The $516 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws One Down
Shark America Nine Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 172
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Talk About Trigger Discipline
Today's code is "39th Day, Last Year".
I look around for the news I am looking for and I see none; but we are still in the zone, and Hope springs eternal.
I guess God has a better plan. Apparently no "Cherry Pop" today. God rarely takes my military advice. Go figure. My advice is aimed at ending America's torture-enslavement of me; God's strategy is aimed at ending the United States of America.
I see a news report that a recently retired ABC television newsman skied into a tree and died; another media weasel in Hell for bearing false witness; there's no news in that.
I see a city council meeting shooting in St. Louis, Mo, by a man who said the city had been harassing him, five or six dead including a couple cops, and a journalist wounded. Another media weasel almost in Hell for bearing false witness; there is no news in that.
The first American death in response to America's torture-enslavement of me took place in St. Louis some 35 years ago. No news in that.
I scan the horizon for the big story. In journalism, no news is bad news; to America's torture-slave, no news is sad news.
I reluctantly go to my slow news day file, looking for old stories that might like to see the light of day again.
How about the Little Miracle of the .22 Rifle? It's a backpacking story, and since I am in the foothills of the Sierras and a backpacking trip in July seems not out of the question, and since I am looking for a similar Little Miracle now, it might just fill the bill.
Back in my 40s, 50s and early 60s, I used to take month-long backpacking trips into deep wilderness; until the government pigs, realizing those hikes gave me health and happiness, began following me into the wilderness and harassing me...during those days I had a sweet little .22 rifle, the barrel of which fit into the stock and the whole package became a light, small, waterproof survival rifle that would fit into my pack and nestle among the oatmeal and the tea bags.
I generally felt no need for a defensive weapon, and I carried in mainly in case I might somehow become incapacitated. In such an event I could fire the little .22 repeatedly, three quick shots, as a distress signal.
During the day as I hiked I kept the little .22 in my pack, but at night I would put it together and load it, just in case. It wouldn't do much against a bad bear, but it would cause some distress to a bad human being.
In my many years of deep wilderness backpacking I found it rare to meet up with bad human beings...sure, they are out there stalking women hiking alone, and sure, I met my share of telepath torturers, those suicides of the soul that populate the United States of American from sea to shining sea, but I mean I rarely met up with human beings who might rob me or otherwise attack me.
In the few cases in which I did meet up with bad human beings those events took place near civilization, and the bad human beings were the same types of juveniles who would be into petty criminality in the cities, and backpackers camped near their little towns were convenient victims, the backpacks and sleeping bags and so forth being valuable pickings; and then there was the fun in attacking the helpless, a pleasure you psycho-fascist Americans know well.
So, it came to pass that one hike took me through the little mountain town of Hayfork, California, and for a few miles the trail joined a road, and then the trail left the road and went off into the wilderness again.
At a hairpin curve on the road there was a bridge underneath which flowed a stream; and it was late; and there were only two things I needed to camp when backpacking, water and a reasonably flat place to put my sleeping bag; so, it getting dark, I decided to camp by the stream although I would normally not have camped so near a road.
I cooked my supper over a campfire and by the time I had finished eating I was getting drowsy; so I put my little .22 together and bedded down, looking up at my own personal constellations I had created over the years: the Cowboy with the Cigarette marking the pass to Sirus; the Old Fox who looks exactly like the dog statues of the Egyptians; Sweet Mary with a halo; and others. They are old friends now, my personal Sistine Chapel ceiling, and greet me each time I bed down in the wilderness.
An uneventful night.
In the morning I prepared what was my ritual quarts of tea and oatmeal for breakfast, and waited for the sun to rise high enough to warm my camp, another favorite daily ritual, awaiting the pleasure of that first warmth of the day.
The sunlight hit a place by the stream, and I took my cooking pot and utensils there to wash them, while enjoying the last cup of tea, sweetened with brown sugar and lightened with powdered milk.
And there I sat in a dreamy mood, two weeks into my hike and two weeks to go, feeling good, feeling strong, reaching that state of mind psycho-fascist Americans loath me to be in, True Happiness.
Quite by chance--as if chance were an element of my life so minutely guided by God--I decided it was time to go back to my camp and begin packing up. I say "by chance" because something was going on that I was not aware of.
Two human boys in their late teens had pulled up in a pickup truck, the noise of their engine drowned out by the noise of the stream; and those two human boys were up to no good.
Now, Dear Reader, see yourself as a bird watching this scene from above.
See me, unaware of the danger, walking to my camp; see the the two human boys in fight formation about ten yards apart, also walking to my camp; our paths converging and putting them about 20 yards behind me; they saying nothing to announce themselves, anticipating a little plunder and mayhem; and I reached my camp less than half a minute before they would have; and still not knowing the bad human boys were approaching from behind, I picked up my little .22 thinking to disassemble it, and turned around with it in my hands and then discovered the bad human boys not ten yards from me.
They saw the little .22 and both as if on signal turned and fled back to their pickup, the bed of which they had planned to load with my belongings, leaving me bloodied in the dirt.
That little .22 paid for itself that day. No, I didn't shoot, nor did I have a right to because they were going the other way; but if they had continued toward me I would have killed them both right there on the spot.
Self defense is not only a right, Dear Reader, self defense is a duty.
It was lucky for me that I got to my little .22 before the bad human boys did; it was lucky for the bad human boys I have good trigger discipline.
That's the story of the Little Miracle of the .22 Rifle.
Meanwhile, in current time, back in the USA, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 39th day of its last year.
Shark America Nine Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 172
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Talk About Trigger Discipline
Today's code is "39th Day, Last Year".
I look around for the news I am looking for and I see none; but we are still in the zone, and Hope springs eternal.
I guess God has a better plan. Apparently no "Cherry Pop" today. God rarely takes my military advice. Go figure. My advice is aimed at ending America's torture-enslavement of me; God's strategy is aimed at ending the United States of America.
I see a news report that a recently retired ABC television newsman skied into a tree and died; another media weasel in Hell for bearing false witness; there's no news in that.
I see a city council meeting shooting in St. Louis, Mo, by a man who said the city had been harassing him, five or six dead including a couple cops, and a journalist wounded. Another media weasel almost in Hell for bearing false witness; there is no news in that.
The first American death in response to America's torture-enslavement of me took place in St. Louis some 35 years ago. No news in that.
I scan the horizon for the big story. In journalism, no news is bad news; to America's torture-slave, no news is sad news.
I reluctantly go to my slow news day file, looking for old stories that might like to see the light of day again.
How about the Little Miracle of the .22 Rifle? It's a backpacking story, and since I am in the foothills of the Sierras and a backpacking trip in July seems not out of the question, and since I am looking for a similar Little Miracle now, it might just fill the bill.
Back in my 40s, 50s and early 60s, I used to take month-long backpacking trips into deep wilderness; until the government pigs, realizing those hikes gave me health and happiness, began following me into the wilderness and harassing me...during those days I had a sweet little .22 rifle, the barrel of which fit into the stock and the whole package became a light, small, waterproof survival rifle that would fit into my pack and nestle among the oatmeal and the tea bags.
I generally felt no need for a defensive weapon, and I carried in mainly in case I might somehow become incapacitated. In such an event I could fire the little .22 repeatedly, three quick shots, as a distress signal.
During the day as I hiked I kept the little .22 in my pack, but at night I would put it together and load it, just in case. It wouldn't do much against a bad bear, but it would cause some distress to a bad human being.
In my many years of deep wilderness backpacking I found it rare to meet up with bad human beings...sure, they are out there stalking women hiking alone, and sure, I met my share of telepath torturers, those suicides of the soul that populate the United States of American from sea to shining sea, but I mean I rarely met up with human beings who might rob me or otherwise attack me.
In the few cases in which I did meet up with bad human beings those events took place near civilization, and the bad human beings were the same types of juveniles who would be into petty criminality in the cities, and backpackers camped near their little towns were convenient victims, the backpacks and sleeping bags and so forth being valuable pickings; and then there was the fun in attacking the helpless, a pleasure you psycho-fascist Americans know well.
So, it came to pass that one hike took me through the little mountain town of Hayfork, California, and for a few miles the trail joined a road, and then the trail left the road and went off into the wilderness again.
At a hairpin curve on the road there was a bridge underneath which flowed a stream; and it was late; and there were only two things I needed to camp when backpacking, water and a reasonably flat place to put my sleeping bag; so, it getting dark, I decided to camp by the stream although I would normally not have camped so near a road.
I cooked my supper over a campfire and by the time I had finished eating I was getting drowsy; so I put my little .22 together and bedded down, looking up at my own personal constellations I had created over the years: the Cowboy with the Cigarette marking the pass to Sirus; the Old Fox who looks exactly like the dog statues of the Egyptians; Sweet Mary with a halo; and others. They are old friends now, my personal Sistine Chapel ceiling, and greet me each time I bed down in the wilderness.
An uneventful night.
In the morning I prepared what was my ritual quarts of tea and oatmeal for breakfast, and waited for the sun to rise high enough to warm my camp, another favorite daily ritual, awaiting the pleasure of that first warmth of the day.
The sunlight hit a place by the stream, and I took my cooking pot and utensils there to wash them, while enjoying the last cup of tea, sweetened with brown sugar and lightened with powdered milk.
And there I sat in a dreamy mood, two weeks into my hike and two weeks to go, feeling good, feeling strong, reaching that state of mind psycho-fascist Americans loath me to be in, True Happiness.
Quite by chance--as if chance were an element of my life so minutely guided by God--I decided it was time to go back to my camp and begin packing up. I say "by chance" because something was going on that I was not aware of.
Two human boys in their late teens had pulled up in a pickup truck, the noise of their engine drowned out by the noise of the stream; and those two human boys were up to no good.
Now, Dear Reader, see yourself as a bird watching this scene from above.
See me, unaware of the danger, walking to my camp; see the the two human boys in fight formation about ten yards apart, also walking to my camp; our paths converging and putting them about 20 yards behind me; they saying nothing to announce themselves, anticipating a little plunder and mayhem; and I reached my camp less than half a minute before they would have; and still not knowing the bad human boys were approaching from behind, I picked up my little .22 thinking to disassemble it, and turned around with it in my hands and then discovered the bad human boys not ten yards from me.
They saw the little .22 and both as if on signal turned and fled back to their pickup, the bed of which they had planned to load with my belongings, leaving me bloodied in the dirt.
That little .22 paid for itself that day. No, I didn't shoot, nor did I have a right to because they were going the other way; but if they had continued toward me I would have killed them both right there on the spot.
Self defense is not only a right, Dear Reader, self defense is a duty.
It was lucky for me that I got to my little .22 before the bad human boys did; it was lucky for the bad human boys I have good trigger discipline.
That's the story of the Little Miracle of the .22 Rifle.
Meanwhile, in current time, back in the USA, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 39th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 7:59 PM
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