July,2009
SFC HEADQUARTERS DOCTRINE
"Read by Thousands Round' the World!"
27 July 2009: This Warrior Thing.
I saw a webpage of a knife maker the other day and there was a sub-listing on it of this guy advertising his “warrior lifestyle.” He goes on to mention that a few nights a week he trains in Filipino martial arts and sword fighting. Now look, I like this guy and all he has done, but tossing around a “warrior lifestyle” moniker? Try this on for size. How about a buck private on a mountain ledge in east Asia, sleeping on some rocks, getting up at 4 am and exchanging semi-auto rounds with the Taliban, each day for several months. How's about that for a warrior lifestyle? (That my friends, is also the front line of terrorism for all the play-pretend, doughboys that like to toss that line around.) Do you see some differences?
Through the years I have seen this term warrior tossed around. Rather flippantly I might add, and this leads me to this subject today. First off - I am not a warrior. I never have been and as I look down the barrel of approaching 60 years old, it is quite plausible to say I never will be. I've done a little bit of shit here and there, busted a few caps, and broke a few bones, yeah, yeah. But, I damn sure ain't no warrior. Oh, and I have worked out a few nights a week since the 1980s. None of that qualifies me or anyone else like me for a “warrior lifestyle.”
And as time goes by? I am not all too sure I really know what the word truly means anymore, what with all the common usage. According to the Random House Dictionary the term warrior has two meanings. The first use refers to "a person engaged or experienced in war or warfare" The second use refers to "a person who shows or has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness, as in politics or athletics." I am surprised that two or three more terms are not included, bravery and endurance and/or dedication as part of the overall definition. There is also a difference between courage and recklessness. A warrior is not reckless. Yet, another layer to think about.
Sports stars, political hacks, cops, soldiers. I do not mean to disparage the numerous people who banter this term around. I really don't. I might mean just to educate folks a bit? Maybe take it a little more seriously? Bubba, an athlete is no warrior in my eyes. No life on the line. No warrior. As hard as it takes to get in the Superbowl or play Aussie Footie, as hard as Chick Liddell works, and I know those UFC guys work real hard, I can't classify them in this category. Neither is a politician. You wanna' talk tough, tenacious, hardcore? Sure. Its even quaint to call some church folks “prayer warriors,” but when they cut the mustard, there's no knife in the gut, just on the tasty lunch sandwich spreading the mayo.
Its even hard to define amongst the hardcore. Even some military leaders are very quick to toss the term around for anyone is or has who has done any time in our latest wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. What exactly did they do and for how long? Does a 70 year-old vietnam vet who survived the boonies for one year in the 1960s get to call himself today a lifetime warrior? Do others call him that? Does a REMF (that's a rear echelon mother-fucker for the great unwashed) solder with some stints in the back office of some battle theatre get to call himself one? No, I say. The old equation also comes up, “is that 20 years of experience, or one year of experience twenty times?” So what is a real warrior?
Seems we have a lot of warriors running around these days. Little warrior kids in karate schools. Lots and lots of adult “warriors” in warrior, martial arts schools. Weekend warriors. Even one weekend a year warriors. They practice an hour or two a week and go home to their soft beds, adjust their sleep comfort dials and massage their junk food bellies. Then there are the “live the life of a warrior,” talking heads and courses. These people have zero grasp on reality. Is an officer on a Swat team automatically rubber-stamped a warrior? No, not in my mind. It depends on what he or she has done and also for how long?
You see it's a puzzling question. If I had to pick ten, real warriors, who would I pick? Warriors should be chosen on a case-by-case basis. A study, like the Vatican picks a saint. David Hackworth comes to mind, distinguished vet in WW II, Korea and Vietnam. Retired to fight for military causes from the outside. There's one. Who else? Chesty Puller? Even Martin Luther King comes to my mind. Hell, he was shot and killed! Some old salty Los Angeles cop or rural Texas Ranger who led amazing lives and survived numerous, deadly adventures? Alexander the Great fought on the front lines, and changed the world. Who would you pick?
Just don't insult real warriors by calling yourself one, or by calling someone else that very special, elite title just to puff others up, or sell a product or a course. It might be semantics to some, but to me its not.
Who would you pick?
Adios, amigos
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23 July 2009: the Greatest Shot I've Ever Seen: The Finale
The TV news crew was setting up for an impromptu shoot. A patrol sergeant was organizing traffic control to allow the far lines to pass. The EMTS were standing Reilly Rice up and preparing to transport him…back to the jail, not the hospital. After all he was only shot in the earlobe. Our crime scene guy, Russell Lewis showed up and began photographing the scene. More county officials jogged up.
“Hock, you got this case,” Captain Cummings told me. Though this involved the Sheriff's Office and the state police via the Texas Rangers. The shooting did occur within the city limits and it was also our city's problem. I knew that people from the Rangers and Austin would eventually be involved in this, but there was work to do right then. First, documenting the crime scene, which ran from the S.O. courtroom to the intersection.
Weldon and I walked off a bit and he told him what had happened. I paraphrase here a bit because some 25-plus years have passed since that afternoon. He basically said, “I heard the shouting that Reilly Rice had escaped out the front door.” It must have been the jailer calling out. Of course, I knew Weldon had worked on Rice case and was well aware who and what Rice had done.
“He ran into the middle of traffic and turned east. I took off after him and got in the middle of moving traffic, chasing him. He had a big lead. It was getting bigger. I felt like he could get away. I couldn't shoot at him because it was rush hour. Cars and people everywhere. But, Rice started angling north and in front of him was that brick building.”
Weldon pointed to the two-story brick building behind us and to our east. It looked pretty big as close up as we were.
“I could see he was going to pass in front of that building and it was my only safe shot. I drew my pistol and fired one shot when he crossed in front of the building. Rice went down.”
“How far away were you?” I asked, thinking about the ejected, spent shell from Weldon's .45 handgun.
“Up there," he pointed up the avenue. We both grimaced at the sight of the cars being filtered into the right lane, albeit slowly, and allowed to pass the intersection by our erstwhile patrol officers. Oh well, life - and cars - move on. I least they were moving slow. A crushed shell would be better than a no shell.
My unmarked car was back at the station. I approached an officer and asked for one of their distance measuring wheels and some chalk. The wheel is like a walking stick, with a wheel at the bottom and distance counter. Back then, the numbers rolled like a slot machine. Some today are of course – digital. The officer pulled them from his trunk. Weldon and I started from where Reilly Rice took his dive and walked west on the avenue, marking off the feet. I hit about 30 feet and I asked Weldon, “anywhere around here? “
“Nope.” My eyebrows raised.
We keep moving in between the cars and impatient drivers. Our eyes were scanning the roadway for that single spent shell. We hit about 60 feet!
“Anywhere here?
“Nope.”
Nope? How far was this shot? We continued.
“Right about here, I think,” Finally, Weldon stopped me. He looked around.
I looked at the scrolling meter. It read “97 feet.” Good God, could that be right?
And sure enough, to our right, untouched, unbent and pristine, lay the spent shell in the middle of the street.
“97 feet, Weldon,” I told him. I took out the chalk from my pocket, circled the shell on the asphalt and put the shell in my pocket. I don't want any of these cars rolling over it. I looked back at the intersection. That two-story brick building that Rice passed in front of? It was now about the size of postage stamp from here.
I looked over at Weldon and he was staring back at the intersection. “Yup. This is about right,” he said, nodding his head.
I walked up beside him. “Shit, Weldon, this is like a circus shot, like a wild-west show, shot.”
“I reckon,” he said.
“Was it a moving shot? How'd you do it?” I asked him.
“I was running. I saw my chance. I pulled my gun. Two-handed grip. I think I stopped for a second. I shot.”
“Well, go on back and I'll start taking some other measurements.”
I recorded the distances, "triangulated" them if you will, from the S.O. front doors, the shell scene and other related landmarks. Nowadays I guess they use GPS and satellite photos on big cases? Russell Lewis took land-level photos with his 35 mm camera from each important spot.
Weldon went to our P.D. and started his own statement on one of our new, electric typewriters. There was much for me to tighten up and I wanted as complete a report as complete as possible before the state bigwig, shooting team started showing up. Russell and I worked the scene. The only loose end was the bullet and the brick wall. It might take a major deal to find and recover that slug, as we couldn't see it with a quick walk-by.
Two high-ranking Rangers were there at my desk the very next morning and I had a good, solid report for them to kick off with. As we went over the details, I got a call from the Sheriff's Office CID, Captain Ron Douglas. He told me the latest news.
“Hock, Reilly Rice hung himself last night. He's dead.”
“Hung himself! How? Where?”
“He was first booked in wearing his own socks. We let them keep their socks. You know those long, white tube socks? He got one end around his neck, tied of the other end on bunk bed and hung himself.”
“Dead!”
“Deadier' than hell.”
“Damn.” Shocking for sure, but I really didn't care. Yeah, yeah, yeah, he wasn't officially convicted on the case, but the case was airtight with a confession that lead to other evidence. I mean, the son of a bitch was a child rapist and killer. And “death by sock” was too damn good for him in my book. Too damn good.
“You gonna' call Weldon?” I asked Ron.
“Already have,” and we hung up.
“Well gentlemen," I told the Rangers, “looks like our ear-pierced, shooting ‘victim' hung himself in the jail last night.” They exchanged glances. They collected my reports and their very next visit was to see Ron Douglas at the S.O.
I next made it a point to try and find the bullet itself. Honestly, I would have loved to dig the bullet out of that brick wall and tie Weldon's perfect shot package into a bow. I made two trips out there with two heights of ladders and a metal detector trying to find the slug. It was tedious work but I just couldn't find it and would need a third trip with a damn fire truck or utility cherry-picker to do it. But, how high could the slug be? I think not that high. I could arrange for a basket but it would be a pain. Around the time I started making calls for one, nobody cared anymore. There was no further case to pursue as the county and the state declared it a closed investigation and justified shooting. The local D.A., the state, no one found any fault with the actions of Ranger Weldon Lucas taking that single shot and winging, or “lobing” the dangerous, fleeing Reilly Rice. That bullet remained in the wall until the building was torn down years later? Who knows? Did it miss the wall? No matter where it went? It went nowhere anyway.
When I think about it, it was the greatest shot I've ever seen, given the circumstances. I'm sure there are many record-breaking, amazing, military sniping shots on the books, quick-kills and all, but think about it. Think about this one and why it is so unique.
* The shooter was a Texas Ranger (already cool)
* The shot was taken in the middle of moving, rush hour traffic.
* It was ninety-seven, foot, high-stress shot with a pistol.
* Weldon still had the foresight to wait until Rice had a safe background.
* Rice was a confessed, dangerous, escaping felon/murderer.
* Rice was a moving target.
* Rice was shot in the earlobe and it knocked him down.
* Rice didn't even require a hospital visit. The escaping Rice was returned to jail with an ear bandage. How and what could he sue Weldon and the state about? What Texas jury would award escapee Rice for damages, for an ear piercing?
* The state police had no defined policy for shooting dangerous escapees.
* The passing bullet did no further damage.
* Any possible, crazy, residual legal problems were over when Rice hung himself in the jail.
We know it would be impossible for Weldon to actually aim at an earlobe in a split second like that at 97 feet. Impossible. Sure, but all the events played out so very well and with minimal, post-shoot problems, it makes for the best shot I have ever seen.
And I must add - for a while there was a running joke in the county. We wished that all prisoners would be issued extra long, tube socks upon their jail book-in. Who knows what they would do with them?
Adios, amigos
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17 July 2009: the Greatest Shot I've Ever Seen: Part 2 I was working in our detective bay, closing out the day. There were some other investigators there also. I can't remember who bellowed out the announcement across the room.
“Reilly Rice just escaped from the jail. Eastbound on foot.”
We were gone. We stampeded down the stairs, hit the street and ran to the S.O. Oddly, there were quite a number of prisoners through the years who'd ran from the sheriff's office; right out the back door usually during book-in, interview or some transfer process. The bad guys could see the irresistible green of civic center park out the back doors and windows, versus the battleship gray cinder blocks inside. We all passed on getting in our cars and driving there thinking we would be searching the surrounding park and streets afoot anyway.
My gut instinct was to flank over into the park behind the S.O., but my eye caught a disturbance way down on the major intersection just east of the jail. A cluster of people. The others saw it too and I veered back with them. Four lanes of east/west traffic stopped cold. Next we saw an ambulance pull up which really jammed up traffic. This shut down the four lanes of north/south traffic.
I ran past the county building and saw jailer Barry Bale, sitting on the ground, all multiple hundreds of pounds of him, his back propped against a tree, hair messed up, shirt tail out, gasping for breath. He must have chased Rice all of about 15 feet and collapsed. Acting like he was near a heart attack, another jailer attended him and pointed us east. He actually said to me,
“they went that-away.”
Up ahead on the northwest corner, in a small dose of short bushes and foliage of the civic center parking lot, were multiple official types working on a downed man. The downed guy was Reilly Rice. Ranger Weldon Lucas was standing over him, with his hands on his hips. A patrolman showed up. Our CID captain Bill Cummings drove up and bailed out.
In so many words, Weldon told us he shot Rice. Okay. You must be thinking can police shoot fleeing, unarmed suspects? First off, this was Texas many decades ago. Back then there was a running joke that if you ran 7 feet from us? We would start shooting at ya'. That also included driving away from us too. Rice was a child raper and killer, otherwise known as a dangerous felon.
Shooting at fleeing felons. I have. I have either tried to scare them into stopping or tried to kill them and missed. But these warning shots or "scare" shots have been deemed illegal almost everywhere by now, but they sure have worked for me more often than not. Hate to see them go. Great peace-keeping tool.
The shooting at escaping felons laws in the USA has been evolving since about 1977. The general, modern letter of the law requires that to shoot someone, it must be in defense of yourself or to interrupt the imminent serious injury of others. Seeing the back of a head, ass and pumping elbows of a fleeing felon does not constitute these imminent categories. But, many state laws include shoot/don't-shoot and the fleeing felon problem. Many states and police agencies say that permitting the felon to escape would pose a grave and continuing danger to public safety. Shooting them is an option. Not misdemeanors mind you. Felons.
The Texas Department of Public Safety, which covers the Texas Rangers, then and now doesn't completely address the feeling felon matter in its policy guidelines because “every situation is different,” DPS spokeswoman Tela Mange said. “It's officer discretion,” she said. “If they perceive that there's an imminent threat, they can take any action they feel necessary to protect themselves.”
If you are citizen? I wouldn't do this, by the way. And as for police officers, different states have differing laws about this. Even police departmental policies may be more strict than state law. And local county, state, and federal prosecutors and grand juries can have some say on the subject. If driven by politics they may weave some charges in and around the laws. Then there are the civil law suits! Shooting your gun can be messy.
Speaking of messy, I examined Reilly Rice. Prone, he was panting from his mad dash, but otherwise he seemed just fine. Not too messy. An EMT was patching up the side of his head. A head shot?
“Where's he shot?” I asked the EMT.
“Earlobe.”
“Ear...lobe?”
“Earlobe,” he repeated.
I looked at Weldon and Weldon shrugged.
Coming soon….Part 3
Adios, amigos
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13 July 2009: The Greatest Shot I've Ever Seen: Part 1
It was gruesome. Memories of pain fade, but not those of parents much. Out of respect for the surviving parents, I will pass on revealing the details of this child murder, the death, rape and mutilation of a young girl, even though it was long ago. Suffice to say that we'll start here, when this freshly, arrested killer was in our county jail, so that I might only tell the tale of the greatest shot I have ever seen, or more specifically, ever investigated, and one that has all the elements of a helleva, Texican lawman tale.
The day after the arrest, the brutal killer, Reilly Rice was in the county jail and due his very first visit to the judge for his judicial warnings, what is often called a preliminary arraignment. In our old, county jail building, just up the street from our city police headquarters, one judge had offices on the first floor, making such visits a handy process, as the jails themselves were all upstairs. Getting that first-day, mandatory visit in could be geographically challenging in some jurisdictions. Nowadays, this type of appearance is often done by close circuit TV!
Judges can be power mad, quirky or cantankerous. You've seen this on TV, the movies and in the last two decades, you've seen these “Judge Judy” TV shows. Some actually talk and act like that. On this fateful day in the 1980s, a traveling judge was in chambers and he was one that demanded all prisoners who enter his court must be free of shackles. I guess he hadn't has his nose broke yet. But something dramatic was about to happen that would at least make him think about that idea.
Whatever the process was assigning jailers to suspects for their court trip downstairs - rotation? Dice game? Short straw? Whatever, an overweight, out-of shape jailer named Barry Bale got the chore of marching Reilly Rice downstairs to the judge's chamber for this un-handcuffing and visit. Alone. Yes, alone! "Such be things at the ol' jail."
At that very time in the late afternoon, Texas Ranger Weldon Lucas walked into the Sheriffs Office on the first floor. He'd been in on this investigation and was there to collect paperwork on the case to send to Dallas and Austin, and to clear up some loose ends. Lucas was dressed in his usual, unofficial, work clothes of a Ranger - western boots, pants and matching vest, embroidered gun belt and classic, engraved, model 1911, .45 caliber handgun. The famous Ranger badge adorned his vest like it had on Rangers for hundred-plus years. Lucas was a regular sight to every police agency in the region and I can't think of a police officer that didn't know him, certainly we detectives did, or at least know of him.
Appointed by the Texas governor, Rangeren' was a great job coveted by almost all, and Lucas was one of the troop that had considerable experience in investigation before pinning on that legendary badge. He'd been a state highway patrolman, as all Rangers start out, and then worked auto theft, narcotics and organized crime. Many Rangers are appointed without such stout backgrounds and are a bit behind the curve in investigation skills. I recall one Ranger being made that had worked only as a patrolman and then for many years in a section called “Weights and Measures.” Weights and Measures involved weighing and overseeing trucks on the highway. Jobs like this offer zero qualifications for an investigative position, but sometimes politics get in the way with Ranger appointments. Very few, had Weldon's background.
A local Dallas, television station sent a news van up to the court to film Reilly Rice. The reporter and cameraman positioned themselves in the hall for the 6 and 11 o'clock news shot of Reilly Rice walking into the courtroom, as no cameras were allowed inside.
A hurried, representitive of the DAs office showed up, but not much legalese would be crunched in this early visit of the case.
Bales took Reilly down the elevator. He walked Rice past the camera crew and into the court. He took off the handcuffs, as required. The TV crew got their “perp shot,” and walked out of the building to their van. Weldon Lucas was talking with some deputies in the lobby of the S.O. just down the hall.
And then all Hell broke loose.
Part 2 Coming soon…
Adios, amigos
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8 July 2009: My Knife/Counter-Knife Book is Ready
Yes, the book, years in the making, is finished. 300 pages. Over 1700 how-to photographs. This is not the razor-thin, large-print, knife books you have seen by others in the past.
Even I am impressed and I am my own worst critic. Click here for more
Adios, amigos
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6 July 2009: Anybody Tarzan Free? More Musings on the 4th of July
Texas. I wasn't born in Texas. I was actually born in a New Jersey city on the west side of the Hudson River. My parents lived in New York City and my grandmother lived there in Jersey. My mother, to be near her mother, stayed in Jersey as my birth countdown got into the single digit days, and I slipped upon the scene in a New Jersey hospital. Years later, we moved across the river into Jersey also. As far as Texas goes, I am in short, what was once called a “yankee” down in these parts. Unwelcome. I honestly don't hear the term much said by anymore, anymore. But I am a yankee.
There is a popular joke, bumper sticker as well as a saying here in Texas, “Texan by choice, not by accident,” which alludes that the immigrant is smarter than just being lucky. That be me. But there is some intellectual traction to this “choice” idea worth considering. Choice.
Choice. I am a firm believer in the thinking choice. The educated choice. You see, I believe that love, religion and politics are largely a demographic phenomena. How anyone doesn't see this ever-so-obvious fact has always baffled me. Right and wrong should not be based on geography. This is actually a debilitating, worldwide problem. Blind love. Blind faith. Blind loyalty and blind patriotism. Get cha' killed real quick, and often for a whole lotta' nothing. Freedom to choose.
And it's the patriotism part I will like to discuss as this American, 4th of July holiday passes. No matter your country, are you a patriot by choice, or by accident?” Are you a patriot from chance? Luck? Or can you really articulate your position? Have you gone though an intellectual metamorphosis, a true and unbiased, pure education? Capable of an articulate choice?
No one in any country is completely free. I mean free like the uneducated airheads chant about. I mean free like Tarzan. Tarzan-free. All governments are a hair-splitting act of regulations and rules all existing on one big continuum from a hippy commune on one end on to a fascist dictatorship on the other. An evolution of give-and-take. A crafted presentation of advertising and psychology. And geography and ignorance is on their side. Many people won't leave their homeland, even under dire pressure and control. Many people on the planet never travel 100 miles from their homes.
If you love and/or believe in your country then be prepared to articulate why. The US of A was founded on an intellectual
metamorphosis. It has to examined regularly as such. It's Civics 101. Dumb people make dumb governments and do dumb things. Pull back some curtains and see the real deal. The real point. Don't just hold up a birth certificate and yammer regurgitated, mindless chants about “losing our freedoms.”
Even Tarzan was Tarzan by choice. He left Africa, lived in England and decided to go back to Africa. If he just stayed in the Congo, he would not have made a choice. He is Tarzan by choice, by metamorphosis. Not by accident. This makes Tarzan more interesting. A man of karma and distinction.
The greatest achievements in mankind involve adventure and challenge. Who are you and where are you? And what do you say and think? Are you a victim of geography?
Adios , amigos
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4 July 2009: Palin Out? Palin in? And Snakes on a Campaign Plane
The big Fourth of July news...
Governor Sarah Palin will resign at the end of this month. She has a new book coming out and a city-by-city book tour that would/could rival a presidential campaign, and if it is played out right, could be attended as big as one. Conceivably it could lead to a ground swell that would put her on a non-stop, next presidential campaign. Can't stand the Alaskan pressure? She is actually stepping into a way bigger pressure cooker as she will be - as she has been - the target of every mophead, dirtbag liberal from the very top down to the extreme left-winger dipster. She, by her mere presence, by just being alive, represents EVERYTHING that the Left despises. And fears.
You know last week, a snake got out of its cage in a Florida residence, found the two-year old girl that lived there and strangled her. The parents awoke to find this. Idiots. I'm sorry, if you have a freaken' "pet" snake, I think you're nuts. Or a "pet" tarantula. But the snake is just guilty of doing what a snake naturally does. A liberal democrat is guilty of doing what a liberal democrat does. It can't help itself. It will tax the shedding skin right off of your body. Tax the the shedding, the falling and clean-up. As well tax as your right to shed. It sleeps with unions and uneducated immigrants and squeezes and eats everything it can. Even our children's, monetary future.
This is not mere political rhetoric. Oh no. Watch it happen right now out your window. Look at California. Look at New Jersey. Look at Michigan. Democratic hotbeds. Brainwashed. Giant, unionized, over-controlled, self-absorbed, decaying governments. One can only predict that the entire USA will follow suit, as these snakes just do what they do. New Jersey has existed for years in some kind of budgetary crisis like a twilight zone. As has California. Try to fix it? The unions organize and march on you. New York City anyone? Read the tax roles there?
I think a grand experiment would have been to let the auto union take over one giant Michigan car company. Completely. Watch how fast the union would split into two divisions, the small part struggling to keep the car company alive and the other arrogant, short-sighted, deadbeats wanting their eighth cigarette break. The snake eats the child. In the end, the car companies must make over-priced cars too expensive to sell. Snakes do what snakes do.
As I travel the world people wisecrack to me, "you Americans will have to have smaller cars now." Bucko, have you seen most of our cars? They are small already. They are all shaped like little, boring boxes with toy wheels. In fact I think the new 2010 car line is now finished. It features the beautiful "Box 1," car model, "Box 2" and the even smaller, but thrifty "Box 3" car. I can't wait! If some company made a car shaped like an old Camaro they'd sell millions of them. (The 2010 ain't that bad-looking actually, but is not bad-ass, sleek as the old ones!)
If I were Sarah Palin I would stay in Alaska and dodge the entire the "lower 48" for good. But oh no, the real pressure is only beginning as she steps down even deeper into the den of snakes. I would prefer Newt Gingrich or a host of others. In fact, I am not so sure Hillary Clinton would do what has been done to the USA since last January. I actually miss Hillary. Basically the whole shebang is run by a bunch of duffusses. Imagine giant, vital, bills being passed totally unread by the voting politicians. I like a fair-playing field, and fair-playing fields need a referee with a whistle. There has always been government intervention of some degree. Maybe the mafia is pure capitalism, I don't know. Speaking of old Camaros, to quote Ronald Reagan: "Government doesn't solve the problem. They are the problem.
Government doesn't solve problems, they subsidize them."
Oh well. I started my Fourth of July right off, huh? (How soon before fireworks pollution will be targeted? You see the residual smoke from fireworks? Cough. Cough. Atmosphere burn, burn). 
Speaking of hot air and smoke. What me worry! It is only Year 4 of the 10-year plan that Al Gore warned us about. He openly, publicly, with spittle spraying from his angry, Frankenstein mouth, declared that Earth would be a burning inferno in the next six years. People are already writing books calling Al Gore, "the man who destroyed America." Think about the economy.
Six years left. Still plenty of time for me to get hate mail from snake owners. But you know what? I am not going to listen to you because, you know why? You own a fucking snake in your house. You're an idiot.  My political platform? Here it is. Smaller government, less tax. Less snakes and less tarantulas. Smaller whistles. More separation of church and state. But do tax churches and figure out a way to tax the Vatican. I know its in Italy but we've had some invasion practice lately. Invade for oil? Invade the Vatican! Just balance the budget with the Pope's pinky ring!
Oh, and more photographs of Sarah Palin. More. More! (Somebody has to take Farah Fawcett's place.) More on owning snakes, click here
More on the 2010 Chevy Camaro click here
Adios, amigos +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
1 July 2009: A Baseball Cap. Simple and Holy Genius, by Buffalo Nickels
(A guest appearance by the inane, insane Buffalo Nickels - Hock)
The baseball cap protects the human head, especially a bald, white egg with purple veins like my own hairless skull. My cap keeps the hot sun from cooking my superior brain and from causing the scaly, peeling that comes from sunburn, so that I might not look like the alien in a 50's sci-fi movie.
A cap also has a brim. This brim is designed to be over your eyes, cover your eyes. This protects your eyes from the sun. The hat protects the head, eyes, even face. The Army taught me the proper respect, care and feeding for the ball cap, as well as its master plan in the design of the universe. Now these are God's plan for the ball cap, as manifested through the works of man. But man? Man does foolish things. Its that "choice" thing?
For a period of time, some people really respected their ball caps. There is nothing more beautiful than a beautiful girl with a beautiful, ponytail sticking out the back of a ball cap. All is perfect with the world. But, if a man has a pony tail dangled from his ball cap? Action must be taken. The public should befall this man and chop off this growth with hedge-clippers. This is not in master plan and it should therefore be removed.
In the 1970s more fools began to tinker with God's ball cap, master plan. They wore their ball caps backwards! The brim, ever so vital in protecting the eye and face, was now posed over the back of the neck, rendering it useless and a complete waste of genius simplicity. Morons roamed the Earth with their hats on backwards. There is nothing more idiotic and moranic than seeing someone's pan-face, mug under a backwards hat. There is only one person legally sanctioned to wear a ball cap backwards, that is the baseball catcher, or umpire because he is wearing a facemask in God's favorite game-the pastoral baseball.
Like there are a few rare exceptions to abortion, there are some extreme exceptions to the standard hat rule. Sometimes temporarily, mechanics may spin the hat back to do some close-up work. Or a periscope man on a sub (what do you Navy people call them?). Sometimes, during a break a person can rest his hat back high on the head also, relieving the brim from its protection work, because sometimes a person needs to confront a serious problem and needs lots of fresh air to the brain. So as to think better, he pushes the hat back to let his brow to run free in various contortions to wrinkle and furl and exercise frustration. Maybe even rub like a genie lamp.
Or, in the presence of a lady, one drunk Moe Fo, might vomit into one's ball cap to exhibit a certain class. But when the General comes around, get your gig line straight and your hat on right! A General must see the world around him functioning in proper, picture-perfect order and position, else he possibly might keel over and suffer a heart attack! Aides make every effort in prepping the visual world immediately around a General and his travels. (Some husbands have these same duties.) 
New and more disgusting hat violations now abound. The media is spreading photographs of the clueless buffoons, cretins wearing hats tilted on heads and the brim is almost sideways on his head. He looks like a clown who didn't clear a doorway and had his hat knocked sideways. Or, someone has slapped these mental midgets so hard, their hat went sideways. I should be so lucky. If you kept slapping eventually these duffusses would rotate completely and wind up underneath a proper hat-bearing posture.
Some just collect ball caps. But in recent years, some degenerates wore their caps in such a pristine condition that they looked as though they came new right from the store shelf. Shoplifted new in fact, because all the sales tags remained in clipped in place. Tags dangled from the hats like earrings. These people often had earrings too. And nose jewelry. They had a lot of shit dangling from their heads. All taboo practices in the scheme of civilized life. You might think I have a lot of pet peeves? I do. I even named my dog Peeves, so I actually have a pet Peeves. But I warn you, morons now walk the earth with tilted, hats turned backwards and side ways. I guess it really doesn't matter, as they will all go to Hell in the end. The General will have them shot at dawn.
I ask you! "How would God wear a ball cap?" All kinda' goofy and sideways? Or proper? He made the damn thing!
Bye-Bye
(This was the work of Buffalo Nickels, former SF soldier and madman. We do not usually agree with his comments. Nor should you. Visit the Buffalo Nickels page. Click here - The Buff )
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