April 17, 2009
I kill pirates for a living.
Ever since this whole pirate thing started ramping up, I felt there was a niche market here that wasn't being served. I couldn't quite figure it out, until I read a single line. This single line locked the linchpin in place, and the entire idea appeared before me like one of those pictures you have to cross your eyes to see.
Piracy actually worked until the pirates became to high profile, to demanding and greedy. It was actually cost effective to pay them off and be on your merry way. Not so, anymore. Now the pirates have begun asking more than the trouble they're worth; and the shipping companies are in a pinch. Arming the crew blows the lid off the shipping company's insurance expenses, let alone the cost of training and supplying a crew, or the liabilities of even having arms present on a locked-down facility like a ship at sea.
Then it hit me - as long as the price point was marginally less than the ransom, a shipping company would find it cost effective to hire a security operation to kick some pirate ass on the high seas. So that's what I started doing. I applied for a small business loan and set upon the trail of living the American Dream! The loan covered my startup expenses:
4 36' Long Range Interceptors (for their low displacement, long range, and maneuverability), mounted with fore and aft 7.62mm guns and grenade launchers.
24 Paramilitary crewmen, maritime experience required. Special Forces experience a plus.
The great thing about the lightweight boats is that they could be carried by the ship and deployed as necessary, two per container vessel. This means I've got enough deck and crew to run two contracts simultaneously. Given that our cash flow would be nearly identical to pirate operations, we would be able to easily stay profitable. Future expansion would be based on profitability and demand.
Anyone know a few good men/women? Because Shankwater Worlwide is hiring.
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March 04, 2009
My parents were both military, so we moved around every three or four years. One of those times, we had the occasion to drive through Iowa, so the decision was made that we'd meet Grandma Cinda. We called her Grandma Cinda because that's what Dad called her. I didn't find out that she was my great Grandma Cinda until, like, yesterday (I kid). So we meet Grandma Cinda, and she's in this home (because that's what they called them in the mid '80's) and she's completely kickin' it! In reality, all I remember is that it was a sunny day, and she sat with us (?) at the front of her building. She was a nice lady. Give me a break you bastards, I was like, four years old. To go into a place like that and remember sunlight and smiling faces is amazing to me.
Anyways, we made our way to our duty station and less than a year later it turns out Grandma Cinda's place gets broken into by a couple of two-bit thugs and they beat the shit out of her for no reason but to steal her stuff. Cinda, to be redundant, was older than a bag of seed. So needless to say, getting into a cage match kind of took its toll on Grandma Cinda.
All I have to remember my Great Grandma Cinda is flash memories of the day I met her, a photo taken in heavy makeup after she was beaten and robbed, and a yellow t-shirt bearing the Hawkeye logo across the front.
Until today.
I got a box full of stuff from some cornhusking, flyover country living, Rush Limbaugh worshipping, degenerate (Of course, right? Because that's where they all live, right?) that dropped anchor on areas I didn't even remember I remembered.
Jen, your package may have seemed mundane to you; but it was awesome to see the Hawkeye logo again.
Mostly because it's, you know, BLACK AND FREAKIN' GOLD; which helps.
And yes, I do have a copy of this magazine. It's waiting to be matted.
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February 18, 2009
You know, there was once an ugly duckling who got picked on all of the time by the other ducks, who couldn't understand why the duckling was so ugly. But then it turned out that duckling wasn't really a duck at all, but was in fact a TOTAL FUCKING DICK.
Take this world-class douche, for example. Everyone is just hanging out, having a good time, and Mr. "My wingspan is bigger than yours" decides to unload on the scene. Even his swan friend is embarrassed. He probably does it all the fucking time because let's be honest: that's just what swans do. Me personally, I wouldn't be caught dead with a fucking swan.
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February 17, 2009
8:18pm - Rick Braddy. This dude is prematurely balding, and his pro-mo's not exactly accentuating the positive. He sounds like a bad lounge singer. I'm beginning to regret that I didn't stop by the liquor store on my way home. Maybe we've got some crappy vodka around here...
8:30pm - Alexis Grace. What.The.Fuck. I thought this show was about hot people with minimal talent who could be widely marketed to the drooling pop masses. Did they drop the 'hot' part this year and go for broke? On a lighter note, I did manage to find some Smirnoff in the cabinet. No OJ in the fridge, so I figure I'll just mix it directly with the contents of my stomach. At least the contestants will start looking better...
Paula Abdul's rambling like a homeless drunk, and I swear her eyelids are looking lazy. Maybe she's tripping. Wait, was that Ted Danson and Doogie Houser sitting in the front row? Now I think I'm tripping.
8:45 pm - Brent Keith. Oh God, but he's laying it on thick: a country song about poor crackers with pickup trucks and chicks who use White Rain. Are you kidding me? If this guy was from where I live, we'd mount his carcass on a spear Dracul-style when he got kicked off this show. He says he doesn't think that country fans will forget his music, and this is the kind of music he wants to make. If that's what country fans want, they deserve all the ridicule that's heaped on them.
Cut to commerical. This vodka is going down good, but it's making my burps smell like warm garbage. I guess that's what happens when you chase dijon-glazed pork loin and mashed potatoes with low grade swill from a plastic bottle. I'm going to fridge to find something, anything, to make my burps smell better.
Question: If a mousetrap snapped closed on say, a cats paw or tail, would that cause permanent damage?
8:50 - Stevie Wright. The hotness draught continues. Talk about marketable though, that girl should be selling ad space on that forehead of hers. She certaintly shouldn't be singing; if I had to guess I'd say she hasn't even done karaoke before. Damn. The judges are blasting her for sucking so bad, and the audience is booing. Fox must've packed the stage with a field trip from the school for the deaf. Cowell says her performance was so bad "I wanted to punch my own teeth out, fashion a cutting tool out of them, and saw my own bollocks off with it." That may not be exact, but it's pretty close...
8:56pm - Anoop Desai. As a Carolina fan, I've got high standards for this guy even though he looks like a total d-bag. He can sing, but he sounds like Boys II Men circa 1992. The judges are complaining about technical shortcomings with his singing. Dial 6 to vote for unibrow.
Cut to commercial. Hmm. The vodka bottle's looking a little light; and no one's getting any hotter. That's an uncommonly bad omen.
9:04pm - Casey Carlson. The hot draught may be bottoming, but we've got a long climb ahead of us. Talent is still painfully absent in all forms. This chick dances like Elaine Bennis from Seinfeld; and it seems that the judges are avoiding eye contact in hopes that maybe this will all just go away. The judges are passing this poor girl around like a 5-dollar hooker. Paula says "the guys" always say she's beautiful; I would like to respectfully enter my dissenting opinion. She only looks halfway decent because she's following three trolls, The Forehead, Unibrow, and something that looked like an starved wildebeest with pink highlights.
9:18 pm. Michael Sarver. Dude works on an oil rig, so I ain't saying shit about him. Normal people go to the gym each morning before work, but roughnecks get up and put people they don't like into industrial-size plastic shredders and make smoothies from the leavings. I notice the judges are aware of this as well, and adjust their commentary appropriately. The guy sits down on the couch, and Seacrest's panties moisten noticeably.
9:25pm Ann Marie Boskovich. The Wife and I agree that hotness has made its first appearance of the night. And she can sing too? Hey, there's a refreshing idea! Ted Danson's on his feet. The judges give her shit about choosing a difficult song, and she calls them on it; which is a moment of awesomeness that goes relatively unnoticed. Cowell says something absolutely retarded about how the real world is going to be able to tell she's not a true singing talent. Hey Cowell, the refutations of your hypothesis are legion, and one of them is sitting right next to you. Her name is Paula Abdul.
9:35pm - Stephen Fowler. Michael Jackson's music freaks me out, because even though he's singing about a girl, you know in his mind he's thinking about a preadolescent Macaulay Culkin. The singing is okay, the hotness level has begun heading back down. He tries to say that his performance sucked because he's not 100% ready. Newsflash buddy, it's the first week, neither is anyone else. If you make the cut tonight (ROFL) try not to be such a pussy next time.
The vodka is finally gone. I think we've got a bottle of white table wine in the fridge. Can you mix stuff with wine? I think we've got some Apple Pucker in the cabinet. Apples, grapes, they go together right?
9:48pm Tatiana Del Toro. This chick has annoyed me from day one. She's a drama queen with an annoying laugh. She also rolls her R's, but only when she says things like Peurto Rico or something. When I watch her sing, I feel like I'm watching the talent portion of some cheesey pageant competition. I hope she trips on stage, loses control of her bowels, and is shamed into spending the rest of her life in a cardboard box. Cowell agrees with me.
Tatiana then proceeds to talk over Seacrest and plead with the American people to fulfill her dream of being the American Idol. I think she'd make a better Miss Chiquita Banana 2009. Also, wine and Apple Pucker tastes like Kool Aid and hobo piss; but it's better than sobering up at this point.
9:56pm. Danny Gokey. I think this guy is a good singer, so I'm expecting him to make the rest of tonight's contestants look like pillocks. And wouldn't you know it, he is doing just that. The judges push each other out of the way to impact-mold their tonsils to the base of Danny's penis. Except for Cowell, who likes to play hard to get.
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February 13, 2009
Who will save humanity once evil is yet again unleashed? Is this a precursor to the final battle between good and evil? Apparently, we knoweth not the day or the hour, but I'm pretty sure we should all free up our calendars around the end of September; just in case.
That's right motherfuckers. There's another one comin' down the line; and it's a real son of a bitch!
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December 22, 2008
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December 11, 2008
First things first. If you've never owned a gun before, or didn't grow up around them (hunting, shooting, Beirut) I suggest making friends with people who did. Given the 38-40% gun ownership rate across the US, most of us know some responsible gun owners. Given De's location, if she didn't grow up around guns, she knows some people who did. There's a certain way responsible people act around guns, and it's a behavior that should be ingrained.
Me personally? I'm fairly cautious. The safety is not off, nor is a magazine in my gun, unless I'm actively aiming and shooting. When I carry the gun, even to the range, it's in a SERPA holster. Granted, this isn't really secure should someone with half a brain try to take the gun off my person; but generally people with half a brain don't try to take a gun off your person.
As for gun choice, that really depends on two things - learning curve, and how something feels in your hands. I started out with a 9mm, because I wanted to be able to fire hundreds (thousands?) of target rounds. 9mm rounds are fairly cheap. I can usually buy 50 target rounds for $16. The downside is that many enthusiasts will tell you 9mm rounds don't have any stopping power. As far as I'm concerned, some crackhead who's breaking into my house to steal a TV or DVD player is going to experience a moment of clarity as soon as I start shooting at their face. It doesn't matter if I have a .22, a 12-gauge, or an assault rifle. Being shot at does that to people.
Now on to feel. I have big hands with large knuckles, and as much as I liked the look and style of the compact tactical weapons, they just didn't fit. Some of the plastic ones felt top heavy, the grips felt small, etc. I ended up choosing a fairly run-of-the-mill Beretta 92. Turns out, this is the standard weapon of various police forces; so it's also fairly common if you're looking for parts and accesories.
But in all honesty, you should pic a caliber you want, and then pick something in that caliber that fits your hand. You'll know it when you pick it up at the store.
On to supplies. Of course, you're going to need ammo. Unless you have experience firing a handgun, you're going to have a steep learning curve. The shorter barrel means there's much more sensitivity to your sights, which is one of the reasons why many people choose a shotgun for home defense. Because of the steep learning curve, I suggest buying cheaper target rounds for practice, and then some ballistic rounds for the uninvited guests. Alluding to the earlier discussion regarding the "pant shitting" factor of being shot at,: being shot at with something that will put a hole the size of a coffee saucer in the back of your skull as it exits increases this factor by exponents. I recommend keepeing seperate, loaded clips of both. Since my gun never has a clip in it, I can grab and go for whatever purpose is neccesary.
Thankfully, I've never had to grab and go on ballistic rounds. That would generally mean having to pay someone to replace the carpet; and that shit is expensive.
Then there are supplies. One pretty basic cleaning kit (less than $20) will get you going. I usually clean after every time I go shoot, but that's because I generally fire close to 50 rounds every time I go. Renting a lane is fairly cheap, and there's usually no time limit. Make sure you get regular with one of the local retailers though; they'll usually throw stuff like targets or 10% discounts at you if you're regular.
When I bought my first gun, the shop owner threw me a 10% discount next time I came to the store. So when I came back, I bought 75 rounds, a cleaning kit and a holster. The guy threw thirty shooting targets my way.
Here's a photo of everything. The gun is top left, chamber open. Empty clip to the right, loaded clips just below with ther respective rounds. MagTech target rounds on the right, and the ballistic rounds on the left in the darker jackets. Below these the targets are rolled up, and below them you'll see the cleaning kit.
The second photo shows the SERPA holster. It's made from hard PVC plastic, and features a passive lock that prevents accidental release. You can see from the finger positioning that it is in a natural position if you're drawing, but if someone wanted to run by and grab the gun, they'd have a little trouble. Like I said, it works for idiots and not for smart people; but generally smart people don't try to grab a gun as it sits on your hip.
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December 04, 2008
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November 14, 2008
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Next - I was going to write a really good post regarding our current economic conditions. Scratch that. I DID write (what I thought was) a really good post regarding our current economic situation, and it got disappeared away. This is my attempt to reconstruct it. more...
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November 04, 2008
If you're a McCain voter, I suggest this quoted post at Ace's.
If you're an Obama voter, I suggest you spend my tax money wisely. You may not be recieving it for very long at all.
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October 17, 2008
If I had to vote right now, I'd vote for Joe The Plumber. Probably won't feel the same on 11/4, though.
I was also thinking, maybe a good way to celebrate November 4th each election cycle would be to vote, then go buy a gun. You know, make it a commemoration of my rights or something.
I was also thinking, if Obama gets elected and starts giving tax handouts to everyone who makes under $250k; I might just take my portion of this re-distributed wealth and donate it to PAC's that support the FairTax, or small government. It would make me laugh to think that entitlement was funding those who would fight against it; because fuck them, that's why.
And rounding it off, is a funny picture:
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October 05, 2008
Now, as much as sex sells, I'd be willing to bet that Taco Bell isn't hitting a large target market. Yes, many people like pink tacos; but NO ONE WANTS TO EAT GRADE-D BEEF AND CHEESE SAUCE OUT OF THEM. Well, in this day and age I guess I'm hesitant to say 'no one'; but statistically speaking it might as well be no one.
Advertising consults. Just another free service we offer here at SBD. more...
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October 03, 2008
So I decided to write something that made me feel better. Which, nicely enough; it did. It probably won't make anyone else feel any better though. Such is blogging. Dealio.
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God I'm so glad it's Friday. My favorite day of the week, without a doubt. And what another week it's been. As I walk into the parking garage I can feel the stress ebbing.
I walk past a convertible M3, and there's that gorgeous DB9. That is just a gorgeuos automobile. Athletic, elegant. Carrera, check. Oh wow, a GT-500. Don't see those often. Mazdaspeed3, nice choice. Quirky, powerful, fuel efficient. Soemtimes there's a Ferrari, but not today. I take the stairs up to the top level, and there's my car.
Before my ass hits the seat, I'm already feeling better. The car is so small and so familiar that I'm practically wearing it; like a swimmer in a speed suit.
Ignition. Windows down, sunroof open. Scroll through the music selection. For the first time today, my body senses the sun, the sky, and the temperature.
Backing out of my spot, I listen to the intake whistle as I tap the throttle. I swear I can feel the machine going through its pre-sprint stretches. Idling down the ramps and out of the parking deck, I'm watching the oil temp gauge. As soon as it warms up I'll know she's ready to run. Gotta get out of the city first.
In the city, we're just going through the motions. Traffic lights, mild early rush-hour congestion, watching for errant drivers crossing the lines, etc. I watch as a couple people run one of the lights and get their pictures taken by the city. Gotta hate that.
I round the bend on Wooster (or is it Dawson), and drive past the old homes and the basketball court. I like this small section of town. There's always people jaywalking and they're never in a hurry. Just hangin' on the block. Millions on welfare depend on me. Then I come to my last redlight of the day. Yes.
I'm sitting at the light before the memorial bridge, and I can feel the slight breeze coming off the river. Just barely there.
GREEN
First gear. 1 - 2 - 3 - 4,000 rpms. Second gear, climbing the bridge, third gear. The river's below me now, and to the south I can see the maritime giants docked at the port, the cranes ferrying their containers. To the north is the riverwalk, restraunts, bars, trendy loft apartments. I cross through the metal cage at the apex of the bridge and look over at the battleship. It's all down hill from here.
I punch it down the backside of the bridge, shift into fourth. Keep drowning the throttle some more, and I'm in fifth. The engine is absolutely singing as I cross through the tidal marshes on the Brunswick side of the river. The highway here is surrounded by marsh on all sides. The sun's shining off the still creeks and streams weaving their way through the high reeds. I cross the Brunswick river and pull into the off ramp.
I wind my way onto 133 and head south. Here the drive gets even more picturesque We're still in the relative marshland, but the highway is only one lane. Looking at the spanish moss hanging off the geriatric live oaks, you can nearly see the rice plantations that stood here hundreds of years ago. I pass a few modest residential neighborhoods, and cross Jackie's Creek. This tidal basin is constantly in flux, and today the water is at low tide; roughly four or five feet below pool. The road bends, and I'm rolling up The Hill to our neighborhood.
This is my favorite turn of the drive home. It's a 90-degree right-hander, wide entry into a narrow exit. I revmatch, downshift to third, and the engine responds with a chorus. 60mph...55mph...no brakesnobrakesnotyet...45mph, revmatch secondgear, initiate turn in, nooooo braaaaaakes...33mph across the apex and pouring on the throttle! YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! We're both screaming at the top of our lungs now! 7,500rpms, third gear, and the speedo blows past 65mph.
Okay, okay buddy. Settle it down, this is a 25mph zone. I back off the throttle and let the transmission bring us back to sanity. I meander past the ponds looking for gators or egrets, turn onto our street, and pull into the garage.
Clutch in, first gear, idle for a second or two. Driving really is a privilege. I turn the key off, the engine warbles into silence, and we both sigh.
That was fun. We should do more of that.
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September 29, 2008
"Well, it appears that last week you rolled through two stop signs, exceeded the speedlimit by 10 miles an hour on at least five occasions, and drove recklessly around corners. Here are your preprinted tickets, have a nice day."
Don't know how far we are from this type of scenario, but I can't imagine it's more than say...two years?
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September 26, 2008
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
Completely unrelated, but still awesome? Cars. Namely this one, this one, this one and this one. You mileage may vary. Oho!
Alright people, get out there and have a great weekend. Try not to think about collapsing global economies, LHC-triggered world-imploding black holes, nuclear brinkmanship, or Britney Spears' new album.
Everything's gonna be juuuuuust fiiiiiiiine. Inhale. Exhale.
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September 25, 2008
Anyways, whenever you would say something like "I planted grapes last year and I've still got nothin'."
Uncle Johnny used to go "mm-HM", and then fold his arms sort of thoughtfully. See, he knew that only those scrapply old Muscodines grow in the southeast. It would've been impolite for him to tell you that you're a dumbass. So he'd say "mm-HM" and after briefly scratching his stubbly chin with his thick calloused fingers, he'd steer you off to where you ought to be.
When Jen said that Bane had gone, I felt like saying "mm-HM." Bane used to comment a lot around here, and I could've sworn we did a "How Many Beers" with him, but I googled with no success. Add it to the list of things I should've done while I could've. Goddammit. "mm-HM" was where Bane existed on the spectrum of human emotion. While we were all chewing pseudointellectual cud and choking on diplomacy, he was spitting bullets and breathing fire. He actually said (blogged, wrote, whatever) aloud what we were all thinking while we were going "mm-HM."
Passion without a filter. A 527 in a Gremlin running with an open header. He was caustic, but you couldn't deny his drawing power.
Well Bane, if you're in Heaven - I hope they've got a shooting range. On the off chance you end up in Hell, call up one or two of your old favorites and shoot your way out. But try not to crack a smile while you do it. That might piss 'em off.
Here's to hoping you're looking out for us all. We could definitely use a gaurdian angel rocking a bandalero. more...
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September 22, 2008
As I'm waiting for the machine to spit out my crisply-minted fiat currency, I realize that someone is approaching me. Maybe it's just me, but having someone walk up to you at the ATM is awkward. Is it just me? I mean, if it's a friend or something, then it doesn't; but this was an obscure acquaintance. I say 'obscure' because it's someone with whom I've had a, and I mean a single, brief, conversation; but we don't know each other by name.
Anyways, this person is mumbling, and I'm looking back and forth between them and the machine as I go about my business. I can't quite make out what they're saying, but they're definitely trying to communicate specifically to me:
"sdfa, sthsg ugurowelo, kljh?"
Hmm. What is it Lassie? What is it girl?
"weui, rtr wertllyurt a dollar..."
Oh. A twinge of sympathy. We wade deeper into awkwardness.
"...sdpog ritiwe bakesale?"
Oh you've got to be kidding me.
I finally figure out that this person is asking me for a dollar, so she can buy something at the charity bakesale that's set up on a table adjacent to the ATM.
Don't get me wrong, I do have feelings. And at first I felt bad for this person who had to beg people for money while they went to the ATM. At least it was a good tactic, hit 'em when they're going to the source. But the act stumbles in the prestige, right where it should be hitting me full force. A dollar? Motherfucker, I'm at the ATM. I have no money, and in a few moments when I do have money, I am not going to have any dollar bills.
So you want a dollar (first nail in the coffin) and you want it for...the bakesale? You want my money so you can spend it on something nonessential. Yeeaah.
No.
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September 19, 2008
I'm thinking of all that's happened in the recent past, and how it belies the place I find myself in, here at the kitchen table. There was Ike, who kicked the shit out of Texas. Towns absolutely wiped off the map, people without power and water for what may be weeks; and worse. But where is that on my local nightly newscast? The talking heads are going on about our problem with rabid cats, or that a cement company wants to build a plant. WTF.
And then there's the economic news. It seems to me that the gloom-and-doomers have been heralding this day for at least a year. Stock markets climb a wall of worry. Americans are sitting on a sinkhole of debt. It's time to pay the piper. Well, believe it or not, somehow this bit of new became blurbworthy on my local innocuous newscast. Crammed for a few seconds between a peice on a reopened murder case and some guy who builds shrimping trawlers by hand.
And there's also the election. I won't go into specifics, but suffice to say I hope everyone's doing their homework; and I mean real digging. Read the sites you don't usually read, ferret out the partisan shit, and read the factual stuff. You'd be amazed what's lying under the facade of these candidates; and it seems we do really have to pick the lesser of two evils. I've decided not to talk politics with friends anymore, because there's one candidate I simply can't stand. The sad part is that the other one just makes me feel 'sort of' like I won't have to fear my government. This is making the local newscast. We're just enjoying the weather, I guess. Shit, the weather makes the news a couple times a day.
Where's all the in depth analysis? Report on the issues. Then report on the people and events driving the issues. Where are they why's? I don't give a fuck that the weather's going to be awesome tomorrow; I give a fuck about the stuff that really matters. How come I have to look that shit up, and you; as a news agency, the informers; only have to bring me rabid cats, cement plants, and the fucking weather?
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September 10, 2008
Anyways. This Coalition of European Research Nerds has built this thing called a Large Hadron Collider. If particle acceleration was NASCAR, the LHC would be the Texas Motor Speedway. A pretty good metaphor, since the LHC's main purpose is to act as a track around which nerds can watch subatomic particles smash into each other.
Well, they powered it up last night; and that was supposed to be the beginning of the end. The whole deal with this thing, according to the Chicken Littles, is that the experiments performed at the LHC will create black holes. Think of a black hole as the Michael Moore of gravitational pulls; it consumes matter at such a high rate that the vaccuum it creates as it gets larger and larger becomes inescapable. So you can see how the idea of such a thing being created at CERN would be cause for the Chicken Littles to worry.
However, the good news is two fold:
1) They won't start actually running the LHC until this weekend, so we have plenty of time to run up huge debts on Ferraris and mansions that we'll never have to pay for once the rift between matter and anti-matter is breached. Or something.
2) Since the LHC is located in Europe, we'll enjoy the sight of watching all of them get sucked in first. Hell, it should be televised. Maybe we can get ESPN to drop one of the college games and carry The LHC's Black Hole vs. The Known Universe.
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