Where a Hispanic Catholic, and a Computer Geek write about Gun Rights, Self Defense and whatever else we can think about.
Lucas Gage of Brick, NJ, in a clip posted today on his X account, called for all Jews to be slayed. The Jew hater said, They [Jews] are F*'n demons, you don't treat demons with respect, you F*n slay them.
Please reach out to the Brick PD: (732) 262-1100 and report him for… pic.twitter.com/mQ9CvH4oeM— Awesome Jew (@Jewsarethegoat) December 17, 2023
This psychopath is going to get people killed.
Be armed and be ready.
“Get up, I thought I heard something in the garage.”
I opened my eyes, startled. My wife was shaking me and whispering very loudly at me.”
“What?” I replied, still a little groggy.
“I think someone is breaking into the garage. I heard something crash in there.” She shook me again.
“Okay, fine, I’ll take a look.”
I rolled onto my side and swiped my finger across the top of my biometric gun safe. The door popped open with a thunk. I reached in and grabbed my 9mm and a spare magazine. I stood up, slipped my feet into the slippers next to the bed, and stuffed the spare mag into my pajama pants pocket.
“It’s probably nothing, but if you hear me yell, call the cops.”
“Be safe.” She said to me as I headed out the master bedroom door and down the stairs.
I held the gun in a one-handed low ready as I went through the main floor hall towards the basement door, turning lights on as I went. I was convinced this was nothing. We live in a very safe neighborhood, in a very safe town, in a very safe state. The last time my wife shook me awake thinking that someone was breaking in, two screws had pulled out of some dry-rotted wood on our back deck and one of her planter boxes fell. I fully expected to be crawling back into bed in about three minutes with another trip to the Home Depot and house repair on my weekend to-do list.
I went through the basement towards the garage door when I heard a loud crash.
The adrenaline shot through my brain. I was wide awake now. Something wasn’t right, time to get serious. I used my trigger finger to activate the weapon light on my pistol.
I got to the interior garage door, stood off to one side, reached out, and turned the latch to unlock the deadbolt. I listened and heard nothing. Quickly I turned the knob, threw open the door, and ducked back behind the basement wall. Still nothing.
Slowly, I came around, doing my best to slice the pie, scanning the garage with the light on my pistol.
My tools were all over the floor. It was a mess. I swept from right to left across the entire garage and didn’t see anyone. I reached over to the wall and flipped on the light.
What I did see was my tool chest. The top was open and all the drawers had been pulled out. Sockets and wrenches were scattered everywhere.
“What the fuck?” I said to myself.
There was nobody here. But how did my tool chest get open? That wasn’t an accident.
Then I heard a noise. Snuffling and chewing like a hungry dog eating out of a bowl. It was coming from under my workbench.
I squatted down and shone my weapon light under the workbench.
“What the fuck!?” I rhetorically asked the universe, much louder this time.
There was a thing under my workbench. It was sort of man-shaped, but the legs were much too short in proportion to the body. It was about two feet tall, with long pointy ears, and rough greenish-gray skin. It was wearing clothes. Not quite clothes, but rags tied together to fit like a simple robe over its torso. It had a short tail that ended with stiff gray hairs, and there was more stiff gray hair on its head. It had its hands to its mouth and was eating something.
It was eating my sockets.
“What the fuck!?!” I said for a third time, this time very directly at the thing under my workbench.
It turned its head to look at me with jaundiced yellow eyes.
“Ten millimeters tasty.” It said in a gruff voice.
It reached out one long, bony finger, and started rolling my sockets around. It picked out a deep socket between two long claws and put it into its mouth.
“Ten millimeters most tasty.”
“What the fuck are you?” I shouted. I had just been woken up from a sound sleep to confront a bizarre creature that was eating my tools. My brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders at the moment and my vocabulary was a little bit stunted.
“Gremlin.” The creature hissed at me.
I had heard of gremlins before. My grandfather had served as the flight engineer and top turret gunner on a Flying Fortress in the European Theater. He told me stories of how things would just go wrong on aircraft. Engines that had just been maintained would suddenly quit. Landing gear wouldn’t retract or go down. Parts were always missing. The aircrews jokingly blamed gremlins for their problem. As a kid, I thought my grandfather had been pulling my leg about them with his war stories.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I’m now up to six words. The brain is starting to get going.
“Hungry. Ten millimeters most tasty.” It hissed again, as it picked up a ten-millimeter, quarter-inch drive socket and sucked it down with a slurping sound like a fat guy eating oysters on the half-shell.
Well, that explained a lot.
“Oh, you mother fucker.” I grabbed the gun with both hands and raised it to a firing position.
The gremlin moved so fast I could hardly see it. It grabbed the pistol right out of my hands, yanking so hard the palms of my hands hurt. It jumped up on top of my paint shelf and ripped the slide off my pistol. With the tips of two claws, it pulled a small part out of the slide and stuck it into its mouth.
“Striker block plunger spring, tasty.” It belched loudly.
“Detent springs most tasty.” It said with obvious relish.
“Oh shit,” I said as I looked at my gun safes. There were claw marks on the metal, but they were still closed. The safes were built from much thicker steel than my tool chest, for obvious reasons, and they were evidently enough to keep the gremlin out and from eating my guns. My tackle box of spare gun parts had been cracked open and dumped out.
The gremlin must have seen something he liked from his new vantage position and hopped down to where the gun parts were. It scattered some of the parts, a 1911 recoil spring plug rolled across the concrete floor toward me. It grabbed a small zip top plastic bag, ripped the top off and dumped the contents into its mouth.
“Sixteenth-inch roll pins, tasty.” It said as it chewed.
“Human…” It pronounced human like hoo-man. “Make tasty morsels for gremlin. Human use tasty gremlin morsels in human machines. Big flying machines. Booming machines. Riding machined with two wheels. So many machine full of tasty morsels for gremlin.”
I lunged at the gremlin, but it was too fast. It hopped away in the blink of an eye onto my riding lawn mower. It grabbed one of the mower deck cotter pins, pulled it out, and stuck it into its mouth.
My brain fully woke up, and overcoming the shock of what I had encountered, came up with an idea.
I backed up slowly until I was against a shelf, keeping an eye on the gremlin, which jumped over to a quarter-inch hex bit driver set that had spilled on the floor, and was eating my T15 Torx bits.
I reached behind me with my right hand and grabbed a sixteen-inch pry bar. With my left hand, I groped around until I found what I was looking for, a 4×6 padded mailer. It was a package I had gotten earlier in the week and hadn’t yet gotten a chance to put away.
Holding the pry bar behind my back, I ripped the mailer open with my left hand and teeth. Using two fingers, I extracted a small zip top plastic bag. I held it out towards the gremlin.
“Here you go, you little bastard. I have something for you.” I said, trying to keep my voice from being too menacing.
It looked at me with its yellow eyes.
“AR-15 extractor springs. A whole bag full.”
Its eyes opened wide and started to bug from its head, as large as racket balls.
“Extractor springs and buffers?” It asked, its voice rising to a squeak.
“Springs, buffers, and o-rings,” I said, in as pleasing a tone as I could manage.
The gremlin made a squeal of delight as it hoped a few feet over to me.
I grabbed the top of the tag with my teeth and tore off the entire zipper section. I turned the back upside down and dumped the contents at my feet.
The gremlin scrambled towards me in a shot and started grabbing for the parts, when I brought the pry bar down on the top of its head right between the ears, as hard as I could.
It made a horrible shrieking sound as I drove the creature into the ground.
I tried to get away, but I grabbed it by one of its stubby legs.
It clawed at my arm. Blood welled up from the deep scratches it left in my arm, but I smashed it in the head again and again with the pry bar. Its skin was tough and its body dense, it was like beating a bag of dry dog food. A bag of dry dog food that was kicking and clawing and trying to get away.
It slashed at my right hand with its claws and I dropped the pry bar.
I slammed the little shit into the ground hard, still holding on by one leg. I put my knee onto its back, pinning it to the ground. It started trying to crawl out from under me, leaving claw marks in the concrete floor. I started reaching around wildly for anything I could use as a weapon.
My hand landed on my 20V brushless angle grinder. With one knee on its back, I grabbed the side grip with my other hand, squeezed the paddle trigger, and drove four-and-a-half inches of thirty-grit grinding wheel into the back of its head at 9000 rpm. The gremlin screamed as sparks and green blood sprayed from the back of its head. I pushed the angle grinder into its skull with all of my weight as it thrashed around. I was literally grinding its head off. The gremlin stopped moving as the grinding wheel started digging into the concrete.
I stood up, blood dripping from my arms, covered in green goo from the gremlin, the acrid smell of burning metal and concrete in my nose when I heard a hoarse voice say, “What the fuck is that.”
It was my wife, standing in the doorway of the garage, pointing at the dead, mangled body of the gremlin, holding her cell phone in her other hand.
“A gremlin,” I said flatly.
“What?” She said shakily.
“A gremlin. It was eating my ten-millimeter sockets, so I killed it with my angle grinder. Remind me to text your dad in the morning thanking him for it for Hannukah. It came in handy.”
My wife just stared at me.
“Here, hand me a lawn and leaf bag. I want to bag this up and get it outside before it makes more of a mess on the floor. I’ll clean up the rest tomorrow. I need a shower and want to go back to bed.”
My wife, bless her, grabbed a black trash bag out of the box on the cleaning supply shelf in the basement and handed it to me.
The next morning, I was in the garage, with the outside door open, cleaning up the mess from the night before. I was sorting out my remaining sockets when I saw a veritable refrigerator of a man walking up to my garage door.
“Hello.” He said.
“Yes, can I help you?” I asked.
“My name is Ownen Zastava Pitt, do you have a minute to talk?”
This wasn’t originally intended to be a Monster Hunter International fan fiction.
I had to replace my car battery in the cold and was having a hard time finding my 10mm socket. I thought about the stories of gremlins and thought up a humourous idea of a gremlin that eats 10mm sockets.
After several iterations of the draft, I realized it sounded much like an MHI section, so I leaned into it and just finished it off that way.
(1800 words)
How to open a can of worms… There are people who have the recipe they swear by. Yet, they will admit that there are other recipes that function nearly as well as theirs does. Bullets, on the other hand, have much stronger feelings.
We’ll start by breaking bullets down into two categories, bullets that transfer as much energy as possible to the target, and those that don’t.
I just finished some reloading. Many of the rounds I loaded were 55gr .224, Full Metal Jacket Boat Tail. Some were 55gr Soft Point Boat Tail.
The difference being that one had a pointy noise covered in copper. The other had the very tip, exposing the lead of the core.
Given that the size of that tip was maybe 0.080 in diameter, I did not expect to see any difference. I was wrong.
Using the super scientific test media known as “pumpkin”, I placed two small pumpkins down range and put 10 rounds into it. All hit. Nice grouping. There was significant damage to the pumpkin. It was still obviously a pumpkin.
I changed magazines, made sure the soft points were going where I wanted (rang steel). Then I went to put the last 10 rounds into the other pumpkin. I was only able to put one round into the second pumpkin.
That “soft point” round caused the pumpkin to fly to pieces. I ended up with pumpkin pieces as much as 4 yards from the point of impact.
This has shown me just how much difference there can be.
Part of the Heller methodology is the use of text, history, and tradition of regulations.
Not discussions, not proposed laws, not policy, but actual regulations. That is, laws passed by the legislatures of the state or federal government.
Today, it is pretty easy to gather the current laws. It is more difficult to get historical records. “The Court House burned down.” isn’t just an excuse, it actually happened, in several places.
Remember that in the war of 1812, the British marched into Washington, D.C. and burned large parts of it.
So what is a rogue court and an infringing state to do when they can’t find a regulation to match their proposed infringement?
Find somebody who made it up!
The quote was taken from the Duke Center for Firearms Law web page.
Something stands out in that “law,” claiming to be from 1792. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but our readers are much sharper than I am.
My memory is pretty poor, but I seem to remember that the American Revelation ended September 3, 1783. The author of this piece of “history” wants us to believe that nearly a decade later, North Caroline was still referring to the “King” and “Lords”?
This “regulation” does not pass the sniff test. I believe it to be fabricated. When it was fabricated, I do not know. But for the Second Circuit court to depend on it indicates that they did not treat their job seriously.
The Second Circuit then cites to —1786 Va. Acts 35. (Ch. 49, An Act Forbidding and Punishing Affrays). | Duke Center for Firearms LawDuke Center for Firearms Law, (last visited Dec. 16, 2023). This should be familiar to the Second Circuit, and to those of us in the Second Amendment Community.
A by-now-familiar thread runs through these three statutes: They prohibit bearing arms in a way that spreads “fear” or “terror” among the people. As we have already explained, Chief Justice Holt in Sir John Knight’s Case interpreted this in Terrorem Populi element to require something more than merely carrying a firearm in public. See supra, at 34–35. Respondents give us no reason to think that the founding generation held a different view. Thus, all told, in the century leading up to the Second Amendment and in the first decade after its adoption, there is no historical basis for concluding that the preexisting right enshrined in the Second Amendment permitted broad prohibitions on all forms of public carry.
—New York State Rifle & Pistol Assn., Inc. V. Bruen, 142 S.Ct. 2111, 41–42 (U.S. 2022)
In other words, the Supreme Court has already looked at this law and found that it does not support infringements.
I laughed so hard it hurt.
Me, fighting for my life the morning after Taco Bell: pic.twitter.com/wUKNwZoU0G
— Print Shoot Repeat (@printingguns) December 16, 2023
Since Elon Musk’s buying of Twitter, anything he does and says is now evil against mankind. And combine that with the latest fauxrage of hating on pick up trucks, you get stupid stuff like the tweet above.
Just for kicks, I wonder how a pedestrian, or an occupant of a light vehicle would fare against a very common and old vehicle like … I don’t know… oh yes! An 18-wheeler! And I say this because yesterday while stuck on traffic in Nashville, I saw the brief interaction between one of those behemoths against a (Not-So) Smart Car. It was nothing bloody or tragic, but a vehicle-to-vehicle contact and probably at low speed. Let me clarify that: It was a truck tire contact against the clow car which ended up with a circular damage on the left side of it., an almost perfect engraved circle. The cop taking the report and the trucker seemed to have a tough time holding their laughter and the owner of the Tonka wheels did not appear amused.
Given equal speeds, lots of steel will always beat less steel and lots of plastic. Some find that the hard way when requesting passage through the Pearly Gates or intubated at the local ER.
