I have a 90 mile door-to-door commute to work every day, and yes, I work in DC. Some have wondered why I refuse to live closer. There are a number of reasons. The munchkins are happy where we are. They love their school, their friends, the safe area, the fact that they can play outside after it turns dark without fear of horrible things happening. Their dad is here, and I would never move them away from him. The cost of living here is much more manageable than Northern Virginia or DC. I can carry openly here or concealed without cowards crapping their pants in hoplophobic shock.
And then there’s this.
We all know DC bureaucrats have absolutely no respect for private property. After all, they feel it necessary to do everything in their power to leave their citizens vulnerable and unprotected while the armed scum prey upon them, their property and their loved ones. But this… it’s repugnant.
“Any area between the property line and the building restriction
line shall be considered as private property set aside and treated as
public space under the care and maintenance of the property owner.”
Basically what that means is most property owners in the District don’t
own the land between their front door and the sidewalk, but they are
responsible for taking care of it. It’s why you can get a ticket for
drinking beer on your front porch in the Nation’s Capital. You’re
technically on public space. It’s also why the city can ticket you for
parking in your own driveway if you don’t pull your car deep enough
into the driveway beyond the façade of your house or building.
To be clear, we’re not talking about people who park in shallow
driveways and let the rear of their cars block the sidewalk. The cars
are off the road, off the sidewalk and in the driveway – just not far
enough back for the city.
What this means is that your driveway is not your property, and the city can arbitrarily ticket you for parking on what you thought was your own property. They need money. DC residents have it. They’ll extort it any way they can.
The only bright side is that they actually ticketed Eleanor Holmes Norton.
“Not only has the Congresswoman been ticketed in
her own driveway, she has received a towing ticket on her car parked in
her driveway,” writes Sonsyrea Tate Montgomery, a spokesperson for
Norton. “She did what any other Member would do -and any resident. She
contacted her Council Member, Tommy Wells, who assured her the Council
will take care of this problem even if it means passing a new law.”
Of course, I can’t imagine that the action would have been as swift and the attention as great if it was any other peon contacting the politicians about the same issue, but this is DC. They vote more than 90 percent Democrat in every election. As far as I’m concerned, they deserve it.
Just for the record, when you have a deadly disease ravaging a third-world shithole on your border, and a bunch of illegal aliens coming into your country from said shithole, denying that securing the borders might at least prevent some of them from slinking over here to support the politically correct, illegal-alien ass-kissing policies of the current administration is NOT the thing to do!
“We’re already doing passive surveillance at the border,” Napolitano
said. “You would close the border if you thought you could contain the
spread of disease, but the disease is already in a number of U.S.
Noting that those infected with swine flu may not show
symptoms for a few days, Napolitano said border closure is “a very
difficult judgment to make.”
Napolitano said Sunday night
that there was no “realistic hope of containment” that would motivate a
border closure, as was called for Saturday by Rep. Eric Massa (D-N.Y.).
So WATCHING them come in somehow will make us more secure, but not actually preventing them from getting here? Yes, the disease is already in a number of US states. Does this mean that we allow even more infected people in here?
Is she for real?
Have you ever wondered why our publik skools pump out oodles, hordes, wads, gobs and bushels of ignorami? Could it be because there are no more standards and no incentive to achieve. Everyone gets a pass. No one fails. Is it any wonder that no one tries?
At a growing number of
middle schools and high schools across the country, students no longer
receive failing marks when they fail. Instead, they get an “H” — for
“held” — on their report cards, and they’re given a chance to rectify
their poor performance without tanking the entire semester.
in schools from Costa Mesa, Calif., to Maynard, Mass., are also
employing a policy known in school hallways as ZAP — or “Zeros Aren’t
Permitted” — which gives students an opportunity to finish the homework
they neglected to do on time.
administrators and teachers say the policies provide hope for
underperforming students, critics say that lowering or altering
education standards is not the answer. They point to case studies in
Grand Rapids, Mich., where public high schools are using the “H”
grading system this year and, according to reports, only 16 percent of
first-semester “H” grades became passing grades in the second semester.
Consequences? Why bother? After all, we can’t hurt the precious little Sweetums’ feelings by actually grading them based on their achievement, can we? We can’t possibly threaten their pathetic little self esteem by making them… oh, I don’t know… WORK or something, can we? After all, it couldn’t be the Punkin’s fault. Couldn’t be the parents’ fault. We can’t possibly suggest extra work, or more parental involvement, or extra help if needed. The Snowflake’s feelings of inadequacy matter more than teaching them that actions have consequences, that hard work is rewarded, that lack thereof has certain repercussions.
But why bother? We can just create a society of indolent dolts, and the government will take care of them from cradle to grave. Isn’t that preferable to a society of hard-working achievers?
I’m in lust. I’m aching. I must have. NOW. I want so badly, I’m shivering. It’s ideal. It’s perfect. It’s beautiful.
THAT is Superman’s first pistol. And I covet it. I lust after it so badly, it hurts. I yearn for it with every fiber of my being. It will be mine!!! Or at least one just like it.
He’s awesome. He let me play with all kinds of neat stuff this weekend at the range. You can read about all of it here, and I won’t rehash the obvious, which is that we had an absolutely perfect weekend! You want proof of how perfect?
M1 Garand perfect.
M1 Carbine perfect.
Be jealous. Be very jealous!
We had a wonderful time. Superman managed to receive a gift from one of the members of the Gump convention (we were in West Virginia, after all) who was shooting nearby – a box of 30-.06 ammo – because apparently he didn’t like the fact that it was 150 grain ammo, and he was used to shooting 165 grain. Apparently, the 165 grain didn’t serve him much better, as he had trouble hitting a bowling pin that was 10 feet away using a scope! But I shouldn’t poke fun. He was a nice enough fella.
Dinner Friday night after the range was a Chinese buffet, where I managed to make a complete hog of myself, because I realized all I’d had to eat that day was some Wheat Thins. Oh, well. I’m sure he wasn’t shocked by my noisy inhaling of every piece of food I could get my maw on. We deserved a good meal!
We then retired to the Lair to watch Wild Geese, and NO, I didn’t tear up!!! Not really. There might have been a sniffle, but it was very small. Barely noticeable. Almost nonexistent. And I LOVE the late Richard Harris!
Woke up the next morning to realize that the Garand took a serious chunk out of my arm. I bruise very easily anyway. All someone has to do is poke me, and a nasty, black and blue mark appears. So it really wasn’t the fact that I wasn’t holding the Garand tight enough when I was shooting it. I was probably holding it too tight against me, and it bruised. Badly. I look like someone beat the snot out of me (and no, Superman doesn’t hit – he does like to poke the bruises sometimes, though, just because he’s a big kid).
Yes, that’s my arm. In all fairness the bruise furthest to the right – the lowest on my arm – wasn’t received at the range, but in my closet, when I clumsily hit a shelf. No one has ever accused me of being graceful, OK?
The gun show was fun, just because we got to walk around and look at all the stuff we’d buy someday when we hit the lottery. And they had machine guns. Lots of them. Expensive ones. Fun to look at, but I’d rather have a new car.
On the way back, we stopped for some beers, after which Superman let me drive the Super vehicle back to his place. We hung out for a while, playing with various weapons and taking photos of me with them, because I covet them, and that’s just the type of jealous, greedy, lustful person I am.
And yes, I had bad hair that day. Shut up. I know it.
We then took Lagniappe to Winchester, were we had some yummy Thai food, which happens to be some of the best stuff on earth, and if I could eat Thai 24/7 and NOT look like some of the Jabba the Hutt looking women we saw at the range the other day (and OMFG they were HUGE!) I’d really consider it!
Superman is really nice to me. He puts up with my idiosyncracies, including my urge to stop by the side of the road and take photos of random shit, or my tendency to open the window, and hang out of it with my camera, shooting the sunset.
Hey, never let it be said that I don’t suffer for my art, and apparently make him suffer for it too!
Needless to say, it was kind of late when we got to the restaurant.
That night I discovered a few things about Lagniappe. He apparently gets confused by any cat that actually stands up to him. My cats are used to having a big, black dog hanging around, so they were unimpressed with Lagniappe’s barking or his attempts to eat them. My cats simply hid under the bed, where Lagniappe couldn’t reach them, and every once in a while bopped him on the nose with their claws. In the meantime, my oldest, crankiest kitty McGwire, simply stared at him, as if to say, “What! You never seen a cat before, asshat?”
Poor Lagniappe was really confused at the cat who decided he wasn’t worth the time. He chases cats at his Lair all the time, and the cats fear his studly roar. My cats… meh… Not so much. Here’s Mac completely ignoring him, and Lagniappe looking at her as if to say, “You can’t possibly be a cat, can you? Am I losing my touch?”
Poor Lagniappe is back at the Lair, no doubt performing an AAR as to what went wrong. Why did the cats not fear him like they were supposed to?
Meanwhile, I’m getting ready to go back to work, and trying to find something to wear that won’t force me to explain the bruises on my upper arm.