perfidy

Yeah I know it's Monday. I had some work-related mandatory fun that required a shortened Friday last, so couldn't post. And besides, I like the alliteration

So you remember how awhile back there was this big competition betwixt the ministers, to see who was the biggest dork? And do you remember me not winning? I sure do.

Funny thing about that- we needn't have bothered. We all put alot into that contest, with the gnashing and the repressed memories and the off-the-cuff expository riffing. Alot of psychic effort, respectable writing, and non-working for about a week at our real jobs was the cost, and we all thought the exercise nominally worth it.

Coulda just taken the nerd quiz in like 5 minutes:

68% scored higher (more nerdy), and 32% scored lower (less nerdy).

What does this mean? Your nerdiness is: Not nerdy, but definitely not hip.

Not nerdy, but not hip. But nerdy is mostly hip. And hip is always hip, 'cept for when a Big Shift comes and what was hip when time stopped for you in 1987 make you exceptionally nerdy now. But sort of by definition, hip must = hip.

So I'm perenially outside both camps. Where it's cold. And hurty.

I looked up some figures, ran some numbers, crunched others, and made what I think is an interesting model.

First, consider the world-wide Zionist conspiracy. You know, the one that has Jews running the entire world and, in the process, slowly exterminating Muslims. THAT Zionist conspiracy.

Next, consider the populations in opposition. As best I can determine, there are about 12 million Jews, total, on planet Earth. Yes, that includes populations both in Israel and Manhattan. There are between 1 billion and 1.3 billion Muslims on the planet, again, as best I can determine. But that's a much easier figure to remember, since it's thrown into to virtually any press relating to the Muslim world in general.

Now. According to the CIA World Factbook and just about everywhere else I cared to look, China's population is about 1.3 billion. There are about 6-odd million people, total, in Israel. Not all are Jews, of course, but for purposes of this exercise assume enough of the 6 million ARE Jewish that they might as well all be Jewish. There are about that many people in Massachusetts, and in terms of land mass Israel and the Bay State are close enough to call them the same size. Actually if Mass lopped off Cape Cod and gave a sliver off the west side of the state to New York, it'd come closer to Israel's land area. But I stress we're talking generalities here.

So dig it: The subjegation of the entire Muslim world by Israel would, in a demographic sense, be like Massachusetts enslaving all of China.

That well-established and robust theme of the Muslim world doesn't make a lick of sense, even on its face, let alone in terms of utter kookiness from its conception. And even if you consider the entire global Jewish population, they'd have to each be personally responsible for ruining well over 100 Muslim lives, while at the same time living their own.

Does it bother anyone else that it is impossible for such a tiny number of people to be responsible for keeping 1/5 of the world's total homo sapiens in misery, yet are continually blamed for it? And worse, that people believe it?

I have never been to New Orleans.

It seems I never will.

I am not concerned for the physical structures of the city. The distinctive architecture of a cityscape, of this unique cityscape drenched in history and bourbon, will survive. They almost always do, don’t they, the oldest buildings with the longest memories weather catastrophe in a way that modern homes and mods and pods don’t.

There is a metaphor there, for deeper thinkers than myself to consider: the impermanence of modern creations, built on the same capricious sediments as the old, but lasting only a second. Or a primeval sentiment, the lifetimes of achievement and struggle, erased by a force of nature. I remember Thucydides…or maybe it was Homer? …in the earliest histories of our civilization describing desolation wrought by war as though it were caused by a storm. The most destructive natural force that society of pre-gunpowder, pre-industrial, pre-nuclear seafarers could conceive of was a hurricane.

And so it is again, a prehistoric monster has risen from the sea, storming ashore to rend and break; steal, scratch and kill.

Or we can drop the poetics and just say that Katrina kicked the country square in the balls.

Even though the buildings will stand or fall, and the fallen ones will be rebuilt and the damaged ones repaired, my concern is not for them. Any city is greater than the arrangements of steel and stone that serve as its signature. They’re about people, at their core, not about the Sears Tower or the Empire State Building or every refurbished French Quarter brothel.

And it’s the people I see now that give me pause.

Continual reports of armed gangs roaming, pillaging at will; firefights over both booty and supplies; rescue personnel, helicopters, boats, doctors, and hospitals all coming under fire; hopelessness from those victims trapped between the toxic floodwaters, flowing by high as a house, and the toxic souls of the thugs who prey on them. Even the Superdome, the best-case accommodation for the worst-case scenario, has quickly fallen to a public health nightmare, complete with dysentery and gunfire in the night.

It’s less the people themselves who scare me, though. It’s that they confirm my worst expectations, my deepest beliefs about what would happen if our civilization broke down. In just a matter of days, perhaps 48 hours, New Orleans is what happens. Not Mogadishu, not Ivory Coast, not East Timor or Fallujah. Not them. Us.

And sadly enough, this scenario has come and gone a thousand times in a thousand works of fiction. Roving brigands are a staple of the post-apocalyptic landscape: Jerry Ahern’s The Survivalist; Robert McCammon’s Swan Song; Stephen King’s The Stand; Larry Niven’s Lucifer’s Hammer (which also gave us extensive flooding and a glimpse of coming to grips with an inundated landscape) … and on and on and on, through a deep bench. Film of course has excelled at mirroring our fears of disaster or lawlessness; Mad Max alone did it three times, and there are dozens and dozens more. Even zombie movies seem a tad prescient lately. New Orleans might also suggest what’s to come if someone pops a nuke in a shipping container in Los Angeles or New Jersey or Virginia; see Schreiber and Kunetka's Warday for scaries in that vein.

We are told that it is criminal gangs largely running amok through the city. I am highly skeptical though that MS-13 or the Bywater Crips are up on their eschatological fiction; they’re not following a script, which leads me to believe that there is something deeper, something more fundamentally homo sapiens, that finds delight in making other peoples’ lives hell on Earth. We’ve all seen it before in crises around the world, but maybe there was apart of me that thought our society was above all that.

If I do someday make it to New Orleans, what city will I find? Will it be again the polis that was, or the lobotomized remains?

[wik] (JOHNO SEZ): GL says it right. The entire situation seems absolutely batshit insane in its apocalyptic sweep, just like something out of the novels we nerdy types read to titillate our jones for simulated eschaton. On September 11, 2001, part of my brain could not help but judge the quality of the special effects used to simulate the collapse of the World Trade Center (wow... it's just like the movies!), demonstrating that I was securely in the grip of a merciful sort of shock that insulated me from the full truth of the horror unfolding before my eyes.

And so again. Nobody, no novelist, no hater of the Gulf states, could write a tragedy this ugly, so outrageously terrible in its cartoonish excess. (A note: I felt the same way about the tsunami earlier this year. Some things are just too immense to feel real.) Think about it: if the water doesn't get you, the industrial chemicals will. If the industrial chemicals don't get you, the raw sewage will. If the raw sewage doesn't get you, the giant rats will. If the giant rats don't get you, the nutria will. If the nutria don't get you, the water moccasins will. If the water moccasins don't get you, the alligators will. If the crocodiles don't get you, the floating balls of fire ants will. If the floating balls of fire ants don't get you, the roving bands of armed marauders will. And if you somehow manage to survive all that, you still stand a chance at getting your ass shot by a New Orleans policeman looting your local Wal-Mart.

In my high school, there were basically 2 sorts of people: the kids who listened to crap, and the ones who didn't.

We were too small to have a distinct division between the usual clans. The heads and jocks, for example, were oftentimes indistinct as the top athletes smoked dope or juiced. Since I wasn't into drugs or sports, or combining one with the other, I found I identified most with people who listened to similar musics. As an interesting side note, most of us had little musical talent; the band kids listened to the pop/pap.

Via Begging to Differ and about three other people comes a harmless, yet peculiarly irritating little music game.

Instructions:

1. Go to musicoutfitters.com
2. Enter the year you graduated from high school in the search function and get the list of 100 most popular songs of that year.
3. Bold the songs you like, strike through the ones you hate and underline your favorite. Do nothing to the ones you don't remember (or don't care about).

After looking at the list, is it any wonder that Zeppelin and Sabbath were among the most popular bands to the music clan? Is it wrong that the B52s had the least-offensive track in the entire year? I ought to disclose that sure, I dug G 'n R when I was 17. But today I can't even bear to hear a snippet of "Appetite" flipping between stations.

My list below the fold. 

1. Look Away, Chicago
2. My Prerogative, Bobby Brown
3. Every Rose Has Its Thorn, Poison
4. Straight Up, Paula Abdul
5. Miss You Much, Janet Jackson
6. Cold Hearted, Paula Abdul
7. Wind Beneath My Wings, Bette Midler
8. Girl You Know Its True, Milli Vanilli
9. Baby, I Love Your Way/Freebird, Will To Power
10. Giving You The Best That I Got, Anita Baker
11. Right Here Waiting, Richard Marx
12. Waiting For A Star To Fall, Boy Meets Girl
13. Lost In Your Eyes, Debbie Gibson
14. Don't Wanna Lose You, Gloria Estefan
15. Heavan, Warrant
16. Girl I'm Gonna Miss You, Milli Vanilli
17. The Look, Roxette
18. She Drives Me Crazy, Fine Young Cannibals
19. On Our Own, Bobby Brown
20. Two Hearts, Phil Collins
21. Blame It On The Rain, Milli Vanilli
22. Listen To Your Heart, Roxette
23. I'll Be There For You, Bon Jovi
24. If You Don't Know Me By Now, Simply Red
25. Like A Prayer, Madonna
26. I'll Be Loving You (Forever), New Kids On The Block
27. How Can I Fall?, Breathe
28. Baby Don't Forget My Number, Milli Vanilli
29. Toy Solider, Martika
30. Forever Your Girl, Paula Abdul
31. The Living Years, Mike and the Mechanics
32. Eternal Flame, The Bangles
33. Wild Thing, Tone Loc
34. When I See You Smile, Bad English
35. If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher
36. Buffalo Stance, Neneh Cherry
37. When I'm With You, Sheriff
38. Don't Rush Me, Taylor Dayne
39. Born To Be My Baby, Bon Jovi
40. Good Thing, Fine Young Cannibals
41. The Lover In Me, Sheena Easton
42. Bust A Move, Young M.C.
43. Once Bitten, Twice Shy, Great White
44. Batdance, Prince
45. Rock On, Michael Damian
46. Real Lov, Jody Watley
47. Love Shack, B-52's
48. Every Little Step, Bobby Brown
49. Hangin' Tough, New Kids On The Block
50. My Heart Can't Tell You No, Rod Stewart
51. So Alive, Love and Rockets
52. You Got It (The Right Stuff), New Kids On The Block
53. Armageddon It, Def Leppard
54. Satisfied, Richard Marx
55. Express Yourself, Madonna
56. I Like It, Dino
57. Soldier Of Love, Donny Osmond
58. Sowing The Seeds Of Love, Tears For Fears
59. Cherish, Madonna
60. When The Children Cry, White Lion
61. 18 And Life, Skid Row
62. I Don't Want Your Love, Duran Duran
63. Second Chances, .38 Special
64. The Way You Love Me, Karyn White
65. Funky Cold Medina, Tone Loc
66. In Your Room, Bangles
67. Miss You Like Crazy, Natalie Cole
68. Love Song, Cure
69. Secret Rendezvous, Karyn White
70. Angel Eyes, Jeff Healey Band
71. Patience, Guns N' Roses
72. Walk On Water, Eddie Money
73. Cover Girl, New Kids On The Block
74. Welcome To The Jungle, Guns N' Roses
75. Shower Me With Your Love, Surface
76. Stand, R.E.M.
77. Close My Eyes Forever, Lita Ford
78. All This Time, Tiffany
79. After All, Cher and Peter Cetera
80. Roni, Bobby Brown
81. Love In An Elevator, Aerosmith
82. Lay Your Hands On Me, Bon Jovi
83. This Promise, When In Rome
84. What I Am, Edie Brickell and The New Bohemians
85. I Remember Holding You, Boys Club
86. Paradise City, Guns N' Roses
87. I wanna Have Some Fun, Samantha Fox
88. She Wants To Dance With Me, Rick Astley
89. Dreamin', Vanessa Williams
90. It's No Crime, Babyface
91. Poison, Alice Cooper
92. This Time I Know It's For Real, Donna Summer
93. Smooth Criminal, Michael Jackson
94. Heavan Help Me, Deon Estus
95. Rock Wit'cha, Bobby Brown
96. Thinking Of You, Sa-fire
97. What You Don't Know, Expose
98. Surrender To Me, Ann Wilson and Robin Zander
99. The End Of The Innocence, Don Henley
100. Keep On Movin', Soul II Soul

I'm not especially a religious cat, and lean toward agnosticism at my most upbeat. But I am capable of respecting, and on a good day appreciating, the art that comes from spiritual expression.

I'm not sure how I ended up with this cross, because some of the questions assumed dogmatic knowledge on my part that I don't possess. But I knew the difference between "Ben Hur" and "The Passion of the Christ" so took a stab.

The one question that really threw me though was something about which material bests suits my personality... I thought about it, and couldn't decide betwixt marble or clay. I went with marble because it's cold.

I think I like my cross: simple, devoid of pretension (the object itself, I'm focusing on here), hand made, and just slightly weird:

You are St Brigid's Cross: St. Brigid is an Irish saint who hand-wove a cross out of rushes she found by the river. She made the cross while explaining the passion of our Lord to a pagan man. 

There is a certain portion of the American population that is, on its best day, suspicious of higher education. Those folks regard their fellow, matriculated, citizens as arrogant; elitist; lacking in common sense, or, indeed, any knowledge of demonstrable utility; or with a variation of “too smart for their own good.”

A doctoral dissertation studying air guitar doesn't help.

Turning what is little more than a limited, if not limiting, sort of self expression into serious academic inquiry is precisely what the non-eggheads in this world complain about and what serious scholars laugh at. When I finished my master’s, I wasn’t so much proud as I was enormously relieved. Relieved that the pain would finally end, and that it would end because of my hard work and not a .38 to the temple.

Crap like air guitar dissertations are, frankly, an insult to anyone who sacrificed to produce graduate work.

Froggy attended the funeral of fallen warrior James Suh in California.

This image moved me in a way I can never describe:

Those are SEALs' tridents, gilding Petty Officer Suh's coffin.

I have nothing to add to Froggy's post. Read it.

The State Department has issued a new, less helpful, round of warnings for Americans considering travelling outside CONUS:

The warning did not list countries, nor did department officials offer any additional specifics about threats. The statement said "current information" indicates that al Qaeda and affiliated terrorist groups are planning attacks against U.S. interests in "multiple regions, including Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East."

The short version: everyplace with funny-talkin' furriners and no NASCAR is dangerous.

The targets could include places where Americans meet or visit, such as residential areas, hotels and restaurants, as well as places of worship, schools, clubs, business offices and public areas, the caution said. It also noted that "demonstrations and rioting" can occur with little or no warning.

The short version: Everything you do in the weird furrin' place makes you a target.

I know that the State Department has been getting shorted the last few years, but even with a shrunken budget isn't there anyone at State who can devise a more helpful warning than, "don't go anywhere, and don't do anything when you're there"?

British researchers, long at the forefront of bringing humanity new knowledge with practical applications, has wowed the planet with this revelation:

Wining and dining is the best way for men to woo women

Nah, not really. It's actually a new mine-clearing vehicle. But it would be cool if it were a jihadi harvester.

Schizophrenic mercenary helicopter pilot Murdoc has the latest.

Interesting. Notice the four-way tie for second bewtwixt crow, bear, eagle, and fox. Absent from the possibilities are both rats and capybaras. And their nipples.

Which animal totem best suits you?
created with QuizFarm.com

Even though we Ministers might seem infinite founts of supreme wit, our creative process is not as effortless as mortals might be tempted to believe.

The Ministry of Minor Perfidy maintains a Conception Center, a clearinghouse for ideas, punchlines, titles, drafts, and other content thoroughly wrung from our stable of Muses. And I mean thoroughly- we enslave only the most determined imps to wrestle the Muses into The Idea Crank, and only the most robust to turn it.

My personal Muse left me awhile ago. She was fed-up with my deserted imagination, and fled for more…fertile surroundings. She’s making Muse-porn now, but sometimes she crashes on my couch, after I don’t see her for a few weeks and she’s had an especially hard night in the city. She tells me it’s purely for utility, what with my proximity to the sets she works. On those nights I like to pretend we still live together. I make pancakes in the morning, but she’s either already gone or still too hungover to eat. But
it's fun to pretend, and almost fulfilling...

I’ve probably said too much. Moving on.

Before we even get to throw the Muses through the wringer, we oftentimes communicate with each other for direction, opinions on whether something’s viable, funny, stupid, or disgusting enough to post.

I went through some old diplomatic pouches that I found when I moved- they were all under the couch-where I found snippets of forgotten correspondence, and pieced together enough to share. That is, the ones that were legible through the stains of blood and taco sauce, or in code for which I still remembered the key. None of this was ever posted.

Herewith, then, a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes world of inter-Minister dialog:

“Not that you necessarily should have been doing anything you wanted to even when you could. But the option is closed off. Unless you're willing to be a complete prick. Which I'm not.”

“Your line about a ‘cereal’ killer is the punchline to a joke about a dead whore found with a banana in her ass.”

“I would never hope for happiness- I think that's setting the bar a tad high, given past experience and current conditions. But contentment- THAT might be reachable.”

“It is a nice feeling when I pick up something heavy, I feel muscle and not just pain in my arm fat.”

“But I'll need some help because as far as I'm concerned a shrew, a mouse and a hamster are essentially the same creature.”

“I saw a radiation trefoil/bomb shelter sign on the corner of the building, so I assume that there is something in the basement. Whether it is an active zombie shelter or not, I don't know.”

“I almost got the cadaver collector job.”

“…except that nobody seems to like Massachusetts for some reason. Maybe because we're all assholes.”

“Oh, and the billboard on 95 that screamingly advertised a tacky trifecta: “FIREWORKS! CIGARETTES! HAM!’ "

“How does it feel to have looked Death in the eye, and having Him blink? Ummm... knowing that he might be waiting for you at the next crosswalk, of course, and needn't have bothered with inflicting a palsy on you.”

“You may not be Iron man, but you are at least ravioli man. Not so low as noodle man.”

"Get... The Fake Menstruum!"

“But albino crabs sound like alfredo crabs, which sound my-t-tasty, and not half as threatening once boiled.”

“I feel like maybe we're a band...like a band that has alot of talent and energy but no one to help us make the big album and go on the big tour. Except we're not about $$ and chicks and sweaty Jack Daniels t-shirts. Um, right...?”

“Anything interesting, creative, or amazing I do in the entire year will happen between September and March.”

“Music, tapes, and apocalypse. And shit, Isaac Hayes ruled the city- not only musical, but funky too. A-Number-1.”

“Yeeeeahhhh....I grant you that the head/lap interface is historically a superior method of getting what you want. I thought there might be a better way than me having to do it though. You know, like a raffle or bingo or something.”

Ebonics, recognized as a distinct language by Oakland officials in the '90s, is getting new life in San Bernardino. Educators there are recommending that Ebonics be present in its schools' curricula.

District officials are aiming down two paths: one includes Ebonics in supplemental reading guides; the other treats Ebonics speakers as ESL students. The attitude is that either can only improve those students' academic showing. Judging by the stats in the article, it certainly can't do worse for them.

Not quite willing to roll up my sleeves and wade into a thick, charged discussion of the racial politics and societal chasms afoot in a decision like that, I'd rather go to Gizoogle and imagine the Norton Anthology for OGs. Will Gizoogle continue to be for funnies, or get a new career a serious study guide?

"The bustin' of tha third day dawned fizzle n fresh...Ho, ho! fizzy all yo furthest bounds, pizzy ye now in, ye bold billows of mah whole foregone life, n top this one piled comba of mah death n shit! Towards thee I rizzoll, tizzle pimpin' but unconquer'n whale; ta tha last I grapple wit thee; frizzom hell's heart I stab at thee; fo` hate's sakes I spiznit mah last breath at thee if you gots a paper stack. Sizzay all coffins n all hearses ta one common pool! n since neitha can be mine, let me thizzay tow ta pieces, while stizzill chas'n thee, though tied ta thee, thou damned whale so you betta run and grab yo glock! Thizzay I give up tha spear!"

And while we're at it:

To be, or not ta be- that is tha question:
Whetha 'tis nobla in tha mind ta motherfucka
The chillin' n arrows of outrageous fortune
Or ta takes arms against a sea of troubles,
And by mackin' end tizzle. To die- ta sleep-
No more; n by a sleep ta say we end
The heartache, n tha thousand natural shocks
Tizzle flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummizzles
Devoutly ta be wish'd. To dizzy ta sleep.
To sleep- perchance ta dream: ay, there's tha rub!
For in tizzy sleep of death whiznat dreams may come
Wizzy we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Mizzay give us pause. There's tha respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear tha whips n scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, tha proud man's contumizzles
The pangs of despis'd love, tha law's delay,
The insolence of office, n tha spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
Wizzle he himself might his quietus makes
Wit a bizzle bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt n sweat bitch a weary life,
But thizzat tha dread of sum-m sum-m afta death-
The undiscova'd country, from whose bourn
No brotha returns- puzzles tha wizzill,
And makes us ratha bear those ills we have
Than fly ta otha thizzat we know not of?
Thus conscience does makes cowards of us all,
And thus tha native hue of resolizzles
Is sicklied o'er wit tha pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of bootylicious pizzy n moment
Wit this regard they currents turn awry
And lose tha nizzle of action.- Siznoft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all mah sins rememb'red.

Columbus (Ohio) has finally made a stand against freedom haters, terrorists, drug thugs, indecency, communists, and people who don't celebrate diversity as enthusiastically as they ought.

Columbus has taken a stand against the scourge of our times. Columbus has finally acted. Columbus is doing something. Columbus has outlawed...[jarring chord] assault weapons!

The federal assault weapons ban (AWB) was allowed to go away last year but several states, including the cradle of liberty Massachusetts, have passed state laws that mirror the AWB's provisions, thereby ensuring continued inconvenience, price gouging, and suspicion of lawful gun owners.

Characteristic of lawmakers who concern themselves with firearms legislation, the Columbus City Council doesn't have a fucking clue, especially if this dude is their best source of information:

The Ohio Coalition Against Gun Violence (OCAGV) provided support for the ordinance and testified in the public hearings. Toby Hoover, Executive Director of OCAGV, congratulated the City on its progressive action to make Columbus a safer place to live and raise families.

Said Hoover, "Assault weapons are semi-automatic guns that are made to spray fire a high volume of bullets. Assault weapons are not hunting guns. They are people killers and we should never forget that we are talking about people, both victims and survivors. These guns are an assault on us all and we congratulate Columbus for regulating them."

Where to begin?

-There is no semi-automatic weapon on planet Earth that will "spray" anything. "Semi-automatic" means one pull of the trigger, one bullet goes downrange. No different in action from about a gazillion types of hunting rifles, target rifles, and yes, military issue rifles.

-What is a "high-volume of bullets"? You know, the ones being sprayed about willy-nilly? Probably more than 10 in a magazine, which is a characteristic number in these situations. In MA, for example, 11 is bad. Ten rounds in your rifle is fine, but 11 makes it the Devil's Tool. If seombody could explain that to me, I'd surely appreciate it.

-"Assault weapons are not hunting guns". Well, you'd first need to explain precisely what an assault weapon is, which you've not done satisfactorily yet. And guess what? Military rifles are oftentimes underpowered compared to hunting rifles. Read about it on your own; stats and discussion are easy to find. If beefier military rounds make you jumpy, guess what? They're all sporter rounds: all your flavors of .30 caliber (.30, .308, 30-30, 30-06) originated in military use and are still in use around the world. But if powerful weapons and powerful cartridges are the real problem, as this quote and associated line of thinking suggest, we'd be better off banning hunting rifles and sporter rounds like the 7mm Remington.

So which is it? Do we outlaw sport ammo or military ammo? 'Cause it's oftentimes the same thing.

-"They [assault weapons] are people killers". So are the hunting guns you suggest are OK to live with in society. So are the bricks on your patio. So's your car. Everything's a "people killer". Either you learn to live in our world, or you get yourself a helmet and never leave your bunker.

-"We congratulate Columbus on regulating them". Um, yeah...guns are already regulated. If you are refering to full-auto weapons, which I think you are when you talk about "spraying", they have been minutely regulated for years. You need special licensure, huge fees, probable legal hassles, and the BATF looking up your ass for the rest of your natural life, which is more regulation than any American ought to put up with.

But alas, foolishness rarely exists in a vacuum. Consider:

Sue Ann Schiff, Executive Director of Legal Community Against Violence (LCAV), agreed: "Assault weapons are designed to kill humans quickly and efficiently. The Columbus ordinance is directed to military-style weapons designed for rapid spray firing, not to standard sporting firearms."

Isn't any weapon conceivably a "military-style" one? And anyway, if it's style you're about, the military ain't the place to go for it.

Ms. Schiff, assault weapons- whatever those are- are not designed to kill humans quickly and efficiently. If you're talking about military-issue weapons, they are designed to throw a regulation cartridge a regulation distance consistently, take alot of abuse, be simple to maintain and operate, and be lightweight. I don't even know what "rapid spray firing" is, but American military rifles haven't had a full-auto capacity in about 20 years. And killing quickly and efficiently comes from training- marksmanship, trigger control, breathing control, shot placement, fieldcraft; otherwise, we'd just let the weapons loose to fight for us.

And again, "standard sporting firearms" are oftentimes much more powerful in terms of range, munition, and accuracy than any military issue rifle. Those are ok though, right?

Look, I care about certain aspects of gun stuff, so I read about it, and can speak as a learned amateur on some of those topics. I recognize alot of people don't care though, and my topic and tone will sound overwrought and nitpicky. That's fine, really.

But this bit doesn't even pass the common sense test:

The Columbus ordinance bans the possession and transfer of assault weapons while continuing to allow the use of the weapons at licensed shooting ranges and in officially sanctioned competitive shooting events. Individuals who lawfully owned and possessed assault weapons before the ordinance's effective date may keep their weapons but have 90 days to register them with local authorities.

Ooookaaaayyy...

So the same people, who still own the same weapons, can continue to do the same activities with them now as before the ban, but have to tell the state government they own them.

If the weapons were already "lawfully owned and possessed", what's the real problem?

Preparations are in full swing for this year's Sportsman's Club Testicle Festival.

Plan accordingly.

Clio, the muse of history, has left her scrolls and books at the foot of Mount Olympus. She has gotten her shots, filled out her will, donned her 3-color desert uniform and spiffy brassard, and humped her ruck into harm's way.

Clio is downrange with the 45th Military History Detachment.

Stars and Stripes discusses the efforts of Army historians in recording and cataloguing soldiers' accounts of operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. There is not likely to be more detailed primary source material concerning the units, places, and people in either theater. Much of the collected information undoubtedly has immediate utility, as tactics are modified and doctrine re-written. Other material will be used to fuel papers at the War College and CGSC, likely sooner rather than later. The greatest value of this work though will not be appreciated for, perhaps, decades.

This is the raw stuff that our children will use when they write the history of this war.

I was shopping for ideas for a 4th anniversary present and came across this entirely unhelpful one.

If you want to avoid the hassle of shopping for a 5th anniversary present, consider $60 worth of pears for your 4th. Not only is it a stupid gift, it's a cheap one too; I don't know which tack would embarrass me more.

Nothing says, "I Love You" better than a hamper full of pears and cheese. Except, maybe, every other thing you could think of.

Transcribed by Mr. and Mrs. and Mrs. Zambesi

From The Album of the Soundtrack of the Trailer of the Film of Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Good evening. The last scene was interesting from the point of view of a professional logician because it contained a number of logical fallacies; that is, invalid propositional constructions and syllogistic forms, of the type so often committed by my wife.

'All wood burns,' states Sir Bedevere. 'Therefore,' he concludes, 'all that burns is wood.' This is, of course, pure bullshit. Universal affirmatives can only be partially converted: all of Alma Cogan is dead, but only some of the class of dead people are Alma Cogan. 'Oh yes,' one would think. However, my wife does not understand this necessary limitation of the conversion of a proposition; consequently, she does not understand me, for how can a woman expect to appreciate a professor of logic, if the simplest cloth-eared syllogism causes her to flounder?

For example, given the premise, 'all fish live underwater' and 'all mackerel are fish', my wife will conclude, not that 'all mackerel live underwater', but that 'if she buys kippers it will not rain', or that 'trout live in trees', or even that 'I do not love her any more.' This she calls 'using her intuition'. I call it 'crap', and it gets me very irritated because it is not logical. 'There will be no supper tonight,' she will sometimes cry upon my return home. 'Why not?' I will ask. 'Because I have been screwing the milkman all day,' she will say, quite oblivious of the howling error she has made. 'But,' I will wearily point out, 'even given that the activities of screwing the milkman and getting supper are mutually exclusive, now that the screwing is over, surely then, supper may now, logically, be got.' 'You don't love me any more,' she will now often postulate. 'If you did, you would give me one now and again, so that I would not have to rely on that rancid Pakistani for my orgasms.' 'I will give you one after you have got me my supper,' I now usually scream, 'but not before'-- as you understand, making her bang contingent on the arrival of my supper. 'God, you turn me on when you're angry, you ancient brute!' she now mysteriously deduces, forcing her sweetly throbbing tongue down my throat. 'Fuck supper!' I now invariably conclude, throwing logic somewhat joyously to the four winds, and so we thrash about on our milk-stained floor, transported by animal passion, until we sink back, exhausted, onto the cartons of yogurt.

I'm afraid I seem to have strayed somewhat from my original brief. But in a nutshell: sex is more fun than logic-- one cannot prove this, but it 'is' in the same sense that Mount Everest 'is', or that Alma Cogan 'isn't'.

Goodnight.

As we go about our daily lives, we are often overwhelmed by the myriad choices he have to make in a day, from the mundane ("Can I make the light...?"), to the major ("What bill can I ignore this month so I can afford bourbon?"). As we make those choices, hundreds in a day, we draw upon our own experiences, our educations, the advice of friends and strangers, or our collective gut.

But one question that we Ministers are often faced with we have no help in answering. Whether it comes up over dinner at our Aspen retreat or privately, as we pass in normal society quietly awaiting the Ende Tyme, the question is always the same:

When the zombies come, how best to kill them?

After some thought (not much, some), we have decided to make an effort to answer our own question. We therefore declare a new feature, the Ministry Caliber Corner, where weaponry large and small will be fired, evaluated, and rated according to its projected capacity to kill the undead. Or re-kill. Whichever.

Your enthusiasm for this feature is, as always, expected.

The Smith & Wesson Model 686P is the latest incarnation of the stainless steel magnum. The test weapon is (nearly) literally off the production floor, and is the 6th generation of that design. The 686P differs from the standard 686 by incorporating an adjustable rear sight, red-ramp front sight, and 7-round cylinder to the design.

The weapon is chambered for either .38 Special or .357 Magnum, and is rated for hotter .38+P loads. It is available with a 6" barrel, 4", or, in the case of the test weapon, a 2 1/2" barrel.

At the first range visit, I put 50 rounds of .38 and 50 more of .357 Magnum downrange. Both were 158 grain loads. Groups with the .38s were fair at 7 yards, but a wee bit of a handful. The Magnums were too much- big bark and big bite to the firing hand. I really had to bear down on the grips and make extra effort to control the round. That in turn had consequences on accuracy, with shots scattered and entirely ineffective. It is also plausible that the short barrel couldn't throw those heavier rounds accurately. In subsequent testing, I put 100 rounds of 130 grain .38 Special through, with marked improvement all 'round: tighter groups, and with a final few tweaks to the rear sight I was hitting center-of-mass every time I cared to put rounds there.

Characteristic of Smith wheelguns, the action is silky and tight. Single action fire has no slop or play; if you think you’re going to take up the trigger slack like with your daddy’s old hunting rifle, think again- this piece is going off. Double action work is not at all ratchety but of course you get the resistance that comes with DA fire. The 2 1/2” is definitely muzzle-heavy, even with 7 in the cylinder. The weight is forward of the trigger, not on top of it as I anticipated. Plan acccordingly for a bit of a work out on your firing-side wrist.

The weapon comes solely with the stainless finish and hogue rubber grips. I found the grips getting a little slippery on a temperature-controlled (but clammy) indoor range. And I was reminded of the steel backstrap by the ache in the palm of my firing hand the rest of the day, although that was only with the heavier 158 grain loads.

My initial thought about adding adjustable sights (and therefore, cost) to a carry snubby was that it was not a terrific idea. It seemed that a weapon that compact, built and purchased for a personal defense, emergency weapon would not be the first choice to expect careful, measured fire that an adjustable sight can support. But in my situation, the majority of this weapon’s life will be lived on the range, where I can take as long as I please to concentrate on sight picture, breathing, trigger control, and other fundamentals. So I sprung for the spiffy rear sight, but would concede that it is not at all central to this model's mission.

As a carry weapon the 686P is superior. Even with the 7 round cylinder, the 686P does not bulge excessively and naturally the short barrel lends itself to concealment. The weight might be off-putting to some, and I can’t say I blame them. It’s an all-steel piece folks, and loaded it’s a tad heavy, coming in at about a lumpy 3 pounds. But my personal preference is for a heavier weapon. S&W’s alloy revolvers of titanium or scandium pack similar punch but are a fraction of the weight. Problem is I find them TOO light; I want to know it’s still there, not have to reach down and check it's still there.

OK, but what about the zombies?

This revolver is a respectable emergency anti-zombie weapon. As a revolver, there are no external safeties to consider, or magazine feed/ejection problems to clear in case of crisis. Capacity is limited, but this is not a primary offensive weapon. It is light enough to carry in a shoulder rig all day without strain, but puts a hefty round downrange. There is little doubt of either the .38 or .357 effectiveness against the cranium, whether that of the living or the re-animated. There is a fair chance of mobility kill with either round, given a lucky hit to the kneecap or tibia, but that level of accuracy is probably better left to rifles. If the zombies are even close enough in the first place that you need to pull your 686P, you're best option is to get the hell out of there and fast.

Final stats and gun porn below the fold:

Rate of Fire: 2 (basically, 7 rounds/minute; with training, and speedloaders, that could double but…)

Magazine Capacity: 2 (7 shots just ain’t much)

Effective Range: 3 (“Effective” the key word here- when I’m shooting it, beyond about 30 ft, the legions of the undead will be safe)

Humpability: 9 (Fits in generous pocket; can carry all day no sweat)

Melee Combat: 2 (heavy and chunky, but small- you’re only getting one hit with it before you’re devoured)

Zombie Hole Size: 4, or an exit would the size of a chubby shrew

Zombie Incapacitation Potential: 3.7/10*

*Note, again, that in the event of close-quarters head shots either round will likely pulp the zombie’s head.