot tears came, splashing my neck and searing into my soul. "'Cause I'm a-scared!" she choked, and clutched me tighter. Oh, GOD/Who would not--who could not--fight without fear, suffer without sense of sacrifice, and kill or die deliberately, using the most effective means available--to protect life, liberty and a Little Lizzie? For God's sake, who?
Those who would not are no better than the predators.
Maybe in Phase 4, when somebody pops The Big Question I'll just smile and say, "For life, liberty and Little Lizzie." You guys can fill in the details.
John Connors
Gun Crank Diaries
American Handgunner
August 2005
http://www.americanhandgunner.com/CGC705.html
“Why do you carry a gun?”
If I had a nickel for every time I've been asked that question, I'd have, uh ... as many guns as his firearm-festooned Editorial Immenseness, Roy-Boy. It's been asked of me by all flavors of folks in all slices of society, with attitudes and expressions ranging from angry-arrogant to curtly-contemptuous, to brainless an' befuddled. My answers to it have sorta formed three phases in my professional gun-carrying life. During that first and longest phase, I answered all of 'em sincerely and articulately, often following up with stacks of historic and legal documents. After many years, I concluded only a semi-significant sliver of people even heard what I was sayin'. The rest had already made up their muddled minds.
Finally, I just got sick of it, and moved on to Phase 2. If those asking seemed to have teensy open spaces in their minds, I gave 'em S & A: "Sincere & Articulate." The more harshly-bleating sheep, however, often got exchanges like this:
"So," queried Snidely Snotworth III, lookin' down his unbusted but needed-bustin' nose, "Why do you think you have to carry a gun?"
"Well," bellowed the Brutish Neanderthal (that would be me): "Because you're not QUALIFIED to carry one. You haven't got the skills, the judgment, the sense of responsibility, or the courage for it."
This answer often popped out after I'd just returned from some Heart-Of-Darkness where every living soul knew that the difference between slaves and free people is having the means and determination to defend their lives, property and liberties. That meant having guns and guts and God-given rights. Most of those people would quite literally die fighting for the freedoms so many Americans casually give away, and proudly bear social responsibilities those sheeple * won't even recognize.
* Sheeple: Sheep-like people, many of whom deny the existence of wolves, and vote to pull the teeth of the sheepdogs who protect the flock.
The Voices
Then I matriculated to Phase 3, where I started having some fun with the Snidely Snotworth types. When they asked the Big Question, I'd go all hunchy-shouldered an' secretive, then lean in close and mutter, "Because of the voices, ya know?" "The VOICES?" sniveled the Snidelies, suddenly scaredy-cattish. "Oh, yeah, the voices ... They told me to be, you know, prepared for when the killer clowns come ... " I'd furtively goggle around. "The voices say the killer clowns are comin' ... They're cannibals, some of 'em, and ..."
About that time the Snidelies would be skitterin' away like mice on polished marble.
Yeah, I know, the "killer clowns" answer might not have been "helpful," but it did just as much good as giving S&A answers to the sheeple, and it was a lot more fun for me. I know you already know why we carry these cannons. But sometimes, just sometimes, we all need a little reminder. That includes me, and I've got one to share with you. One that got me where I live.
The Connor Clan has been nomadic, and we've lived in a number of places. In one of 'em, we shared a side yard and friendship with a young woman we'll call Miss Maine, and her knee-high daughter, Little Lizzie. Miss Maine quickly bonded with the Memsaab Helena. Clearly, Helena's Amazon-warrior spirit and skill with arms impressed Miss Maine mightily, and much of their time and talk revolved around that fierce self-confidence--and guns.
As for Little Lizzie, the munchkin almost duct-taped herself to the Mem's leg. She followed Helena everywhere, but always, always, kept glancing back to check on her momma, as though she were the worried parent.
There was something guarded, something hurt and defensive about both of them, and that fearfulness extended to me for a while. They got over it, thank God. Then I sorta became a moving bunker for 'em, representing cover and protection. Finally, we learned the story.
Miss Maine had been attacked--brutally and viciously. You don't wanta know the details. As with so many such crimes, it wasn't really about sex. It was about hate and domination, cowardice and cruelty. And an even younger Little Lizzie had witnessed it. I like to think the Memsaab and I helped them to recover emotionally.
Then one day Lizzie came and snuggled into my shadow, visibly disturbed. That morning her kindergarten had put on "Frighten The Munchkins Day." Some schools do a pretty good job of alerting children to predators--don't go with strangers and that kinda thing--but others do more harm than good. All they do is terrify the tots and give 'em no operating options. Lizzie already had twin tears glistening, ready to fall when she grabbed a tiny fistful of my trouser-leg and asked, "Connor-Sir, will you a'ways be here? Wouldja be here ... When the bad mens come?"
My knees cracked on the sidewalk as she slammed into my shoulder, shaking with sobs as the hot tears came, splashing my neck and searing into my soul. "'Cause I'm a-scared!" she choked, and clutched me tighter. Oh, GOD/Who would not--who could not--fight without fear, suffer without sense of sacrifice, and kill or die deliberately, using the most effective means available--to protect life, liberty and a Little Lizzie? For God's sake, who?
Those who would not are no better than the predators.
Maybe in Phase 4, when somebody pops The Big Question I'll just smile and say, "For life, liberty and Little Lizzie." You guys can fill in the details.
John Connors
Gun Crank Diaries
American Handgunner
August 2005
http://www.americanhandgun
Sunday, March 15, 2009
DAMMIT!!!
I just realized that when I was broken into a couple weeks ago, they got some frickin jewelery! God, I wish I had been home!! ASSHOLES!!!!
Abbathee..abbathee..abbathee..uh, that's all folks!
Pissed off, hurt, angry, emotional, spiteful, unstable... generally unhappy. This just effin' sucks.
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