Sunday, November 10, 2013

Picky, picky

I have a five pound cast aluminum pick mattock with a long fiberglass handle.  It has been exceptionally useful for digging in the hard, rocky, tree-root-filled clay hereabouts, and reduces a small slope to a pile of dirt satisfyingly quickly.  I have told my wife and daughter, if you think somebody's sneaking around in the house late at nicht and I'm not here, run and get the pick mattock (the Vice President's advice to his wife here is poor: anybody who's going to run from a homeowner with a shotgun, is going to be deterred forever from malfeasance by a somebody swinging a heavy matttock.  I know I would be.)

So, I can't wield the thing without thinking, man, I'd hate to be on the receiving end of this.  Even as I dig a hole, I suffer the kind of horrible visions of chopping my toes off by accident, that most people have when handling chainsaws.

I worry that these thoughts indicate that I am a bad person.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Anglophiles: the lowest form of North American life.

It's news to me that actual Americans do this bestial thing.

What we need is legislation saying that anyone who thinks this is "sport" can be let loose inside a nice big electrified fence, and we'll set a pack of wolves on him. The fence will have rounded corners, of course; we're not barbarians.