UFO Or Gravel?!?

 

What is this, some kind of UFO or "UAP" come to rest in the greensward of the Compound's vehicle park? No, it was not, just a load of aggregate arriving to "improve the ground" and make it "code compliant." Whatever that means in today's movable feast of  civic virtue.

Aggregate and a Rig

Far-sighted readers will remember the Code Cops paid us a visit a few days ago because someone had made a formal complaint about vehicles parked on our attractively grassy lot and demanded they go unless the "ground was improved."  After a congenial conversation about Glocks, I assured the Code Constables that there'd be a solution.

Sure enough there was, with D turning up with serious amounts of aggregate and gravel. He told me he'd do it and he did, I respect that, well done. Next step? March across the way to the church which generously hosts your rigs on its erstwhile grass. He tells me he will, after all, it's his local.

Gravel

Hey, I can't complain, all that "ground improvement," ahem, doesn't come cheap. Thanks, D, 'preciate you, what a good neighbor.

In Rure,

LSP

It's All Going On In The Country I Tell You

 

One of the things that happens here is I let some of the neighbors park their rigs and vehicles in the grassy pasture that is the Compound's parking lot. They mow the grass and all of that in return. But this beneficent arrangement seemed to come to a crashing end today.

There I was on the back deck, scanning Zerohedge, when up come two men in polo shirts with Glocks on their hips, "Sir, can we have a word?" Of course they could and were welcomed into the rural fastness with a sunny hello, "What's up, guys?"

A Typical Kitchen Glock

Turns out they were from Code Enforcement, yes, we have such a thing, and someone had the literal brazen temerity to make a formal complaint about the vehicles parked up on the grass. It broke the code and couldn't be tolerated because, you see, the area's zoned residential and enormous lifted trucks and everything else have to be parked on "improved ground," such as gravel.

Huh. I assured the officer that it'd be sorted out before tickets had to be issued or any other equivalent nonsense. So that was good, but what about guns. "How are you finding that Glock?" I asked, glancing down at the fella's two-tone 9mm variant.

Behold, Legally Parked on Gravel. FFS

"I like it a lot and shoot pretty good with it and you know, it was weird, when I went to the Police Academy, they asked 'how many of you have shot pistols?' and I was the only one in the class who didn't raise his hand because we never had pistols where I was, just shotguns for quail, pheasant and dove. You know what, I ended the course shooting a lot better than some of those country boys because I was taught right, from the start."

Good call. So we talked Glocks and pistols and became friends and off they went into the pastoral hinterland. Flash forward several hours to me getting back from Walmart and there's D, remonstrating in the car park, not a happy man. Code Enforcement had not been kind to him and he was ticked, having put out for local LE & Co a lot over the years. Someone had made a complaint.

Note, why is his finger on the trigger? Maybe because he's an actor

We speculated on the identity of this malefactor and he asked me if it was OK to spread some gravel and "improve" the parking zone. "Remember I asked you if I could black-top and you said 'no, I don't want that (well said, LSP, Ed.), get gravel, but I need to get the church's permission.' Do I still need to get that?"

I looked at D, who wasn't very happy, and he looked at me, "You have the church's permission, knock yourself out on that gravel. I'll help you spread it, even." But that wasn't needed, "I've got a tractor at the shop and I'll bring it in tomorrow morning with the gravel. Thanks, man." Thanks indeed, "'preciate you, brother. Come to church, it's about time." He agreed and off we went, friends.

I call this installation Casa Blanca, keen-eyed readers will understand

So there you have it. Problem, solution, right here in sunny Texas' North Central Exclusion Zone.

Texit,

LSP

Truck Poetry

 

Here's some awesome truck poetry, via Wild Wild West:

For Whom the Truck Does Not Crank

(certainly not) by John Donne.

No battery cable is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the truck,

A part of the DMV registration records.

If a truck be washed away by the flooded low-water crossing,

Texas is the less.

As well as if a one-ton bro-dozer were.

As well as if a Kenworth of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each battery cable's failure diminishes me,

For I am involved in truck ownership.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the truck does not crank,

It does not crank for thee.

Texas is the less. I love that, but Each battery cable's failure diminishes me. Whoa, now we're talking.

Metaphysical poetry forever,

LSP

Getting The Job Done

 

It was hot, searing hot.

Do you think that stopped us from driving out and taking care of business?

No, it did not. And I tell you, there are precisely no luggage racks on the back of a hearse. Lawyers? Different story, and I won't get into guns, which are an issue in this instance.

Mr. Storrs, Chief, rest in peace. 

From somewhere in Texas,

LSP