Few things can incite a revolution in South Florida like trying to cut alcohol consumption during a hurricane. Even though there are laws in place to ban the sell of booze during one, politicians know better than apply it since the only thing it will do would be to distract police resources and piss people off for no reason. If there is a place where chugging a beer while listening to the wind blow the roofs go hand in hand is Key West where hurricane parties are not only a tradition but a Conch Republic right.

And yes, shit happens to drunk people before, during and after hurricanes, but that is their problem. We had our very insignificant share of idiots who have decided to take a drunk drive while the winds are over 75 mph and disappear, only to be found a couple of years later in one of the many canals still wearing their vehicles. That is Darwin applied plain and simple. The majority of the partiers do so in secured locations be it be a home or the storm-reinforced bars that populate Monroe County so basically there is no problem.

Enter Craig Marston, division chief of emergency management and training at the Key West Fire Department. According to him, Key West People are too dumb to know what to do or to drink responsibly and wants to ban alcohol if a hurricane is headed that way because:

“We have to protect ourselves from ourselves,”

I am sorry Chief, who the blazes are you to issue such a condescending statement like that? Do me a favor and shut the hell up. We will call you only if and we need you. And you better be ready to answer to the calls and not engaged in creating social engineering plans for the better future of Eurasia.

A poor convicted felon is suing his intended victim for allegedly “roughed him up.” Michael Dupree is seeking damages for being stopped at gun point & handcuffed during a citizens arrest after Mr. Dupree broke into a van and stole a bicycle while under the effects of colombian pixie dust.

Pictured above is Mr. Dupree whose record is just quite exemplary.  Besides having his jolies with minors back in the day, he also served a stint for illegally carrying a firearm by a felon. If anything this is one more example that criminals (and the Brady Bunch) hate civilian ownership of firearms. Birds of a feather and stuff like that.

Is there some sort of sick gunsmith with a Bedazzler in Mexico? For the love of John Moses Browning, these people deserve to suffer slowly and die painfully…maybe by using the Bedazzler to their gonads. Click here for the rest of the painful pictures.

Hat Tip to GunPundit.

The last couple of months I have been engaged in doing some paperwork that led me to the consulates of three countries. I would love to inform that in this era of enhanced terrorism alerts, the security would be airtight since they insist you must come to their grounds totally disarmed but you would be disappointed. I understand that Miami is not a hotbed for terrorism, but maybe because of that it makes for a more inviting target, specially when one of the consulates I visited was a past target of terrorism by at least two different groups.

The first consulate was an accidental test. As told, no weapons of any kind were allowed and I thought I followed the instructions but I did not and not on purpose. A local Rent-A-Cop was at the door and ordered me to drop all metal objects on a basket before going through the metal detector. Keys, change, pen cell phone (turned off of course), Surefire 6P and my American Snipers steel bracelet were put aside and I walked through the magnetometer which, of course, beeped.  I started doing the patting-myself dance and I realized that I had my Boker Subcom Wharcom on my back pocket. I kept doing the pocket patting and the Rent-A-Cop pointed at my midsection and asked me if my belt buckle was metal (I wear a The Wilderness Instructor belt every day) I said yes and he waved me in! No second go around through the detector, no waving me with the magic wand,just come right in.

The second was the first official test. Again no firearms but this time I had two knives with me: An old Swiss army knife and a folding with a 4 inch blade. I also had my Leatherman which has a blade of its own so you could say I had 3 blades. This Rent-A-Cop was pretty much the same even if it was from a different company. I had left my American Snipers steel bracelet on my wrist so it would be detected and create a misdirection: It worked beautifully. I showed it to the Rent-A-Cop, he nodded and let me in without any further checks.

The last consulate was even easier. The Rent-A-Cop was so enthralled that I would walk around in the daylight with a flashlight in my pocket that he ignored beeps and alarms emanating from my person while he fondled it and listened to my explanation that buildings tend to be very dark places if the power goes out during the day. For this trip and knowing that this country had been the victim of terrorism for over half my lifetime, I chosen to carry only the Boker again in my back pocket. I thought this place would be a much tougher nut to crack, but it happened to be way to darn easy. As a matter of fact I was carrying one of those leather legal size pad holder that are very cushy and I could have smuggled a small semi auto with several magazines inside because Rent-A-Cop didn’t even check it.

All three consulate’s floor plans are designed for one-entrance-one-exit-both-side-by-side which allows for no escape whatsoever unless you are inside the inner sanctum. But if you are in the public common area and a gunman appears at the door, you are plum empty of fecal material because you will be sprayed in a perfect killing zone. Barrel Meet Fish. Internationals Gun Free Zones are no fun either.

The worst part? I have to go back to the damned places.

The poor abused illegal inmigrants staging a protest in front of the Phoenix Jail against them damned gringo racists.

Although breitbart.tv makes it about the Mexican flag, I am surprised that they did not catch the Cuban flag with image of Che in it. That is one flag I can tell you did not come from South Florida. Actually you would have a great chance to select which animal your carcass would be fed to: gators or sharks.

If you have problem with the video, here is a capture:

It feels like White House policy all of the sudden.

PS: I checked several news photos sites and they covered pretty good the protest and even the mexican flag, but nobody is showing the communist cuban flag.

I am of two minds about this. On one hand I hate to see the last of the true gladiator challenges disappear but then again bullfighting was not what it used to be when i was a tote. Never mind that Catalonia has become Spain’s version of California and probably have more weirdoes per square kilometer than  Haight-Ashbury, they are doing it out of some PETA-like bullshit common nowadays.

Bullfighting goes all the way to Crete in the 10 to 14 century BC when it was called bull jumping. Then it moved to Spain where it developed into the bullfighting played for ages and no on its way out.

In my pre-pubescent days, I remember watching once a week the summary of bullfights that had happened over the weekend from Spain, Mexico and other places. Talking about intense! Bulls back then were humongous animals with a bad attitude, specially the Miura line who probably killed more bullfighters than all other lines combined. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that earlier: Bullfighters regularly got maimed or outright killed back then. Loss of legs were common and even a set of testicles was left on the sand after a great bullfight. There was also the respected custom of sparing the winning bull’s life (or one that showed a great spirit) so again, it was pure gladiator clash of man versus animal.

Then at the beginning of the 1970’s began the pussification of bullfighting. Bad bullfighters or poorly trained newbies were place on the Arena and were getting their asses handed over on a regular basis. Some even ran away from the beast when it came out of the pen, scared shitless at the sight of the animal equivalent of a Ford EF with two lances attaches to the hood coming right at them. The Tauromachy Powers That Be, afraid that people would stop attending the fights, decided that it would be safer to even out the odds and breed a more gentle kind of bull for the events, a metrosexual bull if you like. And to make sure that breeding mistakes were not made, any bull demonstrating too much guts (or had the bad luck that the bullfighter was too drunk, tripped and fell on the horns by accident) was to be killed in the next bullfight.  Bulls now became as dangerous as ponies compared to their earlier ancestors and the rate of killing and maiming of bullfighters dropped dramatically.

Of course, the unintended consequence of this pussification was that the true fan of the gore and blood left the sport because there was no true challenge to the bullfighter. There was no honor on facing a scared oxen that would drop dead of a heart attack if the Torero would sneeze a bit too hard near it. So it became a slaughter of animals that were better suited for a petting zoo than the Colosseum and now that the PETA-Type Catalonian crowd intervened, they are gone for good. Better to expire than be a mockery of the men and animals that demonstrated more guts than many of their brethren.

And an old bullfighting joke:

This tourist goes to a restaurant Madrid near Plaza Monumental recommended by a buddy of him. He was told to ask for the house special on Mondays and he did so. He was brought this enormous platter of paella type rice topped with two huge meatballs. The dish was delicious and the guy polished it off. Before leaving, he asked the owner what type of meat were the meatballs made of. The owner smiled and said: “Dear señor, those were not meatballs, they were bull testicles.” The tourist was shocked but since the meal’s flavor was excellent, he did not only did not mind but made a reservation for the following Monday. A week later, the tourist is once more at the table ready to eat and the dish is served but this time the meatballs are small and puny. He calls the owner and points out the size of the portion to which the owner responds: “Señor, sometimes the bull wins.”

(rimshot)

Neither type!

I was worried there for a second… phewwwwww!

Hat Tip to Rustmeister’s Alehouse.