tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86048314222902083602024-02-19T08:56:34.374-08:00Ungovernable Evil MongersEnragés Against the MachinationsDoomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-88798581469334572162021-01-19T15:54:00.001-08:002021-01-19T16:08:34.337-08:00It's Like I Lost, But It Feels Like Victory<p> I read Trump's farewell speech, but I do not see it as a concession speech. I'm fine with egg on my face and crow in my mouth--I want to go on record with what I think.</p><p>Trump never mentioned Biden, just a different administration. I feel Trump is bound by a code, the code many have when they have learned to win and lose--you shake hands with your opponent. There is obviously the fraud issue, but if Trump truly were giving up, he'd shake hands and say "the Biden administration".</p><p>There is also the use of the word "luck":</p><p></p><blockquote>This week, we inaugurate a new administration and pray for its success
in keeping America safe and prosperous. We extend our best wishes, and
we also want them to have luck — a very important word.</blockquote><p></p><p> This, I believe, is pointing to what should be obvious, and will be obvious very soon.</p><p>There is also the talk of the greatest legacy and the best is yet to come:<br /></p><p></p><blockquote><p>This, I hope, will be our greatest legacy: Together, we put the American
people back in charge of our country. We restored self-government.</p><p>I go from this majestic place with a loyal and joyful heart, an
optimistic spirit, and a supreme confidence that for our country and for
our children, the best is yet to come.</p></blockquote><p></p><p>Maybe this is all just crazy copium. I will not call Q a lie, it is the greatest psyops of all time. Even if Trump fails, it did not mean there was no plan. There were, in fact, several. It just so happened they all failed. But how could you ridicule a man for failing against such odds? For me, the failure would only point me in the right direction. I know beyond a shadow of doubt who all the traitors and cucks are. I also know that Biden lost, and shitlibs are afraid. I also know we outnumber them. </p><p>Jedem Das Seine.<br /></p>Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-51520383565443457912021-01-17T19:37:00.000-08:002021-01-17T19:37:09.304-08:00Come and Take It<p>The Presidency, that is. So many guards for someone who clearly won without any fraud. But why are they so worried? Why are they trying to conduct loyalty tests and take away their ammunition? And there has to be a different security detail too? It just goes on and on.<br /><br />The anticipation is killing me, and I'm the one that's supposed to be upset about these proceedings.</p><p> I just love how it looks like a giant prison. <br /></p>Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-3621810566515813252021-01-14T09:26:00.001-08:002021-01-14T09:26:57.228-08:00That Glow in the Dark Party<p> Attending the very obvious false flag event on the 17th is even dumber than uploading images of both sides of your drivers license to Parler. Sadly, despite several warnings I suspect many will show. If you want trouble, it's easy to find, but set your own schedule.<br /><br />I want to see what Trump does. I know it's popular to act like it's all over, but I will wait and see. He doesn't give up easily, and he really has no choice at this point. There are still plenty of options left. You would do well to heed his warning about not showing up to that glow in the dark party.</p>Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-70051528979021373252021-01-12T18:00:00.000-08:002021-01-12T18:00:09.235-08:00WWGO...<p> It's nice to see so many tripping over each other to be the first backstabber. Traitors and cucks everywhere.<br /></p>Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-69312823453393827122018-05-14T15:52:00.003-07:002018-05-14T15:52:26.219-07:00Hands Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://www.liveleak.com/view?t=fdb0d18144">Don't Shoot</a></div>
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Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-78609333234160088482017-11-11T19:18:00.002-08:002017-11-11T19:18:58.010-08:00"The Mosin Nagant's Dirty Little Secret"One of my favorite comments on YouTube is in response to this <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtcvaXMT7zg">clickbait</a>:<br />
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Why do you feel need to fuck rifle? Is not sufficient as acquired from
russian army surplus? Maybe you with degree of technical engineering
should go piss on grave of Captain Mosin? Rifle is fine, you put shit on
rifle it only get heavy and you still cannot shoot anything you aim at.
You take down to range with all this ammo you buy and you learn to
fucking shoot. This worked for heroes of great patriotic war, it work
for me and my family it work for you. But you choose put rail of shitty
plastic where ladder sight was all that was needed, I bet you put on
shitty civilian hunting scope next. How do you use bayonet with giant
400x magnification scope of lazy ass who sit in air conditioned stand
and wait for food to come to him? Why you buy rifle made for combat and
fuck it in ass until it is no longer worthy of being cheap Chinese slave
worker toy? You are what is wrong with this world.<br />
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I come back to this comment after so long because I simply cannot ignore
how stupid you are with your shitty plastic rails, is not dirty little
secret, it is useless knowledge. No one is hiding mount of dove-tail
from you because is no reason for removings of ladder sight, look at PU
scope is design fit on side of rifle over top of iron sight while still
allowing bolt operations, why you want to mount pistol scope on high
powered rifle? Perhaps you cannot stand shooting anything without
something shitty and plastic ruining experience. Un-fuck your rifle,
stop being stupid and trust military designers, they know more about
weapon design than you ever will. Learn to shoot and stop bastardizing
everything you get your grubby cheeto dusted fingers on. Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-35877240291814090082017-08-02T22:38:00.001-07:002017-08-02T22:38:23.902-07:00Behold, Apocalypse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This was the end of June, the end of days. I tried to get on the highway but a colleague had already gotten into an accident, and everything was blocked. Fortunately he wasn't injured. I saw three other accidents before getting to his. I had to turn off the highway and was trying to use the back roads to no avail. I never made it to work.<br /><br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-64352723142879233792017-06-18T17:02:00.000-07:002017-06-18T17:02:39.012-07:00An Omen?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been a difficult year so far. We had two geese sitting on eggs, and we suspected only one of them would successfully hatch out. One was inside the coop, the other outside. Naturally, the one outside was the only one to actually hatch the eggs. She braved the elements, and most importantly, the coons... One night the geese all refused to go inside, and we knew they were finally hatching. By the next evening, none of the goslings survived.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-61863517234363291762017-02-18T18:58:00.000-08:002017-02-18T18:58:00.619-08:00Slab Jack<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I saw someone pull up alongside a bundle, cut the ties, lay some slabs on the ground, and then back up closely to the bundle. Intrigued, I asked about how he intended to load the bundle and he was kind enough to explain and allowed me to take pictures. He has a beam running across the truck for support, and he can lift a couple slabs at a time. He intends to use an electric winch in the near future. It took him quite a while to load the bundle, but without his slab jack he would not have been able to do this at all.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-26233184411253262722016-11-13T19:36:00.002-08:002016-11-13T19:36:24.169-08:00Pheasant CoopI helped out with a couple European style pheasant hunts at a hunting preserve and was fascinated with the process. The birds are not raised at the preserve, but they are housed there. One technique used to keep them from fighting so much is to turn the lights off. Birds rarely escape the pen, but not all of them are shot during the hunts (some of the ones I have seen are pretty bad--less than 50%). Some of these birds will try to get back to the pen and get trapped in a cage nearby. Unfortunately, there is a critter eating the trapped pheasants. It was assumed to be a raccoon, so I recommended getting dog proof traps, but it turns out it was a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marten">Marten</a>, which has not been caught since the last time I was over there.<br />
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<br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-79756944921397791252016-10-29T18:58:00.001-07:002016-10-29T18:58:38.250-07:00A Lone Man With a Gun<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Outside, Sergeant O'Brien was talking to nearby residents to find out where the militia had gone and why the checkpoint was empty. From my makeshift stool at the window I could hear one of our regular contacts give him the whole story, which our interpreter conveyed loud and clear. It was a tale of woe, from dawn to the death of a lone Iraqi officer who went down swinging to the very end. One of the shop owners from across the street had seen the whole thing. A few others confirmed the details. The rest was left up to our imaginations as we played "connect the dots" with the bloodstains in the sand.<br /><br />Earlier that morning, when the sun was still low in the sky, an unmarked white van had approached the concrete barriers of Checkpoint Grizzlies. Oblivious to their surroundings, the occupying platoon of Iraqi Army soldiers went about their morning rituals of drinking, frying up some chicken for falafels, and dicking off. Morale was at an all-time low. The men knew the routine and tried to stay out of the way of the militia, but their young and eager lieutenant was fresh out of the officer raining program and hopped up on ideology. He was eager to fight for his country and determined to make a difference, so he personally oversaw every vehicle search on the line. He even had the balls to arrest some of the "bad guys," and nobody was that excited to pay the price for his zeal. They all remembered what had happened the last time a young-gun got too excited.<br /><br />The white van came to a stop at the checkpoint and a couple of Iraqi men bearing assault rifles and wearing desert camo pants jumped out. They shouted instructions to the soldiers at the checkpoint, at which a number of them grabbed their rifles, got up and crammed into the back of the van. The rest stood there silently. Nobody spoke up. Sure as shit nobody went to fetch their lieutenant. When the van was full, the two gunmen slammed the door shut and drove off, disappearing into the city behind a cloud of dust. Nobody knew if it was the shouting or slamming of the van's door, but something woke up the lieutenant. When he came outside it didn't take long for him to realize what was going on. The militia had come back for their men.<br /><br />"Fucking traitors," he murmured to himself in Arabic.<br /><br />A number of his guys were gone, that was sure. He didn't know exactly how many, but long ago he pieced together that as much as half of his men were probably moles. The other half were a useless heap of bums.<br /><br />"What the fuck was that?!" he shouted.<br /><br />Everybody stood around silently as he scanned over the troops, taking note of the absentees he could remember.<br /><br />"Where the hell did they go?"<br /><br />Nobody answered him.<br /><br />Without skipping a beat, the lieutenant hustled over to the senior ranking non-commissioned officer at the checkpoint and grilled him about the van, who had gotten inside, and where they were going. He got nothing in reply. The man simply threw up his arms and shrugged. Nobody dared to speak a word. They were too afraid to talk. Facing blank faces with nothing to respond to his question, the lieutenant barked out his order before turning away to head back inside.<br /><br />"When that van comes back, shoot them before they get here!"<br /><br />Within moments he disappeared into the command post--the very structure we had assaulted and now held. As I looked around me it was obvious that I was sitting in the pilfered remains of the man's office. I tried to imagine what must've happened in the time that he had retreated to gather his thoughts, and filled in the blanks from what I had seen of him in the weeks before. I pictured a dozen scenarios. Each one left me overcome with sympathy for the lone soldier who was staring down his final days.<br /><br />I always believed that good beats evil. That light beats dark. That right will prevail. Hearing that story unfold, I was finally forced to face the reality that all he could do was die. The only question, I suppose, was what to do with the time he had left.<br /><br />After all, he had to do something.<br /><br />With the names of those who had deserted still burning in his brain, I'm sure he would have scribbled out a list for safe keeping. I suppose that the list in his hand was that something. As were his pistol and bulletproof vest. They were reminders that justice prevails, that he wasn't alone, that backing him up was an army of commanders who care, that one day Iraq would be free of this criminal menace. But only as long as somebody stood up and fought. These were concepts that were alien to everybody around him, but he had seen for himself that the Americans meant business. He knew they were here to make a difference. More than anything, he believed--and that belief was about to be challenged for the last time.<br /><br />"You're saying there was an argument?" Sergeant O'Brien spoke loud and clear to one of our primary sources who had seen the whole thing go down from his shop just north of the northern barricade.<br /><br />The interpreter translated the question, to which the man answered with a clear response.<br /><br />"He is saying yes." Our interpreter clarified. "Yes, there was an argument."<br /><br />"Ask him what it was about." Sergeant O'Brien turned his attention back to the man. "What was the argument about?"<br /><br />There was a moment of pause as the man considered the rest of the story. He knew that he was already in danger, talking to us like he had. For all he knew the militia could be just around the corner. At a minimum, he knew they were still watching the checkpoint. On days like today, the Americans were always too busy to look out for the little guy. He spoke up with these concerns and our interpreter made it clear he was on the verge of going quiet.<br /><br />"It's alright," Sergeant O'Brien reassured him. "My men have already cleared the checkpoint. There's no militia here."<br /><br />The man looked around to see if there were any windows revealing him to the outside world. There weren't. He was alone and, for the time being, safe. Sooner or later, however, we'd be riding off into the distance, and it was hardly in his interest to be the only person the Americans talked to--especially if we got answers.<br /><br />"Look," Sergeant O'Brien continued. "We're going to be talking to everybody that was here. Nobody will know you told us anything. I promise. I just want to know what happened here so I can put it in our report."<br /><br />As our interpreter translated his words, the man glanced around one last time to take in his surroundings. It was obvious we had the place surrounded, and by then he had seen us canvass a neighborhood a dozen times. Besides, we weren't the "bad Americans;" we were the good guys. We stuck to our word. That's why the Jaish al-Mahdi had lost control of Ur to begin with.<br /><br />He mulled it over in his mind for a little longer while our interpreter and Sergeant O'Brien did their best to keep him talking. Whatever it was that kept him going I have no idea, but he eventually got back to the rest of his story. The details, he explained, came second hand from his shop boy whose job was to hustle the soldiers into overpriced smokes and energy drinks. The rest was pretty hard to miss from where he worked. All of it would be confirmed in due time as we discussed what happened with the rest of the neighborhood.<br /><br />After walking into the command post, the platoon sergeant confronted his lieutenant on behalf of his men. In a sign of solidarity, he blocked the doorway for a private conversation, but let his words carry across the checkpoint so his men could hear what was about to go down.<br /><br />"Sir," he said. "Let it go."<br /><br />He let the words sink in. It was great advice. The lieutenant could just let it go. He could just let it happen. He could put down his weapons and slip into the militia's pocket to become another corrupt official of the new Iraqi Army. Corrupt--but alive. For a moment he probably even considered it, but the idea of surrender repulsed him. Not just because it was surrender, but because it was the abandonment of everything he stood for. A violation of his every word and worth. And if he surrendered, what about tomorrow? How could he lead a platoon as the man who showed up proclaiming honor and valor only to surrender in the face of fear?<br /><br />"Let it go?!" He shouted. "Those men are traitors!"<br /><br />"Insha'Allah," came the platoon sergeant's reply--if God wills it.<br /><br />"They are going to kill innocent people! Are you just going to let that happen?"<br /><br />"So what? You can't beat them. Besides, they're fighting the Americans now. If you try to get in their way, they'll just kill you. It's best to just sit back and look out for us."<br /><br />"Bullshit! We are going to fight! That's why we're here! That's an order!"<br /><br />"And what about your family?"<br /><br />For a second the young lieutenant froze in fear. Then remembered that nobody knew about his family--at least nobody there. He wasn't like one of those blabber mouths who chats away about the good life back home. No, he was disciplined. The militia was never going to get to his family. They could only kill him--if only that was as much of a relief as he had hoped.<br /><br />"I'm not going to sit here and let this happen!" he shouted.<br /><br />"Then you're going to die."<br /><br />His platoon sergeant looked back at him with a blank expression. It was a matter of fact. In a burst of anger, the young platoon leader lashed out with both his arms.<br /><br />"Insha'Allah!"<br /><br />But his platoon sergeant was unfazed. He spoke in a deliberate tone, still loud enough for his men to hear.<br /><br />"Do what you like, but none of us are going to die here with you."<br /><br />At that, he turned around and walked away, leaving the young officer to his thoughts. For a while, all the lieutenant could do was pace around nervously and grope for a plan. He still didn't know what to do, and the list of deserters was growing by the minute. Soon enough he'd be fresh out of troops. They could hear the fighting in the distance and they knew they were out-gunned. Perhaps most of all, word was spreading throughout the ranks about the insanity of their commander who was determined to die a hero. One by one his men put down their weapons and walked away. It was a simple as that. All their lieutenant could do was add a name to a list whenever another soldier walked away and try again, in vain, to get in touch with his commander.<br /><br />Where is he?<br /><br />All he could hear on the other end of the radio was static.<br /><br />It wasn't much longer before the white van was spotted coming back to the checkpoint. The private who had spotted it first stood up and shouted to the men all around him.<br /><br />"Here they come!"<br /><br />The lieutenant ran outside and looked down the road. In the distance, a shoddy van with dented side panels raced towards his checkpoint, assault rifles sticking right out of the windows. The soldier who had seen the van first stepped back from his machine gun while another opened up the blockade.<br /><br />"What are you doing?!" The lieutenant shouted. "Shoot the bastards!"<br /><br />"You do it," the young soldier snapped back.<br /><br />A few men chuckled at the exchange as the van pulled up and the door slid open. Another militia footman stepped out, greeted with a strong embrace by one of the soldiers on the line.<br /><br />"My brother!"<br /><br />"Kaseem! It's time. The Americans are coming."<br /><br />The foot-soldier turned to the lieutenant, then looked out at the soldiers all around him.<br /><br />"Get in!" he shouted.<br /><br />More soldiers piled into the van as the gunman turned to face the ones who were left behind. He spoke with a soft but very stern tone.<br /><br />"If you're not with us," he said. "Go home."<br /><br />Nothing happened at first. It was as though his words hadn't registered. After a tense moment however, the first soldier dropped his rifle to the dirt and walked off. The rest of them were quick to follow. Nobody bothered to stick around and see what happened next. The lieutenant stood there, blank-faced and stunned. He was completely abandoned and left there alone at the checkpoint.<br /><br />"What are you doing?" One of the militia foot-soldiers barked at him. "Get out of here!"<br /><br />The words were lost in transit. They didn't even register in the young lieutenant's mind. Inside he was a warp of twisted feelings: fury, terror, exhaustion, and patriotism. They tugged at his bones. They froze his muscles and daunted him with indecision.<br /><br />I must fight them! He thought.<br /><br />But he didn't know how.<br /><br />"That's the officer we were talking about!" One of his soldiers shouted from inside the van.<br /><br />"Oh! The fucking idiot!"<br /><br />"Yeah!" The soldier laughed. "Shoot him!"<br /><br />There was still no response from the lieutenant. He was lost in his own mind, groping helplessly for a plan. He tried to grasp how he had shriveled from an officer of a nation's army into nothing but a lone man with a gun. His mind turned to his gun. He didn't have a plan--just a gun.<br /><br />A gun and a fight.<br /><br />"Fuck you."<br /><br />He raised his arm and pointed the crusty, rusting muzzle of his pistol straight at the foot-soldier. With steady form he squeezed the trigger utnil the hammer gave way and the recoil of a 9mm casing kicked back on his wrist. The round was well aimed, slugging its target right in the chest. The foot-soldier doubled over and fell to the ground with a sharp grunt. His gasps for air gurgled through the new hole in his lungs as he struggled to breathe. Everybody froze in shock. The lieutenant turned his muzzle to another target and fired. Again, his target was hit square in the chest and fell back against the van. When the officer steadied his aim on a third target, he felt a sudden flash of pain in his gut, but he had already pulled the trigger when the world went dark.<br /><br />When he came to, the first thing he noticed was the filthy taste of desert sand between his teeth. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the earth, face down. The pain was next. It started as a dull warmth--the feeling of a hot compress or maybe a fire. When he clenched his teeth down, the pain evolved into a sharp stab. His jaw was broken. Shattered maybe. His first reaction was to moan, but the flexing of his torso brought another wave of pain. He was shot, too.<br /><br />When he finally managed to eke out a sound, it was nothing more than faint whimper, lost in a field of short, quick breaths, sucking down mouthfuls of dirt. He rolled to the side to cough up the dust in his lungs. His hands were already grabbing the site of the gunshot wound. when he filtered through the noise of the world outside of his pain. There was a frantic blur of yells and screaming. He rolled onto his back to see a man standing over him with a rifle in hand. The man swung his rifle into the lieutenant's skull and the world went dark again.<br /><br />This time when lieutenant came to his left eye was swollen completely shut. His head was throbbing. His hands were covered with his own drying, sticky blood. When he moved his tongue, he could feel chunks of teeth floating around his mouth. Somehow he was still standing.<br /><br />No, he realized.<br /><br />He was being held up.<br /><br />They dragged him to the top of the hill by the front door of the command post and dropped him down to his knees. He tried to kick, to fight back, but his muscles were sacks of water. With every fluttered breath, every twitch, every tortured moan, his gut wrenched with pain. They held his arms, with his hair clasped between the fingers of one of his captors. His body was quivering uncontrollably.<br /><br />Why am I so cold?<br /><br />Through the commotion, he caught a glimpse of the white van at the checkpoint. It was spattered in blood. Some of it a soft spray, some of it in long streaks, and some of it in smeared hand-prints of other men, trying in vain to save the lives of their friends.<br /><br />Three to one, he thought. Not bad.<br /><br />The thoughts calmed his mind as he turned to the blurry image of an executioner standing before him. The face looked familiar. He'd seen this man before, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Then, like getting hit in the gut, he realized who it was.<br /><br />"I told you." His platoon sergeant looked down at him with contempt. "Masha'Allah."<br /><br />He watched helplessly as his most trusted soldier raised a rifle to his face and flipped the selector switch to "fire." Looking back with defiance he calmed his mind to accept what was coming. A click and a flash was the last thing he saw. The bullet split his face in two.<br />
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Konrad R.K. Ludwig, Stryker: The Siege of Sadr City</blockquote>
Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-7937597993112988602016-10-03T03:11:00.000-07:002016-10-03T03:11:42.514-07:00CrowatoansWell, I never got my crows. It was a busy month and they seemed to know when I had plans for them. An acquaintance told me an interesting story about some crows that used to steal from his mom's feeder. He showed up at his mom's house one morning at her request because she kept telling him about the strange behavior of these crows, and sure enough, they showed up again. They landed across the street a couple houses down and walked, single file towards hers, up the drive, ate at the feeders, then walked away single file, and then flew off. The next day they weren't so lucky. The first in line was picked off with a .22 mag, then the second. The remaining three flew into a nearby tree where a third was shot, and the remaining two finally escaped.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-44609802155991176302016-09-29T18:07:00.001-07:002016-09-29T18:07:45.935-07:00Judicious Use<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I just heard about <a href="http://www.fda.gov/AnimalVeterinary/NewsEvents/CVMUpdates/ucm520110.htm">this</a> today. Don't think it won't affect you. Since the FDA is seeking public input, let's share our opinions.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ncmxPz-LcePijm2ThzaCBxVuPtX9OvbThhDQ6ffVb3TFT8DLK16eVjX3rzTya-WaJg6R2M4Kio9fzsCI6Q_2BaBv1nljXe2c31TS3oHtjaYecTzfAD0GTpdarJLAIBx2xyBGv92OgU4/s1600/20160929_141834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ncmxPz-LcePijm2ThzaCBxVuPtX9OvbThhDQ6ffVb3TFT8DLK16eVjX3rzTya-WaJg6R2M4Kio9fzsCI6Q_2BaBv1nljXe2c31TS3oHtjaYecTzfAD0GTpdarJLAIBx2xyBGv92OgU4/s640/20160929_141834.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-55248954147810113802016-09-28T04:47:00.001-07:002016-09-28T04:47:57.440-07:00Without a Doubt, Without a Shot<a href="http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=629_1474681402">This</a> is a good reason for open carry.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-59385621363049289102016-09-22T16:05:00.000-07:002016-09-28T00:55:26.088-07:00Soylent Greenhouse<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I like this simple chicken tractor design. The cover provides shade but also heat, which allows for earlier or later McMutant batches. It appears to be ~8' wide. There is a rope tied to the front which is used to pull the coop forward.</div>
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<br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-30765538469126614792016-09-21T11:26:00.000-07:002016-09-21T11:26:03.294-07:00The M&P Shield "Problem"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I kept reading and hearing about how the M&P Shield has this "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZGERhtZy4E">deadly flaw</a>"--the magazine is hard to insert. Well I finally got one in .40, and I really don't see what the "problem" is.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-55798090655383980152016-09-15T20:20:00.000-07:002016-09-15T20:20:11.532-07:00A Time for McMutants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We haven't raised any McMutants this year, but "fall chick days" are here and one store had 54 that were sitting around for 3 weeks so I bought them all for $1/bird. I couldn't resist. It will be interesting to see how this turns out. We intended to use the top floor of the new coop as a storage area and brood box, but we are behind so we are using <a href="http://ungovernableevilmongers.blogspot.com/2014/12/raising-turkeys-2012.html">Fort Aqaba</a> instead.<br />
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We lost 2 due to relocation stress, but overall they seem to be adapting pretty well. When you consider they were overcrowded in stock tanks for 3 weeks, and they ventured outside on their first day, that's impressive. There is a bit of a drop from the door to the ground, which is why there is a mound of dirt there. This was all last minute so we are improvising.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-13977212408930531372016-09-14T19:12:00.000-07:002016-09-14T19:12:13.985-07:00Dog Proof Victory DiseaseThe dog proof raccoon traps have been so successful for me I have gotten reckless. One night I set three traps, and as I was setting the third, I knocked the cross bar of the rebar stake off. I foolishly decided I would just leave it that way, I mean, I already have two other traps set...<br />
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Unlike some of the other dog proof traps, the three I set were all push/pull systems, and naturally the only one that caught a raccoon was the one without a proper stake to secure it. Awesome! So I saw that and set out to find where in the world my trap wandered off to.<br />
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Well, I got lucky...<br />
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<br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-42989406816426945662016-09-05T20:14:00.000-07:002016-09-05T20:14:21.911-07:00Skeet and Sandhill Cranes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We were out shooting skeet for a few hours, then three Sandhill cranes slowly flew directly towards the path of the skeet, over a mountain of guns piled atop a groaning hay wagon, and I just shook my head.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-65408623418284602632016-09-03T16:02:00.002-07:002016-09-03T16:03:05.246-07:00Grogan's War Surplus<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Henry P. was the proprietor of Grogan's War Surplus back when I was a kid growing up in the little town of Blight, Idaho. Gosh, even now I can see Grogan's in all its splendor and glory, just as if it were yesterday instead of half a century ago. The storefront itself was elegantly decorated with ammo boxes, jerry cans, camouflage netting, a limp yellow life raft, and various other residue of recent history. It was nice.<br />
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On the lot next to the store, Grogan had carefully arranged the rusting wreckage of a dozen or so military vehicles in such a way as to conceal what had once been an unsightly patch of wildflowers. Most interesting of the vehicles was a Sherman tank. My friend Crazy Eddie Muldoon and I would have loved to get our hands on that tank, but Grogan refused to let us have it. He said it would be irresponsible of him to let two ten-year-old boys drive off through town in a Sherman tank, unless, of course, they somehow happened to come up with the cash to buy it. Grogan had a strict rule about selling dangerous war surplus to kids. You had to be a certain height--tall enough to reach up and put the cash on the counter--before he'd let you leave with the goods.<br />
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I was Grogan's best customer--he always said so, anyway--and over the years he and I worked out this special arrangement. He for his part would try to sell me every rotten, rusty, worthless piece of junk he had in the store. I would buy it. We both thought the arrangement quite equitable, he possibly somewhat more than I. Long before I reached my teens, my bedroom began to look like a miniature version of Grogan's War Surplus. Except for my mother's objections, I probably could have invaded a small country all by itself.<br />
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Patrick F. McManus, Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing (New York: Simon and Schuster 1997), 111-112.</blockquote>
Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-6089382932053998132016-08-31T19:36:00.000-07:002016-08-31T19:36:23.234-07:00Bird BrainA customer complained that when he starts his UTV the engine does not run right and there is a weird smell...<br />
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<br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-78723087571408059452016-08-24T18:17:00.000-07:002016-08-24T18:17:44.222-07:00Ghetto Tail LightsSomeone was stopped one evening because his tail lights weren't working, and rather than fix them he did this:<br />
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<br />Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-87318641232707162462016-08-23T20:50:00.002-07:002016-08-23T20:50:34.788-07:00King CoonA couple weeks ago someone asked me the best way to get rid of raccoons so I showed him various dog proof coon traps. He bought a brown Z trap which has a push/pull trigger. Yesterday he showed me some trail camera pictures of an enormous coon that was terrorizing everyone. In one picture, standing near a buck, was King Coon, and he looked like a bear. It was ridiculous. Apparently his neighbor has been terrorized for quite some time by this "bear"--he actually thought it was a bear. His bird feeders knocked down and wrecked. One time he set a live trap and one of the side panels was ripped off... Well, King Coon has finally fallen to the mighty Z trap. The interesting thing about all this, is that this guy was messing around with some bear bait, specifically anise, and got this bait on his hands which he didn't wash when he set the trap. King Coon never bothered this guy's deer feeder until after he set the trap with anise covered hands.Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-57494936407585785832016-08-21T19:31:00.000-07:002016-08-21T19:34:48.623-07:00Crow<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Our greatest tribulation with crows came the time Brother and I took Bob VK out hunting with us. Bob's mother didn't approve at all. She didn't like guns, didn't want to see animals hurt, didn't eat game, was suspicious of farmers, and had other little quirks--like she hated our guts.<br />
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Dad used to say that she was so much trouble because she never got any. We figured "any" meant some nice pheasants and rabbits, but that didn't help either.<br />
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On the particular Saturday under study, we didn't get a single crow. No matter how we tried, or where we looked, there weren't any crows around to cause trouble. On our way back to town, we finally found where they all were. Sitting in an oak tree watching a tomcat not one hundred feet from the Glen Oaks Road.<br />
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Now for those of you who don't know, Glen Oaks Road is a very exclusive section of the county. Nothing less than a quarter of a million on ten acres is ever permitted.<br />
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"Why," said bloodthirsty Bob, "can't we shoot some of these crows?"<br />
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"Because," said my always practical brother, "these people out here have big, ass-grabbing Dobermans, and they will sic them on us if we go on their property to shoot crows, that's why."<br />
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"Well," continued our friend Bob, "I could ride on the tailgate of the station wagon and blast the black bastards as we go by. You could give it the gas, and we would be gone before anyone knew what happened."<br />
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"Keep down," I hollered, as Bob and Brother opened the rear window and put down the tailgate. "Keep that gun out of sight."<br />
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Gracefully we glided up to the crow-covered oak.<br />
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In an instant, just as though he had trained all his life for this one moment, Bob sat up on he tailgate, poked the gun out, and shot. I canned the throttle and burned rubber one hundred yards down the road, making our getaway.<br />
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By the time we were doing seventy, I could tell something was wrong. Brother was screaming his head off and looking generally more distraught than usual. A glance in the rear view mirror confirmed my worst suspicion. There, honest-to-God, was Bob still rolling end over end of the middle of the highway. Jackets, stuffed owls, shells, sweaters, gun cases, and other miscellaneous gear lay strewn down the road. It looked like the garbage man was exercising some sort of retribution on the residents of Glen Oaks Road.<br />
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I slammed on the brakes. Every piece of gear that hadn't slid out the rear of the open staiton wagon careened to the front of the vehicle, engulfing us in a wave of hunting junk.<br />
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Bob came limping up, bloody and beaten. His clothes were tattered. "Look," he said. "I kept the gun down."<br />
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At that point it didn't matter anymore. Traffic stopped while we collected our stuff. Bob lay in the back of the car trying to be inconspicuous.<br />
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I don't know what Bob told his mother, but it apparently wasn't imaginative enough. She never did sanction his hunting with us again.<br />
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Ragnar Benson, Ragnar's Tall Tales (Boulder: Paladin Press 1983), 21-23.</blockquote>
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Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8604831422290208360.post-30425874550164193692016-08-20T18:49:00.002-07:002016-08-21T19:34:29.042-07:00Red Badge of Courage<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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The first time I caught a badger, I thought the Russians had dropped a bomb on my set. Then I saw the badger in the trap. But soon I caught a couple more of them and I realized that it's about the same thing. My friend Jimmy Hill trapped with me some while I was in high school. Now Jim caught a badger one day and clobbered it good with a broken hickory shovel handle. The badger moved, so he clobbered it a couple more times. Convinced it was finally dead, we then put it in a gunnysack, Jim tossed it over his shoulder and we headed for home. 'Bout halfway, the badger decided he didn't like the confinement of a gunnysack. The easiest way out was through the side of the sack, which would have been fine had Jim's back not been in the way. Now, if you've never seen a badger's front claws, you are in for a surprise. Not quite the same surprise that Jim was in for, though, because feeling those claws tear through your shirt gives you a much better appreciation for those claws than just looking at them. The furor of an angry badger makes the Tasmanian Devil look like a downy chick. By some miracle, we managed to get the badger subdued for good. Jim of course, smeared the blood from his back around real well for effect before we headed back to tell our friends of our heroic acts in the face of grave danger. Jim was a wrestler. Wrestlers are like that.<br />
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Not only are badgers ferocious, but they are downright ornery. And they can practically turn around inside their skin. Their skin fits so loose that if it is grabbed by a coyote or anything else stupid enough to try to catch one, the badger can spin around and bite back no matter where it is held. A couple years ago, I saw a large badger started to cross the gravel road near my home. When it saw me coming in a minivan, this ornery cuss turned, bared its teeth and came at the van. His arrogance has earned him a permanent place on my wall.<br />
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Bernie Barringer, Bernie Barringer's Complete Guide to Farmland Fur Trapping (Crystal Lake: Moving Mountain Publishing 1997), 289-290.</blockquote>
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Doomfingerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13825487534615642316noreply@blogger.com1