Monday, December 24, 2012

The Last Bastion of the Gun


   It's a depressing act to observe the state of the nation that could once be called the United States of America, now more accurately described as the Federated Municipalities of Non-Canadian Anglo-Americas.  Upon the collective sigh of resignation of personal responsibility into federal hands on November 6th of this year, punctuating the end of the punchline phase that is the American joke, and moving into the awkward pause where nobody laughs, an introspective mind (such as mine) cannot help but admire how this nation was transformed from a back-water territory of thanes and thralls in service to a foreign crown into a country of fiercely independent innovators and free minds.  This same wonderful, insightful, and (dare I say) infallible mind cannot also help but look at this once proud peoples as they trip over themselves to surrender any liberties implying the impetus, expectation, or even the slightest bit of one's personal safety is dependent upon the actions at the level of the individual.
     When interacting with other human beings, there are only two methods that can be used: reason or force.  The exercise of reasoning is the ability to convince another person to do something through willing persuasion by use of facts, information, and the logical implications thereof; the persuaded party is making a decision as to whether or not they truly wish to do something.  The inverse of reason is force: the threat of violence, harm, or some other undesirable outcome inflicted should one refuse to comply.  Force is the fundamental basis for all government as we know it today.  If you speed, you get a ticket. If you do not pay your ticket, you get your licence revoked and/or a warrant issued for your arrest. Prison time or any other sort of detainment is force in and of itself, but should you refuse to go, an officer will attempt to force you go. If you resist successfully enough, you will be killed.  This is the nature of our interaction with one another.  The pure exercise of reason is Voluntarism.  The pure exercise of force is Governance.
"Yes, we shall charge into the maw of their machine gun positions.  Those of us that aren't wounded, killed by the enemy, or shot by our own Commissars shall get together and decide if the maneuver was worthwhile."

     Just as Americans can't believe it's not butter, so too do they operate under the premise that their day-to-day life is not lived with a gun to their head.  Over time the laziness of the common man and the idiotic idea that individual freedoms, liberties and desires are somehow subject to approval by the rest of the population has pervaded the collective mindset as an unquestionable truth to life.  You can now be fined or imprisoned (or subsequently killed for refusal to comply) and subjected to state-sponsored force for such trivialities as crossing the street in the wrong place, driving with too much weight in your truck, constructing a shed in your back yard, connecting to an unsecured WiFi network, hosting a poker game at your house, or possessing a gun that fires more than one round per trigger pull without prior permission from the right people.


    Immediately upon news of the shootings in Newton, Connecticut our emasculated, hypocritical, and irresponsible press corps was propping up the first available meat-puppets they could find to speak on efficacy of "assault rifles," "high-capacity clips" and the ability to mow down crowds of people. This ability to kill people on a large scale is, horrifyingly and humorously enough, an ability that they feel only police and military personnel, guardians of the civilians, should be trusted with.
The NRA was apparently tactless and brash in only waiting a full week to issue a statement not supporting stricter gun control, but it's the act of a conscientious and progressive mind to start pointing fingers at people entirely unrelated to a mass killing within minutes of hearing of said act?
     Another disturbing trend was the discussion of "gun violence" (somehow morally reprehensible when compared to other forms of violence) before the last pool of child's blood had congealed on the floor.  In the true trademark of hypocrisy and the non-introspective nature of the contemporary bovineesque American, the immediate correlation of the mass shooting to a perceived need for governmental intervention in the form of gun control is compassionate and reasonable, while to say anything not involving this measure is to "blame the victim" (a Cardinal Sin in Progressivism, the victim is absolved of any blame) and a brash, rude, blatant and ruthless attempt to "politicize" an absolute tragedy.
     American Progressives are the true scum of the earth.  Despite dozens of industrialized countries having been disarmed and socialized to such a degree that anyone who so wished could find a new host that will fit 95% of their stupid viewpoints on inane social issues, they still feel the burning desire to turn this once great nation into their own fetid post-modern shithole, "with social justice and equality of outcome for all."
     Make no mistake, most citizens of the United States are Socialists, Progressives, 21st Century Liberals, or whatever the nom du jour may be for the statist collectivist.  These people bandy about and re-categorize themselves as they see fit so as not to offend their own stupid sensibilities, mostly for the sake of avoiding the indignity of association with dogmas 99.9% similar to their own, but with a differing view on the allocation of federal dollars to the study of the Battle of Grand Port.  Republican, Democrat, Green, or Labor Party, it doesn't matter.  With any sane metric these parties are all center-of-left with only a few minor distinguishing characteristics amongst them, much like listening to Metal Heads argue amongst themselves over the nuances of Stoner, Doom, and Sludge.


     Defining features of contemporary American politics can be divided into two categories: the ignorance in which the political opinionation is formed, and the vehemence that these opinions should be projected onto others. In a culture believed by the rest of the world to be excessively violent and gun-obsessed, a real gun enthusiast will inform you that the average American knows little to nothing about modern civilian firearms, much less military firearms, and the differences between the two.
     The issue of ignorance is a human one.  The run-of-the-mill oxygen thief is incapable of differentiating objective fact from personal opinion ("make health care a right!") and will gladly accept any drivel or nonsense validating these feelings as bona fide facts, with logical weight.  These idiocies are most often seen  en masse, like a DDoS attack or rallying cry wherein the demi-humans think they've disproved a differing view by repeating something blatantly false enough times. This is endemic to the populist psyche; it rejects that any material truth cannot be overruled once a majority consensus has been achieved, and likewise in the face of such consensus no one has any moral grounds upon which to oppose.
     Part two is prevalent in Americans to an alarming degree.  Through the wonders of "democracy" and the fa├žade that is our governmental process, these buffoons have for some reason come to the idea that their vacuum-formed opinions actually matter.  Through the internet, and by extension  intellectual circle-jerk that has become Facebook, the mouth-breathing, slack-jawed proletariat have convinced themselves that not only do they have some idea as to how a pencil sharpener works, but that they also should likewise be weighing in on economic, national defense and civil issues, to say nothing of their expectation that these opinions expressed should be given attention and taken into consideration by legislative, judicial and executive agencies. This is by no means a phenomena exclusive to our decade or even our century, but it seems to be especially prevalent in our fine Western "democracies."

“Democracy is a pathetic belief in the collective wisdom of individual ignorance.” 

-H.L. Mencken

     In no other political philosophy is this projection of ignorance made more blatant than in the issue of gun control.  As a rule, to be in favor of outlawing firearm ownership amongst the civilian population one must know effectively nothing about guns.  Advocates have no actual idea of what they want to control or stop, only a vague feeling of safety they wish to attain at the expense of a liberty they never care to exercise. Should you have the misfortune of running across a gun control advocate, they will in all likelihood refuse to engage in any sort of meaningful discussion.  The American Progressive abhors the exchange of ideas; they might conflict with their political worldview and exposes their complete ignorance.  This is the base nature of their coercive system, they do not use reason.  Their political views are not to be truly discussed or open to argument, they are only to be complied with.


     The European, the Asian, the Mid-Easterner and even the Australian have, by majority, accepted their place in the grand scheme of things.  They have taken on the lightened yoke of slavery that is the governed in our industrial era. In their minds they realize that they are the slag from which the valuable elements of mankind were refined, and deserve the mastership over them.  This is the true essence of "natural law."  On some level they realize that they are incapable of freedom despite their periodic squabbles over which statesman they would prefer have lord over them.  In discussion with the average citizen you will not see nor  hear any indicators that they think of themselves as a free, independent, or autonomous personage.  Their life is a collection of activities that their masters allow them to partake in. 

    As Western civilization tightens its downward spiral by perpetuating the practices of ignoring reality through Keynesian economic theory, central planning, and majority rule, its follies are only surpassed by its efforts to negate the consequences of this inattentiveness via the further expansion of said failed policies. They make imaginary money, print it like there's no tomorrow, require its use for transactions, and then wonder why its value has been plummeting more steadily than the popularity of Cheaper Than Dirt's Facebook page following their announcement regarding online gun sales in the face of pending firearms legislation.
"Print more money! Everyone can be rich!"

     Americans are unique in that we still retain one characteristic that sets us apart from all the other glassy-eyed, snot-nosed people's states of the rest of the civilized world: a right to firearm ownership.  With Canada as a distant runner-up, nowhere else in the world can someone legally purchase such a diverse selection of firearms.  The United States is a singular point in the Western world where modern amenities, centralized government, industrial might, and firearm ownership conjoin.
     While this by no means makes the American who so chooses to own a firearm any more of an ungoverned entity than the average Democrat voter, it is a fundamental step down the path of autarchy and self-realization.  Your feminized political cuckold of a "man" screeching for greater restrictions or outright banning of ownership is no more free and morally upright a being as John Wayne Gacy was an spokesperson in progressing and mending the image of clowns as being creepy.  This type of post-agrarian weenie will generally fall into two groups: the petty tyrant and the ostrich.  Both have the same view on firearm ownership, where one is in a category to be able to maintain their own access to guns for the sake of his own tyranny, while the other is denying the reality of his own safekeeping.  Under no circumstances is one able to maintain a stance advocating gun control and still logically lay claim to the advocacy of liberty.  Gun control and freedom are like fire and gasoline.

"No need to make it weird, Jeff."
     The utility of guns lies in that violence is universal, violence is golden.  The threat thereof is the glue that holds our society, our government, and our country together.  The denial of the right to ready and unfettered access to the most current and efficient means of projecting violence to the individual is the logical implication that only the state is fit to exercise the option of violence.  In a totalitarian state this is naturally assumed, it is logical.  The power rests in the hands of the rulers, and there is no real reason why the leaders of such a state would want their peoples to be able to resist them.  The United States, however, is supposed to be different.  As a republic theoretically practicing a modicum of self-rule, the connection between the ability to elect persons to governmental seats would, by nature, go hand-in-hand with the ability to forcibly remove any ruler who would attempt to go rogue and implement a rule ignoring "consent of the governed," an idea almost as laughable as this "social contract" people have been going on and on about.


     The United State's defense of the Second Amendment is the Swan Song for Western civilization, with a notable exception in Canada's loosening of laws pertaining to its long gun registry.  In every other industrialized nation on Earth the governed have ceded their ability to defend themselves in the most effective manner available.  Do not be fooled by Switzerland, often cited as a study in "gun violence" and the broken correlation to gun possession. Those guns were issued to the citizens on the basis that they would take up these arms in defense of the country should the need arise.  Nowhere else do men possess the government recognized freedom to take up arms, should they choose, for no other reason than their own personal safety from both individuals and that same government ...for the time being.
     When surveying the field of politics it is easily over looked, should you be the product of a public education, that the pleas for "compromise" is a ubiquitous feature of any publicity event.  In a fair business transaction this is expected.  Both parties rightly wish to make maximum benefit from their time, efforts, and/or goods.  Candy bars would cost a million dollars if the manufacturers and distributors could get away with it.  Not everybody is going to be able to get what they want.  The event where compromise gets disturbing is when this concept is applied to the revocation of civil liberties as they are upheld by the state.  When any party is asked by the head of state to "compromise" and relinquish their ability to partake in any activity that does not cause harm or impede on the rights of others, this is not compromise, it is merely a euphemism for tyranny.  You get nothing that you want, and the state will eventually get the full extent of what it wants over several more such "compromises."  Any such argumentation is nonsense anyway, as the word compromise can only be applied to voluntary actions, and just try to abstain from the laws passed as a result of any compromise applying to the Second Amendment.
"Compromise time, asshole!"
     Above anything else,  look at the direction from which the sides are coming.  Those wishing to preserve their liberties and freedoms to keep and bear arms are doing so because they have established a point at which they are willing to risk their own lives, and if necessary die. They stand for the preservation of what they already have, to be protected and guarded by themselves and at their own expense.  Opposing these people are the those who are attempting to force others into compliance with their view of the way things should be.  They invariably do this through the use of proxy forces and middlemen.  By expanding the threat of violence, enforced by people with guns, they seek to eliminate their fears of people with guns threatening violence, all while saying that it's not just people that are the problem, but the guns.

People cannot be trusted with guns, so people with guns need to keep guns away from people.

One party is ready to die for what they have, the other is ready to kill to take it.

Sunday, December 2, 2012 then I sez to this broad

     It's a beautiful (-13F) Alaskan Sunday morning, and I'm 24 hours away from the 4 week mark of my ACL/meniscus surgery. I'm going in to the gym for my daily celebration of life and progress check on what I'm able to do, maybe see some girls in yoga pants running heavy-footed and knee-destroyingly all around the Air Force's inner running track.  We'll see, life is a box of chocolates.
     As I pull the MurderTruck around into a parking spot to the nearest open spot with a reasonable payoff of search time/walk time (I'm always tickled by people that spend 5 minutes prowling the gym parking lot for the closest possible spot to the door, so they can go do stair climber for half an hour) I begin pulling in and see an Obama/Biden sticker slapped on the back of the Subaru I'm about to subject the MurderTruck to having small talk and chit-chat with for the next hour, hour and a half.

"I'm so fucking proud of my vehement ignorance and projection of moral values that I feel the need to let the entire world know, if they happen to be stuck behind me at a light!"
     "Oh, poor MurderTruck," I think to myself.  This car is doubtless steeped in backwards rhetoric and memorized non-sequitur talking points.  How many times while I'm in there will my poor Bronco have "WELL, GOOD LUCK HAVING ROADS TO DRIVE ON IF THERE'S NO TAXES!!" or "IF YOU DON'T LIKE BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO, WHY DON'T YOU MOVE TO SOMALIA!?!?" screeched at it while I'm inside doing my shoulders and exercise bike?  Will MurderTruck chuckle condescendingly and continue to ask questions in the Socratic method, cracking his roguish smile as the Subaru self-contradicts and fails to realize it's being talked down to?  Perhaps he'll bring up the fact that being an off-road vehicle he doesn't necessarily care for roads, and will get along pretty well without them, and the Subaru's desire for roads and their production of them outside of it's monetary capabilities is nothing more than greed?  I don't know, I can't presume to speak for the MurderTruck, but I'm sure they were bound have some environmentalism centered discourse as the MT's radiator dribbled out a hearty tablespoon or three of coolant while it sat.

"What's an 'environment'? I get 15 MPG on a downhill with the wind at my back."
     I popped the Bronco into park and began to gather the cornucopia of gear that consists of my gym trip, thanks in no small part to the Air Force's fear of getting external excretia of existence in the form of detritus transported on the soles of those filthy street shoes.  Workout shoes must be hand-carried.  This got me stuck in my typical anti-authoritarian fuge as I had the Obama/Biden drone's sticker still stuck in my head.  I had watched The Barber's Speech from "The Great Dictator" this morning, and couldn't help the sudden surge and violent flow of emotions that coursed through me at the thought that I was parked next to the personal means of conveyance of a person that was actively complicit in the propagation of the enslavement, death, and torture of my fellow human beings.  The owner of this car had apparently bought into the beautiful lie that theirs is not a system founded on the theft and pillaging of the active for the sake of the unproductive and incompetent.  That the smiling face and gentle probing of their men, their Officers McFriendly throughout the country, are not backed by the direct threat of violence and death.

     Maybe it's because I see how see that what I hate so much about them, I see in myself upon these realizations.  I eventually came to, standing there, staring at a giant teddy bear in the Subaru's rear passenger seat, grinding my teeth and fuming.  In my head I was this Voluntaryist Hulk, invincible by the attributes granted to me via my righteous indignation at the "social contract" and the holy fury vested in me through the violation of the sanctity of the consensual agreement.  I had ripped the hood off the car's engine compartment as my musculature visibly and aggressively grew.  I leapt upon the vehicle, landing on my knees.  I howled with rage as I hammer-handed the engine down out of car, the violence of my blows ripping it free of the car.  I then proceeded to leap back to my feet and, sinking my fingers into the cast metal of the engine block, I hoisted the blunt implement over my head, still dangling wires and dripping fluids of various hues down upon my head, shoulders, and chest.  I swung the block down into the passenger compartment over and over again, my throat getting hoarse and worn, my howls of fury turning into an interrupted stitch of guttural roars, accentuated by the sound of breaking glass and squealing, protesting metal.  The driver doesn't give a shit what injustices are forced upon other people in the enforcement of their worldview, so isn't it still morally justifiable that I pound their bitch-wagon into a discus for my own amusement?  Isn't personal property just a myth, after all?  I had emotional needs that were being met as I hammered away at their suburban grain-cart, and isn't that expediency of the moment what their politics are all about, after all?
"No, your honor, I swear it must have been some other well-muscled, eugenic-looking, Strapping Young Lad that roughed up that car and drove away in my Bronco."

     I self-reflected some more, and thought that there's bound to be a diverse gamut of reasons to have voted for what I can and have consistently sat down and argued to the worst president of most living American's lifetimes, if not the history of our "Democracy."  Going through the various reasons one would do what they did, and then advertise it, I quickly crossed off the "Shadow Libertarian Hastening their Way to the Demise" and the "On-The-Fence Conservative Scared of a Mormon."  #1 would be far too smart to advertise this, and #2 would be far too scared. All likely outcomes of a person willingly putting this sticker to make their voting preferences known to the world led me to believe that under no real circumstances was the person driving this vehicle a moral, introspective human being worthy of respect or capable of voluntary involvement in a society that values dignity and respect.
    I sighed and turned to walk into the gym, which is when I found *it*
"My love for you is like a magic marker, Barack! It smells funny and gives you a headache!"
    Yes, this bint (now that we've established a vehicle owner's gender) was virulent enough in her love of the state and said government's greatest proponent to date (possible unintentional hyperbole, FDR was sunovabitch, please feel free to discuss) that having multiple signs on her vehicle proclaiming her enamorment with said meat-puppet was not enough.  She had to change the the passive slogan/group identifier into an actual active sentence.

Well, you have been asking yourself for a long time who buys this kinda shit, Jeff.
     I facepalmed, and it pains me that such a colloquialistic verb is the most succinct way to describe my actions, but the rest of the sentence makes up for it.  I'll not delve into the Men's Rights Movement and my own personal views on why Womyn love our current president so much, but I felt I had seen enough at this juncture to form a 98% accurate psychological profile of the vehicle's owner.  I was staring at the transportation method for THE ENEMY.  Not just an enemy of liberty or someone complacent in the slow demise of freedom, but someone actively trying to spread the statist filth, or at the very least reveling in their own stink of centralization.
    Using my the personal gratification clause and invoking the Ragnar Danneskjold/Ragnar Redbeard of meeting coercive force with coercive force, with no small persuasion from the cold to leave the area, I spit on her windshield and walked off to the gym.
     Psychologically, I'm still examining the beauty of this action.  On the one hand I could see how it would be argued that I was practicing empathy, of a sort, lowering myself to her level, and abusing the personal property of others for my own gratification, or as I saw it, the advancement  of the common good.  Inversely, I saw the veneer of my own civility stripped off in the combativeness that rose to the surface, and with it any pretense to a desire for dignified and respectful interaction.  This person's world-view was that personal wealth is not their own, and that we as a society must be forcefully brought together for the betterment of mankind.  We are at our greatest with a gun to our head.

...maybe I should have done the civilized thing and just keyed "I DISAGREE" into her door?

Sunday, June 26, 2011


Today started out well.  I always welcome a chance to go on a good roadmarch.  I got drenched in sweat, only an hour total out and back.  The shoulders felt fine, the feet felt great, and I was just feeling in fine form.  Life was good.
Lunch was a little more taxing.  Rope workouts, climbing a 20' rope more than a few times, some attempts more coordinated than others, some bordering on disaster, but overall successful.  My work ACUs were soaked and I did a rope commando crawl before leaving.  It went well enough.  I began putting my top on, when an old saying I heard somewhere ran through my head: amateurs practice until the get it right, professionals practice until they can't get it wrong.  Begrudgingly I took the top back off and climbed on the rope for another go-round with my arms screaming at me.  I went faster than ever, chomping at the bit. By the time I swung down, I was smoked.  I wasn't panting or out of breath, just worn down.  My big ass doesn't do acrobatics that well.
I was sitting in my truck in the parking lot, still wondering if I could recoup some energy for the evening workout. I had grabbed an energy drink at the shoppette to get me through the office work that was imminent, but that was for the here and now.  I decided to throw some Jack3d in the dry mixing cup and take it in so I could put water in when working out seemed imminent.  I had just put my phone down and begin throwing the scoops in when somebody from work has something that they simply HAD to show me. Granted, it was absolute hilarity, and I could barely believe it at the time.  Unfortunately for me, in my distracted state I wound up putting 3.5 scoops of the powder into my mixer instead of the 2.5 I meant to put in.
I've never used more than 2 scoops.  2 scoops so far has given me a slight jitteryness, a burst of energy, and temporary tourettes that generally entail yelling violent metal lyrics or simply "MURDER!" accompanied by maniacal laughter when alone in my truck.  I figured an extra half scoop would help out just a little.  Just a little more crack never hurt anyone, right?
Taking nearly 2x my usual amount, much less a half scoop more than is advised you ever take apparently bumps up the effects of Jack3d from a whiff of meth juice up to snorting a fist-sized clump of Angel Dust, cut with cocaine, cut with caffeine powder, with a little dab of LSD on top for garnish.
This is gonna be a walk on the wild side.

I put the 5-6 oz. water in with the unbeknownst double charge of Weightroom Crack in the comissary parking lot, and drove the 6 minutes or so to the gym, feeling the effects set in enroute.  Focus, with a slight energetic edge was setting in by the time I got there and was on my way in.  Halfway to the door, my phone rang.  I had to run and pick up some paperwork a few buildings over.  Short trip, but damn, was I FOCUSED on getting in there and getting my muscle pump fix.  I snatched the paperwork and hurriedly said my thanks on my way out the door.  I had work, well, lifting to do, damnit.
I should have known something was amiss when I felt antsy leaving the parking lot.  I had no desire to speed to get to the gym sooner, but I wanted to modify reality itself to get myself to the gym NOW.  My mind sprouted up sub-processes willing for space-time to fold so I could only be a step away.  No speeding would be involved then, according to General Relativity, right?  I simply wanted to make a fold in space, and slip between the curves.  Nothing odd there.  Just getting to the gym.
By the time I got to the gym the second time, shit was getting real.  My focus was narrowing, as if I were a democracy, and my biceps and back were holding a general election.  The vote was nearly unanimous, with 98% voting "LIFT! LIFT!" and the remaining 2% splitting between voting for Ron Paul and boobs.  Just some fat-ass double Ds.  That's as unanimous as I get.
Sign number 2 that I was straying from the path of concurrent reality from the perspective as you, the reader most likely know it was the pre-workout pee.  It was bright, bright yellow.  I took my multivitamin this morning, that's right.  I was entranced by the vivid colors of it, spreading as it hit.  It seemed to expand from it's point of impact, running in all directions.  Up, left, right, down, down, down.  Shit.  I was pissing on the wall.  How does that happen? Probably from standing sideways in the urinal stall, jackass.  I filled my mitts with towels and quickly sopped up the gross contamination. I had weights to pick up and put down repeatedly, and I'm not going to lie and say that I didn't feel a tugging in my nethers urging me to get on to them.  The weights, that is, not the nethers.  Well, not at that moment anyway.
By the time I got into the actual weightroom, I was a laser beam of bundled fury.  I was ferocity focused into a tight, white beam aimed at the pullup rack.  I had to lift my weight up, I was obsessed.  I was still smoked from the ropeclimbing earlier, so I could only accomplish 5 on the widearms of the rack without assistance.  Rest, the attack again!  Fuck, 3!  Why won't my arms just pick me up?!?!  I want them to so desperately, but the stupid things just refuse to pull that weight up!  I'm fully aware that they're already groaning in pain at me, but this is a side-note, like that fold in your sock when you put your shoes on. I don't see how this is related to me wanting to pull myself up a million times, but being unable to accomplish this.  As I got 3-5 sets into my pullup workout I decided that the only thing in the world I wanted to listen to until time itself stopped was Meshuggah's "ALIVE" album.  I put it on, and "New Millennium Cyanide Christ" was soon pouring into my ears in it's live performance polymetric awesomeness at the highest volume I could turn it up to without wincing every time Jens Kidman hit a power scream.
As this song tumbled along it's predetermined path into my ears, I began spinning a combination of it and the same band's "Bleed" into my vision of the perfect reality.  My overstressed psyche resolved the cognitive dissonance through transhuman fantasies and began envisioning how to modify my pathetic tissues into the perfect being.  Before the song was over, I was seeing in the weightroom mirrors not my own carnal, organic form using a bar and my biceps paired with latissimus dorsi muscles to conduct pullups, but the perfect pullup machine instead.

The most glaringly evident modification was the complete lack of skin. (intestines worn to shield the inward limbs) Unnecessary. Black muscle fibers and sinews are on display in all their mechano-organic glory, in addition to metallic gleaming from underneath, indicating that my I had indeed undergone self-inflicted fractures and I replaced my bones with bars.  My only link to anything other than the existence around me that was the pullup was the dormant wormhole set over my head as if it were a halo.  I had been installed as the savior and tormentor of this entire universe, my coronation ceremony being yet more pullups.  My legs, being detrimental and unnecessary to the pullup have been removed.  Bone stumps, sinews and dark gristle with black tarry streamers hang down from the hip joints, not being hewn completely clean nor cauterized in the Omnidimensional Creator's smooth haste to commence and be done with this, his pullup pocket dimension. It's irrelevant, really, because as in any closed universe the tar and motor oil like substances that intermittently drip down from the un-wounds (it's damage, of a sort, yet it makes me more perfect in form and purpose) never fall to the "bottom," they simply reappear above and fall down upon my upturned face as nourishment, yet this is entirely unnecessary, as I have bones made of aluminum, bleeding oxide. In a sheer stroke of outside-the-box thinking that cannot truly be outside the box when you make the box, I now have the drug of gods being injected into my pounding veins.  
Omnidimensional Creator, who else?

The pullup bar was not suspended as much as it simply *was*.  My world was a dimension devoted solely to the perfect pullup for eternity.  Pullups aside, it was void, a tiny, closed universe with a handle at it's center. The wormhole halo was a jewel in the crown of The O.C. 
It was around this point, I believe, that my Id, Ego, and Superego became 3 coherent entities within my head. It was like a sidebar on my computer that I could monitor.  (screams unheard, deafening thoughts) The Ego maintaining near-absolute control, obviously, but to actually have the Id and Superego elucidated so clearly was quite enthralling.
I found myself paying subconscious attention to females in the gym.  They were assigned colors for easy identification, luckily they were all wearing different colored shirts.  There was Red, Yellow, Blue, and Dark Blue while I was there.  None were categorized as being more attractive than the other, and the obvious question being asked was "why not?"  Any men accompanying them were strictly analyzed for threat level and cost/benefit of a potential battle with them for mating privileges.
In the meantime the Superego was surprising uninterested in sex.  It was was frustrated with my ineptitude to indulge in infinity pullups.  Somebody so well proportioned, muscular, strong, eugenic, and square-jawed as myself should have no problem doing whatever the hell they want.  If only I could somehow overcome the bonds that ATP and lactic acid placed upon my muscles.  Reality itself was inhibiting my accomplishment of my will, and therefore it was the enemy.
The entire time, my Ego was watching this and keeping the Id from throwing a 45 plate at Red's male friend when his back was turned, and assuring my Superego that we could not, in fact, do infinity pullups no matter how badly we wanted to.  Some unknown force was keeping me doing pullups and adjusting the assistance level so I could keep doing around 5 reps each set.  After about 20 minutes I had to have done 100 pullups and was drenched in sweat. My heart rate was between 140 and 150 and stayed there the next half hour as I continued to work out.
I soon established my attention radius around me; my "Hate Pie" as I dubbed it.  Anything outside of this pie was irrelevant, aside from the Id keeping peripheral eyes out for potential breeding partners.  There was lifting to do.
As I moved on to prone rows with 100lb. dumbbells (I was going to do 80s, but Red's male friend was doing 100s, so I was not to be upstaged) the Id was throwing out intense violent impulses and fantasies of general mayhem, likely in sync with the Superego.  I was an unstoppable killing machine, a true rival for the Hulk.  I was certain that if a man were to burst into the room with a .50 BMG machine gun, it would still take half the belt to put me down, in which time I would manage to close the distance and put forth a valiant fight before finally succumbing to blood loss.  I was a hero of legend.
After exhausting my upper back muscles I decided the next best thing to pullups, lat pulldowns.  At this point the Id had for some reason abandoned sex entirely and was focused entirely on crushing my enemies, seeing them driven before me. The lamentations of their women was secondary if not tertiary.  Anybody who did not do... something, and had done... anything, must be destroyed.  I was an unharnessed god of death and destruction, and mayhem was my right. At one point I may or may not have clenched my teeth and growled "please forgive the evil in me - the darkness within; ferocious, inherent demon, adrenaline gland resident." There's no way to be sure.
After a full 50 minutes of speed lifting what I usually do in an hour and half, the Ego decided it was time to head home.  I grabbed my bag and wobbled out of there, dry heaving behind my truck from sheer exertion from the day exacerbated by the ass-kicking workout immediately prior.  I was glad to be done, and finally the Id snarled and ran back into it's cave.
As I drove home I still had some equivalent of 'roid rage going on to some degree.  I swear during the final turn to the road leading home the driver of an Avalanche pointed at me to indicate something to his passenger.   I fucking HATE Avalanches.  It's the epitome of suburban cowboy cum gangsta-rapper wanna-be vehicle.  My primary thought was "ram him."  I was Harv in Sin City, and I would live through it.  The pain would be temporary, but the badassery forever.  The electromagnetic bonds of the molecules holding my seatbelt together would play along and enable me to simply fly through my windshield like Superman, crashing through the punks, at which point I would simply caveman bash his face in.  The hardest part would be aligning my truck so it struck his in such a manner as to project me straight at my intended victim.

Looking back, it was the most Metal day of my life, albeit entirely inside my own head.  I do realize that from a 3rd party perspective I just walked around the gym wide eyed, most likely mumbling a metal lyric here and there, sweating my ass off, breathing hard from speed lifting, and looked like "that guy" throwing up in the parking lot.  I probably gave the stink-eye to a dude in an Avalanche too.

If only he sold Jack3d, I could be the posterboy for "that guy."

Monday, June 20, 2011

Epic Burn

So, I've been feeling good about my weight losses lately.  Without even trying hard the other day I stepped on the scale Thursday morning after a morning of moderate weightlifting and a standard breakfast of eggs and coffee I step on the scale and see 230.0 smiling up at me.  Well, this morning I step on the scale before even eating breakfast and see 241.3.   I was not a happy camper, to say the least.
So, inevitably my inner bitch comes out at over the day, and while we're getting ready to do something I have to pull a "honey, does my ass look big?" or "am I still pretty?" moments.  I want the wife's assurances that I haven't gotten neck rolls in the past 96 hours. I even do the chick thing and sigh while turning to her as if we've discussed this subject ad nauseum and frankly I'm tired of talking about it:

"OK, honey, I'm having a self-esteem crisis. My weight's back up to 240, but all my 34 waist pants are still fitting like they did when I was 230."

To her credit, she even acted as if she was the husband who was quite frankly sick of my shit.  She just looked me square in the eye and in her best "you know damn well _____" voice, she shot at me:

Well, honey, quit stepping on the damn scale three times a day.

Not to be deterred form my estrogen powered pity-party (I must have eaten some soy at some point today) I did the classic chick thing and acted as if she hadn't even spoken:

I just don't get it. I don't think I've put on 10 pounds of muscle in the last week, but my pants are fitting the same if not looser than last week when I was 230.

Yes, I was honestly dumbfounded that a 26 year old active male's body weight could fluctuate 11 pounds based on highly active days (I worked out 3 times on Wednesday) as opposed to off-days (0 workouts and feasting on Sunday).  To be fully honestly, I was in no way, shape, or form fishing for a compliment, but the wife was in full-on husband mode and sick and tired of my crap, much less coming home from a full day at work to find me lounging on the couch, watching TV with the house a mess and no idea of what to make for dinner.

Maybe you should just stay away from the scale the week before your period.

Uff-da, that hurt.  It was a good underhand hammer blow right to the nethers that at that time must have resembled a Ken doll.  A slight bump but no dick, to be sure. Only at this point did I realize that I was in full-on Bitch Mode and in need of immediate course correction.  We had some pizza for dinner, and I wasn't going to prance around complaining I felt all fat or bloaty later, either.

Goddamn, I need to get some more deadlift and shooting in.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

The Whale

So, me and Tammy have Phineas & Ferb going in the background for the kid to watch while we're tending to... whatever.  This is a new episode with a take on "Moby Dick" wherin P&F construct a giant mechanical shark, and Candace goes about with a captain of a small vessel bearing a resemblance to Ahab. After some discussion on the topic, the wife decides to display her literary prowess by critiquing their choice of aquatic life for the step-brothers to pilot: "They know that Moby Dick wasn't a shark, right?"
At his juncture the shark had swallowed the Ahab-esque character, and he was interacting with Phineas.  My logical response is: "Yeah, and Moby Dick didn't eat Ahab, either."
Tammy replies: "Well, Moby Dick ate SOMEONE!"
I stop and consider what would cause her to say this, as Moby Dick didn't consume anybody that I can recollect.  Lots of dead people, yes, but actually eating them, no. The only correct response I could think of was: "Dammit, Tammy, you're thinking of 'Jonah and the Whale'."

After the captain's departure from the vessel Candace takes upon the dual role of Ahab and Fadullah or whatever his name was, maniacally pursuing the shark in order to "bust" her brothers, and in the ensuing mayhem is lashed to the machine's side via ropes attached to plungers functioning as harpoons in this tale.  I comment that with her extensive background bookish knowledge, the likelyhood of that reference going over her head was little to none, right?
"What?"  she replied.
"The part where Candice is banging on the shark, tied to it by harpoon ropes. That went over your head entirely, didn't it?"
"Why? is that in something else?"
"You've never read the book, have you?"
"The Bible? Yes, I've read it."
"Moby Dick, he's in the Bible, isn't he?"
"No, Moby Dick is in 'Moby Dick,' also known as 'The Whale.'"

In true Tammy fashion, as I'm sitting down to begin the process of saving these conversations for posterity, she saunters by and has to look over my shoulder at what nether of the Interweb I've visted this evening.  She was kind enough to bestow upon us all this final gem:

"...The Whale? What is that about?"

I will make learning occur, some day.

Monday, August 2, 2010

My letter to Beretta Customer Service

Before I kick off this tirade, a little backstory:

I was on R&R from Afghanistan (means I had to go back, it wasmid-tour leave) and I went to some gun store in Omaha with my family. I saw this Beretta pack ("Hunting Pack with Vertical Rifle Carrier") on the racks, and knowing how uncomfortable issued assault packs were,I purchased this unit to "upgrade" (hahaha!).  I wore it once to adjust it,and had the wife try it out to see if she liked it for hiking use later.
That's it.The 3rd time I put it on at the airport, the bottom of the shoulder strap,where it meets the pack broke clean off.  It popped, and when I looked at it, it looks like somebody had cut it with a knife.  They had the strap going in at a perpendicular  angle to the pack itself.  As soon as I put it on with any amount of weight in it, the fibers of the strap broke in a cascading manner, causing sudden and catastrophic failure.  I spent the next 4 days going back to FOB Salerno with a lopsided pack.I filed a complaint immediately upon reaching an internet connection.  It went ignored for 3 months, and I actually forgot about it.  I got a reply soon before going back to Nebraska for Block Leave at the end of my our in A'stan.  I derided them a bit, and let them know how displeased I was.  They mailed a pre-paid box to Nebraska for me to mail it back to them in.  I haven't seen hide nor hair from them since.  I sent several inquiring emails for the next 3 months until I get this beauty on JUNE16th!!

I have been out of the office on business travel the entire month of May 
and just recently arrived back in the office. I see a memo from our 
Virginia warehouse that they received your pack while I was away. It is 
being sent up to my office for  evaluation / replacement and will arrive 
next week.  We will move on it as soon as I have it in hand. 
Well, fuck me, right?  3 months, and it was because this asshole was 
out of town for ONE MONTH.  Did he take two weeks off after his 
business trip?  Christ...
I haven't heard anything from them since, despite sending more emails to 
them.  I finally decided enough was enough and sent them this beauty today:  
Nothing?  Nothing at all yet?  It's been almost 7 full months now, and allyou guys have managed to do is steal my pack back from me, and I'm still out the money I spent on it.  Christ, I could at least have a broken pack, but you guys didn't seem content with just selling me garbage, you must have felt compelled to stick me in Afghanistan with a crappy pack so it could break the 3rd time I used it, and then steal my crappy pack from me once I got home with it.  You also managed to throw in a complaint ticket of some other dude with a broken Stoeger Cougar handgun who had been ignored for a loooooong time as well.  I guess at least I'm not getting special treatment.  Is that why you felt compelled to throw that in? "Hey Justin, don't feel down.  We treat all our customers like crap.  We have military contracts!"

Keep your crappy pack.  Don't even bother replying.  I'm going to go shout from the mountain tops, and to every one I know what a bunch of crooks you guys are.  You told me that you didn't get around to my complaint because of a backlog of problem tickets.  Now I know why. YOUR STUFF IS GARBAGE!

Screw Beretta.  Seriously.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Shooting the .460 Rowland and ACOG

I finally got out to a desolate strip mine out in Jonesville last weekend, and put some rounds through my .460 converted 1911 Mil-Spec and my SR-556 with the ACOG TA31RCO.  I don't have any pictures, but things went very well.

.460 Rowland

Wowee!  I don't believe how soft this gun shot with CorBon 230 grain FMJ rounds advertised as running at 1250 FPS for 750-ish foot-pounds of energy.  Seriously, I don't believe it.  My mission for next week is to get out to the range with my chronograph and clock these babies, because if they're running near what their advertised, and it's actually shooting as soft as it did, I've found my new favorite handgun round.
The compensator almost entirely eliminated muzzle rise.  Recoil was almost directly backwards in line with my forearm.  I don't have any hard numbers, but every round of .460 I fired felt softer than any round of .45 ACP I've ever fired through my Mil-Spec.  I've heard people say to be ready to have mainspring housing lines in your palm, but unless CorBon is lying BIG TIME, I'm wondering what was going on with their .460 Rowlands.  More to come on this later.
I didn't get any groups, but I did notice that most rounds at a close-ish range were hitting low and the left.  If this continues at the range, swapping out of the arched mainspring housing for a flat one may be in order.  I'll also need a vice to drift the rear sight to keep it on target.  *argh* I need to put some rounds through paper with this gun!
Using a Wilson Combat 8 round magazine, I did have one instance where the slide apparently failed to eject the round, but managed to catch the mouth of the cartridge on the upper right edge of the barrel.  It dinged the brass, but a simple tap, rack, bang (as simple as it can be with a 24# spring) cleared it up no problem.  The brass didn't fly that far either.  Most landed a foot or so to my right from standing, one even landed on my forearm.  Again, if these CorBon loads are, in fact, moving at the speed they say, I'm going to have to bump down to the included 21# spring for non red-line loads to ensure smooth operation.  I'm going to low-load a few rounds and see what happens down the line.  Could you imagine what a GREAT combat pistol a 1911 throwing 230 grain slugs @1000 FPS would make, so long as reliability doesn't suffer?

...I've got wood.

SR-556 with Trijicon ACOG TA31RCO

I've found another new favorite this weekend in rifles, as well.  My SR-556, with it's 16" barrel, free float rails, bull barrel, and ACOG is going to make a wonderful "recon" type rifle.  Again, I don't have any hard data (yet) with the ACOG on, but after doing some playing and semi-accurate zeroing by just spotting for splash, I was quite literally walking my way down beer bottles using Tula's "Hunting Cartridge" brand 55gn. FMJ steel-cased .223 ammo.  I'm interested to see how fast these are moving, because they won't properly cycle my SR-556 on gas setting "1" while all my mid-high power handloads do. 

In closing, I'd like to apologize for not having ANY hard data here.  I hope to redeem myself with a cornucopia of datum on my 69gn. MatchKings run through the 1/9 barrel with the ACOG, 52gn. Speer Match HPBT rounds, 55 gn. FMJs, and the revealing of the mystery on this .460 Rowland recoil (or lack thereof) issue...