The will to win

Thank God for Michael Auberry. Living on the GA/Tennessee/NC border, I know how swiftly these hills can lose you. Rhododendrons are nice to look at in bloom, but they can easily become deathtraps.

The searchers found young Mike alive and kicking. He is home, embraced by loving parents. Prayers have been answered.

When Ranger Tina White gave a biographical outline of young Michael, I confess that I gave up hope, fearing the worst.

Lost in the sauce was an admission that young Michael plays in a “non-competitive” basketball league.

That defeated my—fortunately—misplaced hope.

I am so glad that this young Michael is a survivor. I was a Scout, and that training trumps political correctness.

This “non-competitive” stuff had me worried.

Children need to be taught the difference between winning and losing.

As parents, we will step into a bullet to protect our children. However, there will come a day when I, or you, cannot step up to the plate and take that shot.

“Non-competitive” sports are politically correct, and all the rage with some parents. Everyone wins; no one loses. This does not equate with real life. Children need to learn the values of winning and losing. If it’s just games, like basketball, then the lesson is taught without pain, fear, or death.

If, for whatever reason, a child finds his/her self in a situation where they are playing for mortal stakes, then a will to win may prove essential.

Young Michael survived his ultimate test. As one who prayed for him, I am exalted.

Politics!

From where I’m sitting, the political landscape looks pretty bleak. Osama Bamalama is matching wits with She-devil Clinton, who tried her hand at “blackspeak” by quoting a James Cleveland hymn in an African-American church a couple of Sundays ago. Obama may end up as another “suicide” in Rock Creek Park, following Vince Foster into the eternal silence of room temperature. Madame Clinton has the temerity to compare herself to John Kennedy, who would be classified as a conservative Republican, had he lived.

Since I’m a conservative Libertarian—yes, such animals exist—liberal socialists are pretty much non-entities in my book. They won’t get my vote; I’d sooner “waste” it on a Libertarian candidate. I generally run counter-intuitive and vote for Republicans, since they have traditionally been the closest thing to conservatives who represent a viable, electable political party.

I am disheartened by the plethora of Republicans vying for the job of most powerful man in the world. They are RINOs: Republicans In Name Only. Vilified as he is, George W. Bush wears some shoes that are going to be tough to fill. I have no problem with Mitt Romney’s religious faith, and wish that Der Arnold could bypass that Constitutional thing about only native-born Americans being allowed to be president.

John McCain is an honorable man, but I’m not sure I want him for a leader. Rudi Giuliani is also a hero, but his liberal social agenda will be his undoing in ambition for higher office. I have estranged children; don’t attack him for that. Like Chief Justice Roberts, heed the Pink Floyd song: leave them kids alone!

I once spent an hour explaining to my physical therapist why I oppose gay marriage, but support legal unions. The Libertarian in me accepts that people are going to do what they want, and it isn’t my place to tell them otherwise. Like teaching a pig to sing, it wastes my time and annoys the pig. If people want to make a go of it, no matter what their preference, I wish them well. What I do not want is for the government to stalk into my church and demand that I accept conditions that are morally reprehensible to me and other adherents of that particular faith. If people are faithful to their partners, they deserve the full regard of the law. Civil unions, yes. Marriage under color of religion, no.

The RINOs standing for public office are for some forms of religious acceptance of gay unions. They are also for taking my pistols away. I just posted a small piece on a 101-year-old granny who got punched out by a mugger. Follow-up news says he also assaulted an 85-year-old woman. Even the muggers in NY City are hunting this jerk. Both grannies deserve the grace of personal firearms for protection. Following his courageous punches at these these elderly women, I would have been highly gratified if one of them pulled a 9mm handgun from her purse and blew the bastard away. I am thankful that both grandmas survived.

Back to the political landscape: There are only two potential candidates who split any atoms for me. They are Fred Dalton Thompson, and Newt Gingrich.

Mr. Newt has a history of fooling around on his wives, and that’s going to kill him. His personal foibles have nothing to do with the keenness of his political acumen, but his failure to keep his pants zipped will result in the ultimate disqualification.

Ronald Reagan proved that a job of work as an actor is no way disgraceful, demeaning, or somehow disqualifying.

I don’t watch whatever show Sen. Thompson is currently appearing in. [One of those “CSI” franchises?] I have caught him in a few movies over the years. He is a natural actor, and pretty much plays himself. He is a serious man who can do a serious job.

I am extremely dubious about the future of my country.

I am ceding the coming election to the Dims. The American people want “a change”, and they are willing to drive the country to ruin just to see the look on other people’s faces.

Outrage

What a morning! Life in New York City continues apace. I turn on the morning news to make sure we’re not involved in thermonuclear holocaust somewhere, and I get greeted with security camera images of some thug punching a 101-year old woman.

That isn’t a misprint. The victim is 101 years old, and she is robbed of $33.00.

Fortunately, the lady wasn’t seriously injured, and snapped at a news camera about “What am I supposed to do [at my age]…chase him?” Gotta love her moxie.

Updates state that the NYPD has received over 1,000 hotline tips about this tough guy. Even the average hugger-mugger is disgusted with the behavior of this squirrel.

I suppose I’m easy prey in my wheelchair, if I habitually visited the city. My disability extends to my legs; I have no problem grabbing someone’s shirt front and hoisting myself swinging out of said chair. Semi-automatic pistols also level the playing field.

My grandma made 100; she was born in 1886, and died in 1986. I drove to her rural Wilkes County home to collect her for a holiday journey back to Atlanta; I walked in on her holding two men at gunpoint. Relieved to see me, they explained that they had only asked permission to use the telephone, because their car had broken down. At some point, Mother Mamie had decided that they might be nefarious, and fetched her H&R .38 to cover them until help arrived. All was resolved peaceably. Tow trucks arrived, and apologies were rendered.

No one punched my granny out. Like the child molesters I referred to in “You Can Hear a Rat Sneeze”, anyone who punches a 101-year-old woman needs to go to that desert island for life. The world is full of punks who steal welfare, SSI, and Social Security checks around the first of every month. Such robbery is a whole ‘nother six-pack of possums. Is there any justification for beating up grandma while committing the crime? I think not. I wish this centenarian had been holding a 9mm pistol in her purse. NY doesn’t permit that; they believe in “rehabilitation”.

This perp needs a stay in general population, with a lot of other violent individuals who have grandmas, elderly mothers, and families.

Nostalgia

This is a picture of the ex-wife and me, from the Swingin' 90s. There is no particular reason for it being here, aside from the fact I wanted to see if the Google™ monster would still upload a picture from my computer. It apparently will, despite the destruction and cherry-picking of other graphics files.
This is not a digitally altered photo. She is 4' 11", and I am 6'3".

When we visited the local malls, she would occasionally express paranoia. "People are staring at us...wondering how everything 'fits'".

I can assure you, everything "fit" perfectly. This is the mother of my children. I still love her; I just don't like her very much these days.

We made a hell of a couple when we did ballroom dancing. Slow dancing was an especial pleasure, as I always had the top of her head to park my beer and ashtray.

(That's a joke!)

The marriage didn't work out after 25 years, but the picture function here at Blogger™ apparently does...finally.

Maybe we can have some fun with images to enhance my points later.

"You can hear a rat sneeze..."

These were the words that Mark Lunsford used to describe the thinness of the walls in the trailer home where John Couey held his daughter while he raped her. It defies the imagination that the other three people residing in that trailer could not have heard the sounds of Couey committing his depredations, and it boggles the mind that these people, who aided and abetted this child-murderer, are walking free today.

Couey is a waste of DNA, and the death penalty is too good for him, unless he is also taped into a Baggie™ and buried alive in a shallow grave.

I have two daughters, who are fortunately adults today. People like Couey took swings at them when they were younger. I spent time driving the streets looking for those people, and fortunately for all concerned, I didn’t find them. (I was armed, and they would have been dead, and I would still be in prison to this day for killing them.) My daughters heeded their old man’s paranoia, and were not easily lured. They ran home and told their papa what had almost transpired. I went hunting.

The three people who aided and abetted Couey—their names escape me at the moment; just as well to avoid libel suits—are singularly ugly people. Not just because they are physically unattractive by any human standard, but because they have an ugliness of the soul that is beyond description. They knew what was going on in that trailer. They lied to the cops. One of them bought Couey a ticket to Georgia, to help him escape the police dragnet.

I have been in situations where I stood by and let events take their course, knowing the outcome would not be good for someone. That’s apples and oranges; my events involved adults, and the recipients of the negative consequences were not only adults, they deserved what happened to them, which was often grisly.

I have written here often about the murder of my father. I have some idea of what Mark Lunsford lives with every day, but I cannot fully comprehend his grief. My father at least had a full life before he was killed. The notion that one of my children predeceased me, especially by murder, would drive me insane.

Mr. Lunsford is an unlikely American hero. Like me, he has long hair, and favors baseball caps. He is the kind of guy I’d be drinking a beer with if I had a social life. Before Couey went on the prowl, I’m sure Mr. Lunsford was just living life and trying to cope with it. Today, he is a crusader for The Jessica Lunsford Foundation and a tireless advocate of mandatory sentencing for child molesters. He used the full word for “BS” on Bill O’Reilly’s show, in reference to the Florida prosecutors who refuse to prosecute Couey’s three accomplices. He apologized instantly for saying it, knowing that comments have to be “air conditioned” for content on international TV. Sitting at home, I was not only not offended, I muttered “Right on!” at the TV. It is BS that these three skate. Mark called it for what it is.

“Rehabilitative justice” is a myth, especially for child molesters. Other folks who have committed criminal offenses may find the gumption within themselves to change their lives, but baby-rapers are a peculiar breed. Whatever compulsions drive them to recidivism, they are also enabled by the leniency of the courts. Judges are reluctant to hand out appropriate sentences to pedophiles, under what they consider the “cruel and unusual punishment” doctrine. These judges are not stupid or uninformed; they know that other prison inmates, no matter what their transgressions, probably have wives and children. No matter what their social maladjustments may be, these run-of-the-mill convicts have no tolerance for “short eyes”, especially those who kill their victims. Most child molesters now spend minimal time in protective custody, and then are freed to return to snatching children and having their way with them.

Personally, I think every child-molester ever convicted should be sent to a desert island for life, if they haven’t quite crossed the line into execution territory. I have no problem with capital punishment, either.

John Couey deserves to die. I can think of few things, including strangulation, knifing, gunshots, or a blunt instrument trauma, that would carry the terror of suffocation and burial alive as a pathway to death. Little Jessica was a young girl, on the verge of having a life that was snatched from her.

When Jeffrey Dahmer was bludgeoned to death some years ago, I cheered. I didn’t have any personal interest; I just enjoy seeing evil permanently eradicated. What the courts failed to do, a convict handled. Business was taken care of.

I have a sentencing proposition for those judges who believe in “rehabilitation”. Give those child-molesters the time they deserve. Then, specify they be put into the general prison population, so the other convicts can explain the error of their ways to them. Then, if the state allows it, put them out on the chain gang, chopping weeds alongside the highway, where they are easy prey to a suddenly swerving hit-and-run car or a mysterious disappearance.

I have zero tolerance for murder, even if it’s an adult who might deserve it. My father didn’t deserve it, and Jessica never even had a chance.

There is some controversy today that lethal injection violates the Hippocratic Oath; those subjected somehow suffer. Hence, trained medical pros won’t administer The Really Big Shot. Okay. My EMT training included how to start an IV. I hate needles, but I’ll start the IV on Couey and, should he ever be caught and convicted, my dad’s killer.

Witnesses say the electric chair blows your eyes out and occasionally fries the subject in place.

I say, even better. Strap ‘em in! Talk about harvesters of eyes!