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March 31, 2005
Things You Never Hear - Part 1
Wow, we’ve got a real problem here. Is Jesse Jackson available?
A feminine activist, and a hottie to boot!
Yes sir, I can attend that job interview on Tuesday, as long as my welfare check comes on Monday so I’ll have money for gas.
Let me give my logical explanation as to how liberal social policy will benefit poor minorities in the long term.
Have another drink! Kennedy volunteered to be the designated driver.
There’s something about Susan Estrich that just screams, “Ageless Beauty”. 
What are you worried about? You’re surrounded by young Middle Eastern males between the ages of 18 and 36.
I wish Hannity would have someone else on his show. That Ann Coulter, she’s really hard on the eyes.
I’ve elected to have my heart surgery performed in Canada by this highly acclaimed specialist.
I tried to interview Michael Jackson but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of my breasts long enough to answer a few questions.
Is that the new Brittany Spears video? Turn it up!
My job as a Supreme Court Justice is to uphold the constitution, not pass legislation.
Good point Pelosi!
Posted by RobF at 11:22 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 30, 2005
Welcome to the Machine
"From this day forward, I no longer shall tinker with the machinery of death"
Justice Harry Blackmun, United States Supreme Court - Author of Roe v. Wade
-While announcing his opposition to the death penalty in 1994 (Callins v. Collins)
Posted by RobF at 08:07 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 29, 2005
Queens and Jokers Are Wild
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March 28, 2005
Gringo Militia
With our Federal Government tampering with issues unrelated to core functions of government and ignoring foreign threats to our personal safety, is it a surprise that real American citizens are taking action on their own? It's human nature really.
"Members of a violent Central America-based gang have been sent to Arizona to target Minuteman Project volunteers, who will begin a month long border vigil this weekend to find and report foreigner sneaking into the United States, project officials say. James Gilchrist, a Vietnam veteran who helped organize the vigil to protest the federal government's failure to control illegal immigration, said he has been told that California and Texas leaders of Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, have issued orders to teach 'a lesson' to the Minuteman volunteers."
Personally I think we should give these guys a handful of daisy cutters and an airplane. Problem solved...
Posted by RobF at 09:11 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 25, 2005
More C & F Timely Perfection
Posted by RobF at 08:58 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Despots
“To consider the judges as the ultimate arbiters of all constitutional questions [is] a very dangerous doctrine indeed, and one which would place us under the despotism of an oligarchy. Our judges are as honest as other men and not more so. They have with others the same passions for party, for power, and the privilege of their corps… and their power the more dangerous as they are in office for life and not responsible, as the other functionaries are, to the elective control. The Constitution has erected no such single tribunal, knowing that to whatever hands confided, with the corruptions of time and party, its members would become despots. It has more wisely made all the departments co-equal and co-sovereign within themselves.”
Thomas Jefferson
If you get a chance, pick up Men In Black, How the Supreme Court is Destroying America by Mark Levin.
Posted by RobF at 08:36 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 24, 2005
The Horror
Posted by RobF at 03:02 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Search Terms - Part I
I occasionally elicit great amusement from reading over the search phrases that people have used to find Cocked and Locked. The following is a list, including my commentary, of some of the most common search phrases from March 2005.
Colette Reardon – This was the most used search term this month. Cheri Oteri’s SNL character found her way into C&L when I pointed out the disturbing resemblance between Colette and Nanci Pelosi.
Jessica Lunsford – An unfortunate entry this month and a big hit on search engines.
Robin Meade – One of my early postings contained a mention of Robin Meade, the CNN anchorwoman discussing the tsunami disaster. Since that time Robin has been the biggest mainstay on the search phrases list. Every month I have various phrases like, “Robin Meade Legs”, “Robin Meade Nude”, and “Robin Meade Photos”. Robin is certainly an eye catcher but I’m surprised by the sheer number of lonely men that must be trolling cyberspace desperately searching for glimpses of Meade skin. Pretty sad…
Free Pistol Targets – Shazam!!! As long as people are willing to shoot at pictures of despicable liberals, they’ve come to the right place!
Springfield 1911 – Another cool search term that I’m glad makes it on the search phrase list. There are various forms, some mention the Springfield XD (which I purchased for my wife) some mention the GI Micro (near and dear to my heart). I'm not sure but I think there were a couple of posts mentioning Springfield Firearms.
Dan Dierdorf Socialist – Interesting… I can’t imagine what they were looking for but I know what they found.
Nuestra Familia – A prison gang mentioned in one of my posts. I also got a hit on “thug gangster”.
Marine Corps Cadence Lyrics – This was from an article posted by my Marine Corps brother, AaronF, a few weeks back. I have also received hits on “Marine Crucible” and “Navy Cadence Lyrics”.
Cocked and Locked – Many similar to this.
Eichmanns South Park Hippies – Funny, strange, and totally confusing. I’m not sure how they found C&L with that phrase. I’m sure I’ve spewed hate at hippies on here somewhere.
USS Bill Clinton Picture – I’m not sure if the individual was actually searching for my rendition of the USS Bill Clinton or not. It was certainly one of my defining moments.
Cliff Burton Photographs Archives – This one made me happy too. Cliff was one of my favorite musicians. Incidentally, the article that he appeared in also drew some traffic from the term, “Grateful Dead Buckeye Lake Photos”. I’m sure they were disappointed in what they found.
She Licked Her Feet – This was brought on because of an article I posted about one of my dogs. Again, I’m sure it’s not what the searcher was looking for. Man, where do these perverts find the time?
Mud Diggin In Trucks With Girls - I'm from the country and I still have no idea what this person could have been searching for. It sounds like one of the Dodge Hemi commercials with the two hicks. Sweet...
Pics Of Boys With Outy Belly Button - Yikes. Someone wanna call the FBI?
Bono Jerk - Too sweet to even comment on.
Posted by RobF at 01:37 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 23, 2005
Holy Roller
"In his speech, Dean told the audience how, under his leadership, the Democratic Party will be made stronger.The party allowed its opponents too often to define debates and control issues, such as faith and family values, Dean said.
'We need to talk about values and not be afraid of them,' he said, going on to make two biblical references.
In the first he said Jesus' directive to 'love thy neighbor' didn't mean one could choose which ones to love. He then remarked that Republicans never brought up the scriptural verse saying it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven.
'We should never let anybody tell us we don't respect faith,' he said."
Posted by RobF at 05:40 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
To Err
I’ve been a bit evasive on the Terri Schiavo subject because I always tend to err on the side of freedom from government control. I never look at an issue and think it would be best solved by government intervention. The way I see it, there are two sides to this argument.
If the feds intervene
I’ll be honest; I’m one of the people that believe the feds are overstepping their bounds and are infringing on the state’s rights. However, as I mentioned before, it irks me to no end that liberals have the audacity to whine about abuse of power by the federal government. To the libs, taking a child at gun point in the middle of the night to send him back to Fidel Castro was not an abuse of power but an attempt to save a woman’s life from a husband who wants her killed is. You can’t talk out of both sides of your mouth. However, the problem has not occurred at the federal level, it has occurred at the state and judicial levels. If the information that has been coming out regarding the possibility of Terri’s cognitive state being much more advanced than at first reported, then Michael Schiavo is not only a murderer, but guilty of denying his wife proper care since her accident. Now believe me, I’m not buying all of this entirely. I’ll bet there is some truth to some of the stories being told but I just don’t have enough information at my fingertips to make those kinds of judgments. Regardless, if any of the things being said about Terri being conscious or aware of her surroundings are true, the courts, the state, and her family have failed her terribly. She is slowly starving to death, and she may be dimly aware of what is happening.
If the feds do not intervene
Allowing Terri Schiavo to die, even though there is evidence that she has been conscious is mandating murder. This woman is not a cancer patient, she’s not dieing from organ failure. A few of her caretakers have claimed that Terri is able to swallow food from a baby bottle on her own. So, I suppose it’s not a stretch to claim that Michael Schiavo and the hospice are responsible for forcing Terri to rely on the feeding tube because they wouldn’t allow therapy that would help her eat. This would also make removing that tube seem more like murder, wouldn’t it? As a society, we must fight to never condone the murder of innocents again. Most people just don’t seem to understand that liberal legislation is always a slippery slope. The public welfare system was created as a way to help jobless get back on their feet. Now welfare enables hundreds of thousands to live off the working man’s dime, have numerous babies with numerous partners, and encourage a culture of helplessness, poverty, and dependency. Campaign finance reform was championed as a means to clean elections and create special interest free politics. Now, in the name of campaign finance reform, liberals are threatening to infringe on the First Amendment rights of political bloggers to “even the playing field”. Roe v. Wade established that a woman’s right to an abortion fell within the right to privacy and was protected by the Fourteenth Amendment. Now, woman can legally wait until the third trimester of pregnancy before having their baby pulled partially from their womb feet first and stabbed through the back of the skull to have the brains sucked out of their head. All of these issues set an ugly standard that was ill fated to mutate into an even bigger monstrosity.
To accept either of the Schiavo scenarios is to make a mistake on some level. However, we are not dealing with money, or property, or even citizen’s rights. We are dealing with a living human being. A legal system infused with liberal bias tells us that, when dealing with suspected criminals, it is always best to err on the side of life. Why is this same caution not being used in this case? Personally, I think it has to do with what is convenient. Liberals support abortion not because it’s a right to privacy, but because it’s convenient. Setting the precedence of allowing someone to decide whether or not an innocent person should live or die is a slippery slope. This type of decision is incredibly dangerous because it’s bound to be warped and manipulated into whatever is convenient at any given time. Today our society suffers from liberals who have twisted and perverted the sanctity of life. This time, we must err on the side of Terri Schiavo. We owe it to our future society to err on the side of life.
Posted by RobF at 10:03 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 21, 2005
In the News
Annan drafts changes for UN
If it weren’t for the fact that socialist pigs like Annan represent enormous social and political repercussions all over the world including our own presidential elections (right Johnny Saigon?) then you would have to laugh at the audacity of Kofi Annan and his cronies at the United Nations.
It sure does seem timely that these proposed “changes” are being brought to light just before Paul Volcker is to release his findings on his investigation into the Oil for Food Program. Before now it seemed unlikely that “His Excellency” would ever even acknowledge that there were problems.
The only changes that should be drafted for this toothless organization are its elimination. Kofi Annan’s head belongs on a stick for his continual avoidance, if not downright refusal to acknowledge genuine instances of human rights violations (all out genocide) and sexual abuse by UN officials.
Terri Schiavo
Jeezum Pete, I’m not even sure where to start on this one…
If I were Michael Schiavo, I don’t think I’d be leaving the house without undergarments, if you know what I mean. It’s hard not to think this guy doesn’t have some kind of agenda. I can’t think of any reason, aside from him trying to hide something, that would warrant him not allowing her the rehabilitative help she needs and now fighting to have her killed.
Now the liberals are wringing their hands over the fact that Congress and the President have intervened. I can sympathize with anyone claiming that the Feds are sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong but I cannot stomach a liberal making the claim that government has exceeded its bounds. If it were up to those people, the government would control every aspect of our daily lives (as if they haven’t succeeded in allowing it to do so already).
The bottom line is that starving that woman to death would be horrific. Imagine what liberals would be saying if U.S. Soldiers in Iraq were accused of starving terrorists to death. All hell would break loose. It seems that, no matter how vile and disgusting the issue, liberals will always strive to be on the exact wrong side. The poor woman should just be allowed to go home so her parents can take care of her and get her the therapy she needs. Anything less would be barbaric.
Jessica Lunsford
God I hate these stories. I look at the pictures on the news and I just can’t see how anyone could possibly want to do something bad to a beautiful nine year old child. The pain and anguish that family must be dealing with right now has got to be incredible.
This guy, and all of the animals like him, need to be dealt a swift and harsh punishment. Personally I don’t think that any of them should have the option of seeing the light of day after assaulting a child, but for those who do get out, they need to be collared.
The death penalty was made for guys like John Evander Couey. He needs to be extinguished and forgotten, not strictly for the horrors he inflicted on Jessica Lunsford (although that’s certainly reason enough) but also for the horrors he has inflicted on her family. Her survivors deserve retribution. If anyone deserves forced gradual starvation it’s this guy, not a brain damaged invalid in a hospital bed.
Posted by RobF at 03:47 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 18, 2005
How I Hate the Heathen Left (Part 2)
I’m feeling venomous. When I feel overwhelmed with the sheer amount of injustice in the world, I just do one of these numbers:
I hated that I was ineligible for financial aid for five years of college because, being a non-conventional returning student, I had a job, I was white, I did not have any children or pay child support, and my wife also had a job.
I hated that we struggled to pay rent, car payments, and insurance while certain other students had their rent, car, and daycare paid for them so they could attend college (and not bother to go to class).
I hate that I had to borrow money for school and now (four years later) I’m still saddled with paying student loans off.
I hate that 20% of my earnings are stolen every pay period by the federal government (that makes it harder to pay off the student loans that the same federal government refused to subsidize on the grounds that I was white, employed, and married).
I hate that, despite what I pay in federal taxes, my government refuses to stop violent, diseased people from crossing our borders illegally.
I hate paying taxes.
I hate the Travelocity gnome (I just know that little rat bastard is a hippie liberal).
I hate that politicians and the AARP can openly lie to senior citizens and not face criminal charges.
I hate communist Italian journalists with anti-American sentiments.
I hate The United Nations and all of the pig-headed, socialist, one-world, baby raping, self-aggrandizing propaganda they stand for.
I hate filibusters where filibusters don’t belong.
Did I mention I hate paying taxes?
I hate the people who say it is cruel and unusual to kill a convicted murderer and then turn around and claim it is a woman’s right to kill a defenseless baby.
I hate when people who pretend for a living (Hollywood not Washington) feel they have a mandate to preach politics.
I hate when all my ammunition is spent.
I hate that nobody talks about Michael Moore anymore. It was oh so easy, entertaining, and enjoyable to make fun of that fat ass.
I hate Hillary Clinton.
I hate marshmallows.
Okay, that about sums it up for now. If this blog gets too hateful too fast, my readers might get the bends.
Posted by RobF at 04:05 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 17, 2005
Actual News
One of my favorite blogstresses-s-s-ss-ezes after a short hiatus is back and posting good news.
Whatta-ya-know, it's a bunch of stuff we all know but never see on TV.
%$#&*@ mainstream media
Posted by RobF at 01:54 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 16, 2005
Proving a Point
"My son said, 'It's so embarrassing having you talk all the time on TV about being gay and you picking me up at school in painter's pants.' I told him, 'Yeah, yeah, keep it for your book.'"
- Rosie O'Donnell, quoted in the New York Daily News
Posted by RobF at 12:04 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
When Animals Eat Their Young
Proof again that, despite their claim to cherish and protect First Amendment rights, when faced with rhetoric that goes against their Stalinist philosophy, liberals will often consume their own kind.
Posted by RobF at 10:36 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 15, 2005
The Hendersonville Mule
The Toyota’s engine whined as Doug Brutcher downshifted and released the clutch. He swung the car into the parking lot bathing trees in the yellow light of the headlamps. He killed the engine, climbed out of the driver’s side door, and walked to the back of the car. He removed the clamps on his bicycle rack and set the tires of the gleaming aluminum framed mountain bike on the gravel dust of the parking lot. He strapped his helmet to his head, slid his water bottle into the cage on the bicycle, and poked the toes of his right foot through the peddle straps. With an expert kick of his left foot Doug set off down the Montour trail at a comfortable clip. Having once been a railroad track, the Montour was straight and flat. He shifted the bike up to the big ring and enjoyed the breeze on his face and chest. The combined crunch and hum of the bikes knobby tires mixed with the musical chirping of a million insects as Doug raced down the trail. The temperature changed rapidly from warm humid to cool damp as the trail cut through a hillside. Sheer rock rose on both sides and Doug inhaled the smell of water, moss, and decaying plant matter. His breathing began to increase with the effort of his pumping legs and his right hand left the handle grip and groped in his pocket for his flashlight. He pulled it out, switched it on, and gripped it between his hand and the handlebar illuminating a dull swatch of limestone dust directly in front of his tire. The cool air of the valley turned into surprisingly cold air as Doug plunged into the pitch black of a train tunnel. The shock of the chilled air on his sweaty skin made him inhale sharply and his pace slowed down to a crawl as he struggled to keep the bicycle in the middle of the tunnel. The dampness intensified and an occasional drop fell from the ceiling to soak through the mesh of his shirt. He sawed the handlebars back and forth and skillfully guided the bike around the occasional mud puddles that fell under the feeble rays of the flashlight. At last the air warmed as he popped out the other end of the tunnel. He switched off the flashlight, shoved it back in his pocket, stood up on the peddles, and accelerated. He felt the collisions of a thousand tiny bodies as he passed through a cloud of gnats. Fence posts appeared on each side of the trail and the smell of cow manure permeated the air. He could make out several dark looming shapes that were piles of cut hay in the farmer’s field beyond. He coasted to a stop, pulled his water bottle from the cage on the bicycle frame, and drank deeply.
Doug rode the Montour often, but rarely at night. Neither his wife, nor any of his usual riding buddies dared venture onto the trail after dark. He slipped the bottle back in its cage and continued down the trail. The farmer’s fields ended and the trail was immediately hemmed in by the shadows of trees on either side. In some places the trees were so close that the branches touched overhead and the light of the stars was blotted out entirely. After some time, the trail began to become less and less groomed. Doug recognized the familiar landmarks along the way that told him that the marked section of the Montour was coming to an end. The Montour Trail Council funded the creation and upkeep of the trail and, being a profit free organization, it was still struggling to raise enough money to connect the various sections of the old railroad tracks and turn them into useable trails. Usually, the biggest obstacle was the refurbishing of old railroad bridges. The groomed trail slowly petered down to a path in the woods, and eventually stopped abruptly at a chain link fence that blocked access to a long railroad trestle. Doug got off his bike and turned on his flashlight. He threw the top tube of the bicycle over his right shoulder, gripped the outside pole of the fence and swung out and around the barrier. He placed the bicycle on the trestle on the other side and began the arduous journey across, careful to illuminate the timbers in front of his feet so as not to step in a gap. He could hear the babbling of Chartiers Creek fifty feet below as his bike tires bounced along the railroad timbers. It took a good four minutes to carefully make his way all the way across the long curving trestle and he swung around the chain link barrier on the far side. The trail had entirely disappeared and the only thing left was the slag rock of the old railroad tracks. The mountain bike, however, handled this rougher terrain without difficulty and Doug continued.
The going became much more difficult and Doug found himself standing up on his peddles more often. The perspiration was now standing out on his arms and it dripped into his eyes from under his helmet. He skillfully hopped the bike over a steel rail that rested half across the trail and savored the satisfying sound of spraying slag as he cranked the peddles hard and his rear tire spun before he accelerated. He reached back into his pocket for his flashlight and switched it on. After peddling for another hundred yards he made out the yawning black mouth of a second tunnel before him. He again felt the intense shift in air temperature as he rode into the total darkness. This tunnel was almost never used and the floor was scattered with debris. Rotting railroad timbers and piles of slag were scattered throughout but the tunnel was much shorter than the previous. Doug pocketed the flashlight as he popped out the other side, rode another fifty yards and came to an overgrown pile of logs and railroad timbers that completely blocked passage. This was the end of the line for this section of trail and Doug hopped off his bike, took off his helmet and drank from his water bottle. He could hear the faint dribbling of the stream that ran alongside the old tracks and he could smell the earthy aroma emanating from the pile of rotting logs. Doug jumped as something scurried through the underbrush off to his left. He pulled out the flashlight and shined the feeble light into the thick brush. His heart leapt into his throat as the foliage exploded with violent sound and activity. It took a full five or six seconds for him to realize that his light had simply spooked a turkey in the underbrush and the panicked bird made a terrifying commotion as its wings beat against the thicket and it flew up out of its hiding place. H could feel his heart hammering against his chest and he was thankful that there was nobody around to witness his momentary panic.
Doug dispatched the rest of his water bottle and put his helmet back on his head. A mosquito buzzed annoyingly in his ear as he threw his leg over the bike. He reached up and swiped the air around his head and as he did he thought he heard a sound coming from beyond the pile of logs. “Pffff-shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”, kind of far off and faint. He stopped shooing the mosquito and listened but didn’t hear it again. Cursing himself for letting the darkness get the better of him, he kicked off down the trail. He rode the fifty yards to the last tunnel, switched on his flashlight and plunged inside. Just as he did he heard the noise again, he was sure of it this time. “Shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”, like the exhaling of a huge animal. It reminded him of the comic bull in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons puffing steam out its nose and fogging up Bugs’ tail. Doug chuckled to himself as he made his way through the obstacles of the tunnel and out the other side. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder just in time to hear it again, “Shuuuuuuuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”. That was the sound of a steam locomotive, a little bit louder than before. He tried to think of where the closest railroad tracks were and he could think of several crossings on local roads in the area. “What the hell is a steam locomotive doing around here”, he asked himself aloud in the dark. All of the trains around Pittsburgh were huge modern diesel engines. He shook his head as if trying to remove the cobwebs and began to peddle. “Shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”, he guided the bicycle over the rough slag a little unnerved by the sound, “Shuuuuuuuuuuuush”, but not sure why. At last he came to the chain link unsuccessfully barring his access to the railroad trestle. He jumped off his bike and swung around the fence as he had before. “Shuuuuuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuuuuuush”, it was definitely closer. Doug swallowed hard and peered back through the fence the way he had come. “Shuuuuuuuuuush”, he turned and took a half dozen steps in a panic before his right foot slipped off the front side of one of the timbers and he shrieked as his leg plunged through the gap. His fall was stopped by his kneecap grinding painfully into the next timber in line and his bike clattered against the side of the trestle as he scrambled to pull himself back up. White hot pain lanced through his knee and up his leg. He forced himself to stand, at least partially on the sore leg in order to navigate the railroad timbers and pick up his bike. Sshuuuuuuuuush”, it was much closer now, there was absolutely no doubt about it. There were no other railroad tracks that close. Doug struggled to check his rising panic and he curbed the urge to drop his bike and run the rest of the way across the dangerous trestle. He carefully placed each step directly on every other timber limping badly on his injured knee. He could already feel the knee swelling and becoming stiff. The alkaline taste of adrenaline flooded his mouth, “shuuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuuush”. His bike tires bounced over the timbers as he carefully picked his way across. After what seemed like forever he reached the other end of the trestle, shouldered his bike, and painfully placed all of his weight on his bad leg as he swung out around the fence post. Just before he removed his foot from the trestle, he could swear he felt the iron bridge hum, as if a train were approaching. He looked through the chain link fence and could see a single dull yellow light in the distance framed by the opening of the tunnel on the far side. “Shuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuush”, Doug gave in to panic. He dropped his bike and began to limp forward before thinking better of it and going back to pick it up again. The sweat dripped out from under his helmet and stung his eyes as he struggled to get his lame leg over the bike. He didn’t bother with the peddle straps, he ignored the pain in his knee and stood up on the peddles. The breath tore from his chest in ragged half-sobs as he strained to propel the bicycle forward. “Shuuuuuush-shuuuuuush-shuuuuuush-shuuuuuush”, the trail ahead became finished limestone dust again as he flew through the night air. Trees flew by on either side and their shadows lapped menacingly on the trail surface. The once happy sound of his tires humming on the groomed surface now sounded like a scalpel being scraped over bone. He retched and looked back over his shoulder. “Shuuuuush-shuuuuush”, the light was just coming around the last lazy bend in the old tracks and he could make out a trail of steam rising from the stack of a racing locomotive and stretching up and behind the engine like a great black billowing noose. He turned back around and continued to peddle, almost refusing to believe that the dark monstrosity bearing down on him was real. He knew that he could simply ride off the tracks and wait for that thing to pass but he could not bring himself to slow down. There was no way he wanted that monster near him, even if it was just passing by. He needed to get back to his car and get the hell out of here. Panic and exertion were beginning to take their toll and his lungs felt like they were on fire. “Shuuuush-shuuuush-shuuuush-shuuuush”, he plunged into the tomb-cold air of the first tunnel and didn’t bother to reach for the flashlight. His tires hammered through mud puddles and Doug struggled to keep a straight line in the utter blackness of the tunnel cavity. His handlebar suddenly lurched to one side as it scraped against the side of the tunnel. He went down in a heap and rolled a few yards. For a few incredibly frightening moments he couldn’t locate his bicycle in the dark but at last his fingers came down on the spokes of a wheel. “Shuuush-shuuush-shuuush-shuuush”, he jumped back in the saddle and willed his spent legs to crank the bike forward, faster and faster. At last he could see the dim outline of the end of the tunnel ahead and he raced for it. “Shuush-shuush-shuush-shuush-shuush”, he glanced back over his shoulder and could see the oncoming train, already halfway through the tunnel and approaching at a maddening pace. The headlamp stared dully at him like a cancerous yellow sore in the dark. He could see hellish flames leaping in the front windows of the engine and out through the side windows. Bathed in the flames was the silhouette of the engineer reaching up to pull on the whistle. A wail of unspeakable pain poured forth from the awful apparition shaking Doug to the very core of his being and drowning out his scream. The bicycle began to stagger and rattle violently and he struggled to stay upright and in control. Looking down he was aware of rails and timbers where before only well groomed limestone dust had once lain. “SHUSH–SHUSH–SHUSH-SHUSH”, the front tire of the bicycle pitched sideways and became wedged between two of the timbers. Doug was thrown over the handlebars of the bicycle and was dimly aware of an ugly splintering sound in his right forearm as he slammed, face and arms first, into the tracks. Heedless of the agony he hauled himself to his feet in time to see the roaring, burning, black abomination of a machine tear through his body.
Sissy Macyk pulled on the leash of her six year old Golden Retriever, “come on Bo, let’s go”. The old dog finished peeing on the fence post, dropped its leg and looked up at Sissy expectantly. She turned to continue her walk up the trail and then saw something that froze her blood. Jody, her three year old daughter was standing over a man laying next to the trail and she was slapping him on the chest. “Get up! Get up you. Get up Mr. Man”, she said and then giggled, obviously proud of herself. Sissy ran forward and grabbed Jody by the hand. “Get away from there, leave that man”, the words died in her throat as she looked down. The man was dressed in bicycle shorts and jersey and one arm sprawled out to the side bent and obviously broken. His face was absolutely white and there was dried blood from his nose smeared down over his mouth and chin. Somewhat panicked, she leapt back and pulled Jody with her. Bo, always one to investigate, began to sniff the man around his ears. He didn’t move a muscle and as Sissy again approached, she reached down and was shocked at the feel of cold clammy flesh still wet with morning dew. She stifled a sob and pulled Bo and Jody back to the nearby fence post that Bo had so recently relieved himself on. She tied the dog’s leash to the post and bent down to talk to Sissy. Her voice shook more than a little, “you stay right here and hold on to Bo’s leash”, she said as she gave the child a section to hold. She reached into her fanny pack and rummaged for her cell phone as she walked back over to the body. About fifty feet up the trail she could see the man’s bicycle and, strangely enough, both of his sneakers in the middle of the trail. Next to the trail, previously unnoticed, was a granite marker, resembling a gravestone with an engraved brass plate.
“On April 6, 1887 The Hendersonville Mule, a steam locomotive hauling coal on the Montour Railroad from New Eagle to Pittsburgh, exploded at roughly this location. All three engineers aboard The Mule perished. Exact cause of the boiler explosion is unknown, although there were rumors surrounding striking steam fitters angry over bitter labor disputes. Nobody was ever implicated in the tragedy.”
Posted by RobF at 09:58 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Spit Please
Posted by RobF at 02:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
C&L Style Justice
Posted by RobF at 01:18 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
The Facts, They are A-Changin
The New York Times has shamelessly contradicted itself in regards to the once non-existent weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. They now report that Iraqi official, Sami al-Araji, the deputy minister of industry claims that intense looting and moving of materials capable of developing WMDs occurred after US occupation and the fall of Saddam Hussein.
So let me get this straight. Throughout the duration of the war, the liberal establishment, spearheaded by the New York Times, has criticized the war in Iraq as a blood thirsty imperialistic war waged over oil while boobs like Ted Kennedy, Al Gore, and John Kerry screamed bloody murder claiming that George Bush lied to the American people about the existence of WMDs in Iraq. The fact that there were satellite photographs showing convoys of trucks carrying unknown cargo into Syria just before the invasion was largely ignored by the mainstream media. The existence of terrorist training grounds in Iraq (Salman Pac) was also quietly swept under the rug. The comparison of George Bush to Adolph Hitler has been made so many times it has almost ceased to defile the sensibilities of those of us with even a scrap of respect for the leader of the free world. Now, after the New York Times and the majority of the mainstream media buffoons have done their bloody best to drag George Bush through the mud in front of the whole world, they are claiming that the once non-existent weapons of mass destruction were moved from Iraqi sites while under the control of U.S. troops.
Why? I believe the explanation is simple. After a brilliant and efficient campaign waged by our troops resulting in the fall of the incessantly brutal Baathist regime in Iraq anxious (and don’t think Hussein wasn’t anxious) to produce weapons capable of killing hundreds of thousands of innocents, the filthy left is positioning themselves before the evidence is made available. Someone knows something tangible in regard to the existence of WMDs in Iraq and the NYT and the Democratic Party are attempting to make it look like George Bush and the U.S. Military are responsible for unleashing these weapons on the world before the cat is out of the bag. I’ve said it in the past, and I’ll say it again. Regardless of the paltry lip service they pay to supporting the troops, they will never support anything the U.S. Military does or accomplishes. They have simply learned to be politically correct in their disdain. Instead of calling heroes baby killers (which the most radical amongst them still do) they strive to point out their incompetence.
I’ll bet dollars to donuts that Syria is feeling the heat and word has gotten out about the so-called smoking gun. Anyone with a lick of common sense knows that Saddam Hussein was doing everything in his power to get his hands on nuclear and chemical weapons. The MSM and the lunatic left just couldn’t resist the underhanded political power that was harnessed prior to the Presidential election by claiming that there were no WMDs long before all of the evidence was in. Now the chickens are coming home to roost and the New York Times is the first in what I believe will be a long list of leftist organizations, including the Democratic Party, that will attempt to position themselves in such a way as to fool people into forgetting their falsely based anti-war stance and pre-election power grab and focus on accusing the Bush Administration of fumbling weapons of mass destruction into the hands of the terrorists.
Despicable…
Posted by RobF at 12:11 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 09, 2005
What a swell guy...
"Now where did I put that rice..."
Posted by AaronF at 11:37 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 08, 2005
Customer Service
Sunday was a beautiful sunny day in Pittsburgh for March. I had gotten a nice workout and was freshly showered and my mood was very good. I navigated the aisles, grabbing the usual weekly staples and deftly stepped around the ubiquitous grocery store browsers who obviously had nothing better to do on a gorgeous teaser of a day than stare at groceries on a shelf. I made my usual pattern throughout the store, stopped at the front to go over my mental list and proceeded to the check out.
An Indian woman was operating the register and she greeted me and smiled. I handed her my Shop and Save card, she swiped it, and began scanning my groceries. After loading all of my purchases on the belt, I pushed the cart forward so the teenaged boy bagging my groceries could place them inside. He was, I would guess, about 16, trim, well groomed, and handsome. He looked at me and nodded and I asked him how he was doing. He smiled and said, “Not so good, I have another hour and a half of this”. I looked at the woman at the register and she grinned a little and continued with her work. I said to the kid, “come on now, it can’t be that bad, I see you talking to all the pretty girls, there are definitely worse jobs”. He smiled and said, “Yeah, there probably are”. The lady behind the register smiled at me again and rolled her eyes. “It’s the customers”, the kid continued. “They can be really hard to deal with, even mean sometimes”. This made some of the people in the other lines turn around to look at who was having this conversation. Realizing that he now had an audience, the kid began to babble on about the trials and tribulations of being a bag clerk at the Shop and Save and how customers were just impossible and annoying. The kid wasn’t speaking rudely or being obnoxious, but whenever I thought that he had certainly said his piece, he would just continue jawing on and on. At some point he told me, and whoever else was listening, that one customer actually told him to shut up. I had to chuckle a little bit at this and I was tempted to tell him to shut up myself, just to see what kind of reaction I would get. I smiled and allowed him to continue his polite tirade against the very people that were standing in long lines to contribute to his payroll salary. I wondered about the kid’s parents and whether they had instilled this breathtaking work ethic. What I really wanted to do was ask him what his plans were for the next couple of years and if Mommy and Daddy’s checking account had any role in paying for his endeavors. It made me want to tell him about my employment experiences while working to pay for college, rent, and living expenses with my (at the time) new wife.
I had moved from Syracuse, New York to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to be near my wife’s family. I found Pittsburgh a pleasant enough place to live. I worked a handful of different menial jobs before enrolling in community college and just before my classes started, I took a job at Harold’s Inn, a family owned restaurant in a Pittsburgh suburb. I had worked as a grill cook for about six years in New York and I was used to the day in and day out operations of a restaurant. I was interviewed by Susan, the head manager and part owner of Harold’s. It was her father who had started the business 25 years prior and Susan’s two sisters also worked at the restaurant as managers. Susan was shrewd, that was obvious even in my interview. However, she agreed to pay me better than the sports bar I had been working at for the last year so I agreed to take the position.
Harold’s Inn is famous for their open fire mesquite grill. “The pit” as it was referred to was a square glass room set inside the dining area and attached to the kitchen where the mesquite grill and gas fueled grills were located. With my five years of grill cook experience, I assured Susan that I could handle the rigors of the pit. After classes I would drive the five miles to Harold’s and clock in. My first duty was to load up a cart of wood and haul it into the pit where I stacked it against the wall. Then I would take inventory of all my steaks and seafood and cut my own steaks to specific sizes and weights. After that I would wash up and put on a fresh white chef’s coat and hat and go see Susan for my daily inspection. She would look me up and down and make sure that I was clean shaven and presentable. If there was a hint of a five o’clock shadow, she would send me into the employee men’s room where a used Bic razor was kept on the sink. I would be asked to shave before I started my shift in the pit.
The pit was about twenty feet by twenty feet, and it had one exhaust fan directly above the two grills. There was no refrigeration equipment in the pit at all. The doorway to the pit led around a corner and into the main kitchen where the holding coolers for all of my products stood. I would start the mesquite fire and get the grill good and hot. The exhaust fan above the grills did a very good job of evacuating the smoke but did very little in regard to the heat put out by the fire. Consequently, after about twenty minutes, the temperature in the pit rocketed to about 120 degrees. I would stand as close as possible to the doorway so I could strain my ears over the sound of the exhaust fans to hear “Big Ed” our kitchen manager in the main kitchen pull the tickets and yell out the incoming orders. I would then run back to the holding coolers to grab the needed product (new york strips, delmonicos, filet mignons, swordfish steaks, tilapia, chicken, ribs, prime rib etc…) and back to the pit to place it on the grill to be prepared to temperature. The dining room would inevitably almost always fill to capacity and children and adults alike would gape through the windows of the pit and watch me cook their food. I would scoop butter on my tongs and pitch it into the open fire causing it to flare up in front of the glass to the delight of the children. As I mentioned, I had a few years under my belt in the kitchen and, if I may say so, I was pretty good at my job. It called for someone to be fast on their feet, have a timer in their head, and be skilled with a chef knife and a pair of tongs. I would grill the food, place it on plates, and run it back to the main kitchen where I would hand it off to Big Ed. So went my nights at Harold’s Inn. I think, after my initial probationary period was up, I was making about $8.50 an hour. We served dinner from 3:00 PM until the last customer was served. Friday nights in the fall saw us packing in the high school football crowds and cooking sometimes until midnight. The hours were long, the temperature in the pit was unreal, I ran back and forth to the holding coolers probably three hundred times a night, and my appearance in the dining room fish bowl was always scrutinized. Occasionally one of the kitchen staff would snap under the pressure of endlessly being swamped and would throw something, swear, or just slip out the back door for a cigarette. In the pit, I was expected to smile at the people, keep a calm demeanor as I rushed around like a madman, and wipe the sweat from my face in the back kitchen only. The waitresses at Harold’s (God bless their souls) were mostly all peaches. They kept an iced tea pitcher full for me at all times and they were always quick to get me whatever I needed. NOBODY wanted the job in the pit, and Susan and the rest of the staff was overjoyed to have someone capable of handling it all without breaking down.
I tell you all this because I probably would have found my job in the pit acceptable if not for one requirement. In the evenings, Susan would cut people loose as the crowds thinned. The few employees left at the end of the night were responsible for a good deal of the cleanup and preparation for the following day. Working in the pit, I was expected to stick around for the duration in case someone ordered a steak. My wife and I were struggling to pay rent, put food on the table, pay for my text books, and generally live life respectably so I didn’t mind the extra hours. On this particular night, Big Ed came into the pit with a clip board and told me that it was the first Monday of the month, it was time to count the laundry. He gave me the clip board and I followed him down the stairs to the basement. The building was fairly old and the basement was lined with old style cement blocks. There were two large walk-in coolers running continuously and, in the summer time, the basement stayed at a constant ninety degrees. Ed explained that Susan did not want to pay for the laundry service to pick up and drop off every day so she elected to have them come by on the first Tuesday of every month. All of the restaurants bus rags, table cloths, kitchen coats, and other laundry was thrown into huge cloth bags in the dark, warm, humid basement. The bus rags were covered with beef blood, seafood juices, condiments, dish water, and every other foul substance that could be found at Harold’s Inn. Ed explained that, because Susan didn’t trust the laundry company, it was our job to separate and count all of the laundry before the following day’s pick up. He handed me the clip board, smiled at me and said that he was cutting out. I went to the first bin and was surprised to find it warm, almost hot, to the touch. As I picked it up, dozens of flies evacuated the bag and buzzed around my head. I upended the bag and a steaming, smelly tangle of laundry spilled out onto the cement floor. In the half light, I could see that something wasn’t quite right. It was almost as if the laundry was moving around. I walked to one of the coolers and opened the door so the light would shine out on the mess. The cool air hit the pile and the steam wafting off the laundry intensified. The light revealed a squirming mass of maggots spilling everywhere and the fetid stink of putrefying blood hit me like a hammer.
It took me about thirty minutes to count all of the laundry and stack it for the following day. I remember retching and heaving, struggling to keep from vomiting. It was just awful. Conveniently, it seemed that I was always the last person to still be around on the first Monday of every month. I’m not sure if that was because I demanded a higher salary than most others on the kitchen staff or if Susan just knew that I needed the job. However, after six months, I had had enough. I remember walking up the stairs to Susan’s office and resigning. I’ll never forget the hurt look she got on her face and how she tried to guilt me into staying. She even asked me what she could do to keep me working there. I don’t remember exactly what I said but it was something about the fact that I thought she was an evil person for expecting her staff to count the maggot infested stinking laundry every month because she wouldn’t spring for a daily or even weekly delivery.
All of this I thought of as I listened to my grocery bagger rant about difficult customers. He finished the last bag and I swung the cart out to the aisle. I smiled at him and told him to try to have a good last hour and a half. He smiled back, shrugged his shoulders and told me he was going to try but he doubted it. I walked out the door and into the unexpectedly mild March afternoon.
Posted by RobF at 08:30 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 06, 2005
Male - Female Brain
Hat Tip: Roger
Posted by RobF at 01:59 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 04, 2005
Sombody Gets It
"Dennis! There's some lovely filth down here"
A Monty Python analogy supporting the United States' efforts in the middle east?
Brilliant!
Posted by RobF at 01:19 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 03, 2005
What Kind of Dog Are You?
Second take: German Shepherd
Posted by RobF at 06:40 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 02, 2005
Hearts and Minds
The Supreme Court has taken another step toward eradicating self accountability by ruling that juvenile execution (those between 16 and 18 years of age) violates the Eighth Amendment's provision against cruel and unusual punishment under the "evolving standards of decency" test.
The same liberal ideology that fosters this sympathetic train of thought toward juvenile murderers also encourages handing out condoms in schools instead of teaching the benefits of abstinence. They support teenage abortion and, in some cases, would allow students to leave school to have an abortion without parental consent. They would have you believe that juveniles have some constitutionally protected right to privacy. So, in essence, the heathen left claims that juveniles are accountable for their own actions when it comes to having sex and aborting babies but they are not responsible for their own actions when they have needlessly and maliciously taken the life of another.
The liberal agenda skates self accountability time and time again because their politics play to the heart and not the mind. To a liberal, the substance of a situation is not what common sense dictates, it’s how the situation makes you feel. With that in mind, I’m going to leave the logical argument behind and focus on the emotional. More often than we like to admit, our society places emphasis on protecting the perpetrator. Unless the victim of violent crime happens to be a young child, we rarely learn about them and we almost never hear about their family and loved ones. I believe that emotion does play a large role in punishing violent offenders but the emphasis should remain on the victims and their loved ones, not on the perpetrators. If one of my loved ones had their life needlessly taken by another human being, I would be unable to rationalize any punishment other than death. Victims of violent crimes and their families deserve an eye for an eye. They deserve retribution, regardless of the age, gender, race, or social status of the perpetrator. The Supreme Court is denying justice to innocent victims based on the year the perpetrator was born. They rule on the basis of what feels right in regard to the perpetrator, not what is right in regard to the victim.
Posted by RobF at 12:59 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 01, 2005
Ronald McJackson
Posted by RobF at 05:23 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Everyone But Me
Chalk up another one in a long line of gun adversaries that believe anti-gun legislation should apply to everyone but themselves.
Filthy pig...
Posted by RobF at 04:46 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack