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Decided our new incoming baby boy needed to be a member, meet Surprise Stevens SASS # 108349 due around the end of May.

Lately with all the talk about who should take RO training, how it should be done, and all the rest of the stuff that goes with it, we sometimes lose the point of why we do it in the first place. Granted that the more important reason were there is to ensure the safety of the shooter, fellow competitors, and spectators. And were there to help facilitate scoring and the things that go along with that. But we sometimes forget an important reason why were there. This past weekend I got to shoot a match down in Florida. Most people there didn't know me from Adam's house cat and that was just fine with me. I did have the opportunity to run the timer for a shooter or two. One of those shooters reminded me why it is that I sometimes put myself through the hassle of holding that box. This young man was too young to have been a participant in the original shootout at the ok corral, although he may have been a young witness to it. He needed a little extra help every now and then. Perhaps a second hand carry a rifle to the line or to the unloading table. Perhaps he need a little more assistance than anybody else on that range that Day to help him make sure that he hit the targets in a way that wouldn't have earned him a procedural penalty. there were times in the middle of his shooting strings when you had to think quick to figure out what Target to send him to next so that he can stay clean. But he hit all the targets that day, although we couldn't help him work his way out of that one procedural. I don't remember his times, I don't remember everything that we did to help him those 2 days, but I'll never forget the smile on his face, the joy in his eyes, and the gratitude in his voice when he would come up and thank you helping him get through one more stage. He was having the time of his life. Immediately started to think of other cowboys we have helped along the way. Sadly, I started be counting the number of cowboys who I helped them through their last stage. They're no longer with us now, except those memories that will carry me to the range and through the rest of my life. Experiences like that. The joy that one person can have on the firing line. Forgetting about the problems that they have. A body that no longer can keep up with the young man that's in his heart. Perhaps a body broken down buy cancer. Just spending some time at the range helps them forget about that. And if I'm able to help them out just a little bit, to shoot one more stage, and have the time of their life, please sign me up for whatever it is I need to do. Because, I'll be here for them.

I was invited by Rattler (John) to come down to Tucson and shoot with the Pima Pistoleros. Rattler said it was a nice group of folks - With some folks that I know and respect trying to make a real go of a small club. But since it is a LONG stinkin' way from Las Vegas to Tucson (410 miles one way) for a monthly shoot (I guess technically, it is a long stinkin' way to Tucson period - but that's immaterial); Painted Lady, Desert Scorpion and myself decided we would make a weekend out of it. I skipped out of work on Friday, (it's nice to be the boss sometimes) and we got on the road. Into Phoenix - right as afternoon rush hour began. (I have driven thru Phoenix an infinite number of times - I know you drive thru Phoenix either early - early or late - late and yet every time - I manage to do it at rush hour.) So after an hour and a half covering 20 miles of fabulously maintained Phoenix highways (I certainly hope they eventually find the folks in that Mini Cooper that fell into a pothole and vanished); we were thru and driving toward Tucson. Passing signs for Rooster Cogburns ostrich farm inviting me to "Pet the Stingrays" and signs for me to see the "THING" (mummified mother and child from the late 1800's and an assortment of oddities). I regale Scorpion and Lady with stories from my youth traveling Michigan to Florida and the myriad of roadside attractions from "See Rock City" painted on (it seemed) every barn roof and side to Mystery houses where gravity and physics were defied. Part of me wonders (somewhat sadly); with the advent of Google and smartphones, how many of these attractions have lapsed because the traveler no longer has to stop and explore. A few keystrokes and decent WiFi tells them all the secrets. We end up at our hotel in Tucson; unload the SUV and carry all our guns and gear inside. Then back on the road to "Trail Dust Town" (a longtime Tuscon western town themed attraction with Horse Soldier Museum, Pinnacle Peak Steakhouse, various shops, gold panning, quarter shooting gallery and Wild West stunt show). A cowboy steak dinner and we shuffle into the stunt show arena for deliberately bad jokes, intentional bad acting and pretty nifty falls and fights. My girls responding proudly when asked where we from and why we were in town, "We are here to do some real cowboy shooting... We don't use blanks" After pointing out the use of blanks ensures the actors can do a 2nd evening show - we clarified our game for the actors and audience and perhaps gained some interest. Full bellies and a long ride make for sleepy cowboys - so off to bed and to Pima in the morning. We make our way to the Pima Pistol Club and check in; as I stand waiting my turn in my stupid big hat, high waisted pants, suspenders, and striped shirt - The fellow at sign up still felt required to ask if I was here for the cowboy match? The match was a lot of fun - I shot decently (other than a 97 shotgun that went rogue on me); but ended up 3rd overall behind some really good shooters. Scorpion shot well and Painted Lady, well, lets just say she had fun. A really good group of folks and the opportunity to catch up with some old friends and make some new ones. We shook hands all around after the match and headed back to the hotel. A change of clothes and a quick rest. A little Google searching had alerted us to an Asian Lantern Festival taking place on the zoo grounds. So enter the address into the phone and make our way to Reid Park Zoo, adjacent to the ASU baseball stadium. We enter the zoo intent on finding animals as darkness fell; but as the darkness grew; suddenly we were surrounded by beautiful illuminated lanterns with intricate designs, patterns and meanings. A giant dragon (approx. 20 foot high and perhaps 40 yards long), reined supreme over the grounds, along with life size lanterns representing the animals that occupy the enclosures nearby. Asian troupes performed dances and tumbled to music. And all too soon; yet another day was complete. Desert Scorpion enjoys Renaissance fairs and the sight of an advert. regarding the Arizona Renaissance Festival in Gold Canyon sealed the deal - Painted Lady and myself were made aware, in no uncertain terms, where events Sunday would be taking place. Ok; no big deal. I have been to a couple Renaissance fairs with Scorpion here in Las Vegas; an hour at most - in and out. See some bad costumes - chomp on a turkey leg... We will be on the road home by noon. Uhmmm no. 300+ acres of festival grounds - theater groups - live jousting events - elephant rides (not sure where the elephants fit into the theme, but Scorpion and Lady enjoyed their ride). Jugglers, sword swallowers, mermaids and fire eaters. Lords and Ladies, Elves and Hobbits, Squires and Wenches (I do have to admit; I enjoy the wenches attire {or lack thereof}... perhaps i shouldn't have committed that to writing?) We leave the festival at 6pm closing time - dust covered and exhausted (and in the case of Scorpion and Lady - smelling a bit like elephant). Having zero interest in driving 7 hours home after this day - we find another hotel for the night. Going to dinner; we are served by our waitress "Raven" - when I ask if her parents were Edgar Allan Poe fans, she stares at me blankly. A quick, "Quoth the Raven, Nevermore" reference and she walks away quite unsure about the giggling sunburned weirdos seated in her section. I hope we sparked a desire to read the poem or at least inspired a smart phone look up. This morning was Monday - while most have started their work week; we are still playing tourist. (did I mention, it is sometimes good to be boss? Of course - I spent most of the morning on my phone putting out fires {poorly}) A casual get up and around - it's time to make myself a waffle for breakfast (tho it actually went, make a waffle, which was then promptly stolen by Scorpion; make a 2nd waffle which somehow ended up with Painted Lady), THEN make myself a waffle. (I'm not even a huge fan of waffles - but if your hotel chain provides me with the opportunity to make waffles - doggone it, I'm making waffles) I notice that we are not that far away from Wild West Mercantile; so yet another side trip is created and we visit the long time SASS sponsor. The girls keep looking at all the gorgeous finery and I keep pointing out the signs directing shoppers to the Bargain Corral... A horrendous beating of my Discover card and a few bags of goodies later and it is actually time to head for home. A tank of gas, a potty break or two and we are home. When the folks at work ask what we did this weekend - Ill keep it simple and say; we went shooting. And that's what we did - that's why my family piled into our vehicle and traveled nearly a 1000 miles. I love shooting; but the shooting is just a reason to go. And the shoot is only a couple minutes of shooting time. But the rest of the time - we laugh. We share stories. We explore. Make memories and grow closer. Like I said, I love to shoot... But I think, the real reason I love this game is all the wonderful experiences we have together because of the places we go shooting.

From the Handbook in the category rules for GF: "Both revolvers may be cocked at the same time but must be shot one at a time to facilitate scoring. " From the original post, this was not done. Therefore, it's a P for not following the rules of the category.

Last evening, 2/25/2019, I was out and took these two photos with my cell phone camera. We do have some nice sunsets here in the Tucson area. About a mile from my home. God is the Master Artist!!

I went over to the VA hospital for my monthly coagulation blood test (a five minute drive each was and no one is there on a Monday morning) and an old couple were there wearing almost identical baseball caps, the old Kind that weren't adjustable. Both of them were very elderly and there was a Marine Corporal in full Alpha uniform pushing the lady's wheel chair while the old man was holding the Marine's arm. I looked at the caps and did a double take. Both had the same wording on them "Japanese Occupation Forces 1945-1949." The man's had a Marine Cops emblem patch and the lady's cap had a "U. S. ARMY NURSE CORPS" patch. His had Captain's bars stuck to the top and hers had red crosses on either side. In five minutes I found out that had met in 1948 , he was 23 and she was 19, both assigned to the Occupation Forces. She got out and he continued his career for a total of 32 years. She went home to California and he met up with her there and they got married in 1950. The young Marine was their great grandson and he was home on leave and drove over from Las Vegas to spend a few days with "My very favorite heroes." It got sort of misty there for a few minutes. They got called in ahead of me and were gone by the time they finally found a vein and got my blood. I'd like to spend more time with them.

And Phantom thinks we share too much information about our firearms...

It was rescheduled and took place on Stage 5, inside the Saloon on Saturday at 5:30. The biggest thing that I took away from the meeting was that there seems to be a lack of enthusiasm within the TG group as a whole. Misty commented on the email that she sent out inquiring about interest in a Summit. She said that many TG didn't even bother to open the email, and many others expressed a non interest.. For the first time ever, I just sat there and didn't say a one word. IMO, the TG process has been circumvented by Mandates and creative "Clarifications". The TG are suppose to be the Rule Making body of the game, but with no effective voting mechanism in place, rule "Adjustments" are all done by a select few. Requiring the only votes to be done at a Summit just adds to the Apathy. Being involved as a TG should NOT be limited to only those that are wealthy enough to travel anywhere selected for a Summit. I certainly hope that things get back on track. We have come full circle at this point. It seems like all decisions are once again made at the top with little or no input from the Membership at large. That system failed in the early days and gave way to a very effective TG system which even though it had it's short comings, it at least provided the Membership with a Voice. That Voice has been Silenced. Snakebite

They are still "Dick's"........ OLG

That's like making a class on Elvis Presley history mandatory for a Bachelor's degree... Some of the worst informed shooters are the ones that have taken the RO course. They think they know it all cuz they're "educated". All one needs to do is read the manual, spend time shooting matches in a role that doesn't require decision making... Keep your mouth shut for a while and learn. But hey, that's just me... Phantom

Always an interesting topic. This is an example where benefit goes to the shooter has swung too far. I say this because I've personally witnessed, experienced and had to make calls and clarifications in cases where the shooter is living or dying on whether he/she gets the benefit of the doubt. If my game were to hang on that I would be looking to make some major changes. For me personally the constant pushing of the envelope and even being indignant to the rules does not make one heroic, it makes them annoying. We ask a whole lot of our TO/Ro's and spotters. Some are calling for immediate dismissal if a spotter can't keep up with a gunfighter doing so. Well sooner or later you are gonna turn around and there will be no one there to relieve you from spotting duties or with the timer. I'm already seeing it at WR and EOT, folks don't want to risk a possible combative shooter or be viewed as responsible for making a call. No matter how high the level of competition gets or how serious one takes it in the end we are a non professional game for a reason. Just like in any race don't be surprised if you scrape some paint while pushing the limits.

“Come for the Shooting. Stay for the People” Yup.

I'd be happy if we went back to when we didn't have a default position. If no starting position, stand anyway you want... Not touching gun (s) or ammo. Done

Sorry - adding that kind of time is pretty unacceptable and for multiple stages in a bay - clearly undoable

Get an attorney. Seems like the dealership should have caught those modifications, disclosed them to you, and told you that they voided all warranties.

Wanted one for a long time.

If you stay proficient at ejecting live rounds, the rifle reload practice takes care of itself.

Howdy all, For those of you that missed Winter Range and have not heard we (Howlin' Wolf and Ivy Wild) are the new owners of Mernickle Holsters. Bob and Sherrie are ready for retirement and is much deserved. The Mernickles have been an intricate part of the Cowboy Action Society and SASS for many many years, they are great people and great holster makers and we are excited to continue the legacy. They will be with us for a while in the transition phase to make sure everything goes as smooth as possible. There will be no changes to the company and we promise to bring you the great quality products that everyone has come to love. We will be traveling to more shoots and vending a lot more so if your interested in having us attend one of your shoots drop me a email and we will see what we can do. We probably wont be traveling a lot this year to ensure we have good handle on the business but still let us know. And as always Mernickle is proud to sponsor as many shoots as possible. Email me at howlinwolf2017@outlook.com Thanks and we look forward to working with you ALL H.Wolf

The CMP Garand I ordered February 9th shipped today and should be here Monday! WOOWOOOO!

Waiting is the hardest part.

I went to the doctor to complain about my hearing loss. He asked me if I could describe the symptoms. I said "sure, Homer's fat and Marge has blue hair".

I couldn’t care less. If somebody is wiling to pay you millions for whatever you do, it’s not my business. I’m neither disgusted nor angry. I’m much more angry at Big Pharma for what they do to all of us. And some politicians. And a few other people.

No call.

Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit (biss git) My cow died last night..... so I don't need any of your bull. ADVICE FOR YANKEES MOVING TO THE SOUTH: If during the snow and you run your car into a ditch (more like a Southerner running you off the road), Don't Panic. Four men in the cab of a 4-wheel drive pickup with a 12-pack of beer and a tow chain will be along shortly to pull you out. Don't try to help them. Just stay out of their way. This is what they live for. ..........Widder

Is the snake okay? Sorry Kit, couldn't help myself.

I hate time changes. Both of em.

How about the spotters getting up and following the shooter and getting a better vantage point vs. sitting on their butt and watching from afar. Spotting takes work, it's not just sitting around. Spotters need to be as focused as the shooter.

I've attended many WR, and IMO the match at this event was certainly one of the best. Target distances were excellent, and though the scenarios were not difficult, target placements provided a challenge. The WR organization is an absolute awesome machine. The amount of work accomplished is breathtaking. Motivating so many people to get so involved is a tribute to those doing the motivating. Even with the uncanny weather, the match was great. KUDOS to everyone involved. Snakebite

Local Southern Baptist pastor Pete Harrison resigned in disgrace earlier this week after admitting that he doesn't like eating casseroles.

Yeah...

In CAS we are particularly blessed with vendors, retailers, gunsmiths, etc, who sincerely want our shooters to have reliable equipment and/or instruction, delivered at reasonable prices. With deals made with a handshake-or a promise. No signatures. No contracts. Just old school values. SNS Casting is about an hour drive for me (2 hours if Shortcakes goes along to visit every antique store on the way). I needed bullets back in January, but the polar vortex kept most rural roads impassible. Plus I was down for a few weeks with foot surgery. Finally last week, weather was good and the stitches were out. I called SNS to see if they had the quantity on hand, as I was getting ready to head their way. "Can you call back in 30 minutes?" "We are loading a truck." No problem. I called back and got Jim Stinar, SNS owner, on the line. Jim confirmed the bullets were in stock, packaged and ready to go. I told him I would leave in about 10 minutes for his shop. He said he could save me a trip. Jim went on to say he was going to be leaving for a Peoria hospital to be with his daughter, as she was having surgery the next morning, and would meet with me. I told him he should just focus on his family. The bullets can wait. Jim would not have any of it. "I'm already putting them in my truck as we speak," he said. Wow. So on a cold February night, before his daughter had surgery, Jim Stinar took the time to meet me in a nearby parking lot to deliver bullets. The surgery was successful and she is doing just fine. A tip of the cowboy hat to you Mr. Stinar. Continued prayers and best wishes for your daughter's recovery. The cowboy way.

I personally don't like the new idea. Nothing wrong with the old way. Folks need to lower the hammer before they start loading. If there is a chance that they have a loaded round in the chamber (if there is no chance then why the extra step of "shooting into the berm") then what is to prevent them from tripping on the way to the shooting line and firing that round.

I was sitting in a meeting one time and a loud chicken squawking erupted from the phone of the Highway Patrol captain sitting next to me. "It's my wife" he said.

The Night Fred Shot the Cook Those of us who lived in the Kappa Phi Delta house lived well, indeed. There was always good company about; guys with shared interests, ranging from sports to poetry, theater to hunting, philosophy to politics. Shared knowledge for academic pursuits, including a file cabinet filled with several years’ worth of term papers and reviews of mid-term and final exams and profiles of professors. And of course, social activities. We were only a staircase commute to the legendary frat parties. And food. Food! Not only did we have a well-stocked pantry, but when school was in session we had a staff dinner cook. Sunday through Thursday evenings (holidays excepted!) we could count on a most marvelous meal served at six-thirty. All we had to do was check our name on the meal list and we’d have a spot reserved at table. Guests were always welcome, with notice, and for a nominal $2 fee would share in good home cooking. Sundays were always the best, with fifteen to twenty (or more) guys and guests sharing good fellowship as well as the fanciest meal of the week. Now, the cooks were usually students. And, as students, they would “serve” for one or two semesters before class schedules or even graduation pulled them away. These co-eds were more than happy to spend a couple of hours a day hanging out in the testosterone-soaked atmosphere of the Edwardian mansion full of jocks and scholars. And, although most indeed did possess the necessary skills, occasionally we’d get one whose interests extended beyond (or in rare cases totally ignored) the nutritional needs of the brothers and pledges. Needless to say, there were one or two whose primary mission seemed to be the pursuit of the coveted “M R S” degree. Consequently, we had a fairly consistent turnover. And over the course of a few years we got to experience an interesting variety of foods. Now, with birds, not all fly at the same altitude. So with the abilities of part-time fraternity cooks. Some were better than others for sure! After forty-five plus years, I don’t remember all their names. But the young lady who had the position when I was a pledge – fall semester, 1969 – consistently produced wholesome “comfort food” meals; pot roast and stew were standards. There followed a couple of girls who were reasonably decent cooks. Kept the guys fed, but neither they nor their meals were remarkable. Then there were those who were memorable. Shelley! Fairly tall, blonde, borderline gorgeous in a wholesome fashion, with a sweet personality to match. I doubt anyone remembered anything she cooked, but would swear that it was delicious! Visiting girlfriends were always sure to sit possessively close to their boyfriends during supper. Every pledge had a crush on this “older woman,” who must have been every bit of twenty-two. Oh, and the Gloria semester. Gloria! Petite… cute… attractive in her petite and cute way of wearing see-through blouses with floral-print undergarments. Make that cute in a “kid sister kind-of-way,” which I’m quite sure was not her intent. And although she was rather accomplished at turning out Italian dishes, she would literally bring along an assistant when the menu called for traditional American fare. Evidently the assistant’s “compensation” was the chance of landing a Kappa Phi man. The English girl was okay – sometimes. But the typical San Francisco male palate of the period was not in tune with kidney pie, bubble-and-squeak, or mutton. But she was pleasant; we managed. The best of all was Bonnie! That lady could COOK! She was not a student, and a bit older than most of us - probably late twenties. I’m not sure, but I think Half-Breed Pete came across her while grocery shopping – one of his duties as Kappa Phi Delta “House Mother.” Anyway, her meals were the stuff of Kappa Phi Delta legend – appetizers, main courses, and desserts! Desserts… remembering the time she made a batch of “special” brownies for her own use that somehow got loose… oh, but that’s another story. But, again, not all cooks fly at the same altitude… Before Pete took on the role of House Mother, we had Freddie E. And before Bonnie, we had Miss Vivian as Cook. But Miss Vivian was not a very good cook. In fact, the mere memory of her tenure makes me shudder and throw up a bit into the back of my throat. Not only were some of her dishes unrecognizable, even if arguably edible, but she was not exactly a fount of sweetness. Truthfully, her demeanor tended to be vapid at best, and went downhill from there, slipping to borderline surly. Might’ve even breached that border on occasion. She had to go. As difficult as it was for the mild-mannered, the “live-and-let-live” House Mother of the time, Freddie E., had to let her go. Fire her. It had never before been done, but as the Alumni Association’s in-house representative, the sad duty fell to Freddie. Besides… if he didn’t, he might risk being tarred and feathered his own self. And as I recall, he was highly allergic to feathers. So he did it. Advised her that her services were no longer needed. We were saved! Even if we had to share KP for a spell, at least we’d know what we’d be eating and know it wouldn’t kill us. B’sides, we had a few pledges we could press into service! Unfortunately for all, Miss Vivian would not stay fired. We never knew whether she didn’t understand what being fired meant, or considered that her mission was incomplete, as there may still a few fellas remaining who had not experienced cramps or land-based sea-sickness. Most likely because many of us had learned to skip house meals and dine elsewhere – attendance for Sunday dinner had dropped from twenty or more to as few as five or six – poor souls (like myself!) who didn’t have local parents or girlfriends to mooch off of. Anyway, even after her second firing, she was back and cooking – if you could call it that. Until that fateful Sunday evening… Fred G. (not to be confused with House Mother Freddie E.) and Jerry returned from another unsuccessful duck hunting foray. They were already tired and a bit grumpy, and when they walked through the front door and experienced the wafting fragrance of Vivian’s latest creation, they exchanged a glance. Jerry commented “Well… she’s back again. I can smell it. She’s up there, hunched over her cauldron…” They quietly climbed the stairs, up to their fourth-floor “Chalet Room,” under the rafters. Dropping their gear, they plopped onto the edges of their bunks and glared. “Dammit, Fred… what’re we gonna do? Eighty bucks a month room and board shouldn’t mean we have to EAT boards! I can’t take it anymore!” “I know, Jer… we gotta do somethin’. Let’s think about this a minnit…” Well, they thought. And they pondered. And they came up with a plan. A dandy of a plan! They were gonna be heroes! Half expecting the worst, on the way back from duck hunting they’d stopped at some hamburger joint to fortify themselves against the possibility – likelihood – of Miss Vivian having returned. Not only were they glad they had, but fortuitously, they discovered that they had a bunch of extra ketchup packets stuffed in their jacket pockets. Just the thing! Ten minutes later, Miss Vivian was in the kitchen. Hunched over her cauldron, undoubtedly focused on adding a half cup of spider web and some tincture of newt, when she became aware of a commotion. She paused in her labors, and looked up curiously as the kerfuffle grew nearer. Fred and Jerry were making their way down the stairs. Although she at first could not make out what they were saying, the argument was loud and becoming increasingly bitter as they approached and entered the kitchen. When they came through the door, Miss Vivian backed away from the stove and into a corner, large wooden spoon grasped in her hand and her mouth and eyes opened wide with bewilderment as the two young men quarreled. “I saw her first, and you WILL stay away from her!” Fred demanded. “Like hell! Debbie likes ME! I danced with her at that last party! I got her phone number! And I’m gonna call her and I’m gonna take her out and there ain’t nuthin’ YOU can do about it!” “Dammit, Jerry! You STAY AWAY FROM HER! She’s gonna be MINE!” “No way! You’re just a jackass – I’m goin’ for it and you can’t stop me!” “Oh, can’t I?” Fred shouted. “Like HELL I can’t!” And with that, he pulled up the small rifle he’d been carrying and, pointing at Jerry, snapped off three shots. Bang! Bang! Bang! Miss Vivian gave a short, squeaky scream with each Bang! She dropped the dripping spoon and stared in shock as Jerry’s hand clutched his chest. Red oozed from between his fingers as he slumped to the floor. His eyes fluttered, he gave a last, rattling moan, then lay still and silent. She screamed. A pitiable, wavering wail. Shocked at his deed, Fred lowered the old gun and dropped to his knees at Jerry’s side. “Oh NO! Jerry! I’m SORRY! Ohhhh…. Jerry… Jerry… Please be okay… Jerry…” Miss Vivian pointed at Fred. Accusingly, she screamed “You! You! You shot him! You KILLED him! YOU KILLED HIM!” Without taking his eyes off Jerry, he answered, “But I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to… Oh Jerry. Oh Brother… Please… I’m sorry!” Miss Vivian continued to point at Fred and scream. “YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM!” Fred again said, “But I didn’t mean to…” One more time, she screamed “you KILLED him!” Finally, Fred looked at her. “I did. I didn’t mean to but I did. And… and…” his eyes tightened as he focused on the shocked cook. “And YOU are the only one who knows!” With sudden comprehension, her horror reached a new level. As did her screams and screeches, which could be heard fading into the distance as she bolted out the kitchen door, down the stairs, out the front door, down the street and around the corner, decreasing in pitch with the down Doppler effect as she accelerated. “HAR Har har har HAR…!” Jerry sat up, gasping for breath as he howled with laughter, wiping the ketchup from his t-shirt with a dish towel. He and Fred supported each other, both guffawing with vigor, tears the size of road apples coursing down their cheeks, Fred still holding the blank-loaded ancient .22 carbine. We’ll never know how long they would have laughed if they hadn’t been suddenly interrupted. “FREEZE! Drop that gun!” They both looked up and froze as they found themselves facing the muzzles of revolvers in the hands of two of San Francisco’s Finest. Fred dropped the gun. They both raised their hands. “WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON AROUND HERE?” One of the officers demanded. Fred snerkled… Jerry grinned… and they started laughing again, which thoroughly baffled the Boys-in-Blue. “What IS going on here?” they demanded again. “Oh… nothing, really, Officers…” said Fred. “Bull Bleep!” rejoined Officer Number One. “We just were driving up Oak Street when some lady went screaming past us like she’d seen a banshee! I had to chase her two blocks before I could catch her… and she said there was a murder here! We have her downstairs, safe in the back of our cruiser. Now, for the last time, WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON HERE?” Well, between bursts and spurts of giggles and laughs, Fred and Jerry shared the story of Miss Vivian, the Cook-Who-Would-Not-Stay-Fired, and their solution to the problem. By the time they finished their tale, there were four guys sitting on the kitchen floor, streaming tears and howling with laughter – two still in partial duck-hunting garb (except for Jerry’s “bloody” t-shirt) and two in blue. Eventually, they all recovered to the point of functionality. And the two policemen recruited themselves as accomplices: “Tell ya what, fellas! We’ll take her home. And we’ll tell her that we’re gonna call the coroner and file the reports, but that the shooter got away and is still at large. We’ll tell her that the neighborhood just ain’t safe, and it’d be a darned good idea to NEVER come back here. Bet she’ll stay fired this time!” She did. * * * * *

It's all good till the coyote pulls a knife. Or an ACME flame thrower!

Congratulations, hopefully they're not using the same shipper that sends stuff to Utah Bob.

That way if the neighbors object it's a lot easier to put it back!

Temperature this morning was 3 degrees, perfect day to visit the NRA Museum in Bass Pro Shop in Springfield, MO. I thought you all might enjoy some movie guns! The Colt Dragoon from the original True Grit: A 44/40 attributed to John Wayne: Charles Bronson’s from The White Buffalo: William Holden’s from The Wild Bunch: Tom Berenger’s from Rough Riders: A rubber Walker from Josey Wales: The Quigley Sharps, the 1887 shotgun from Selleck’s Monte Walsh: Shorty’s revolver from Monte Walsh:

How about these?

Arizona says..” We rarely get rain and snow...” Mother Nature says..”Hold my beer!”