Florida Jihad

Via Sipsey Street Irregulars.

LSP

Texas Crazy Rain

One of the things the team looks forward to after Sunday Mass is fishing, and not just any old fishing. No, we like to go to a secret location somewhere in Texas and catch enormous, absurdly large, leviathan size Bass on light rods. Just a whole lot of fun.

That plan didn't work out because of the threat of rain and because one of the team decided to go fishing in Venice instead, which is ironic, given that the place is flooded. So I went down another route, and drove to Lake Aquilla.

Not a bad option. As the storm was coming in, thunderclouds looming, boats were pulling into the ramp and the scene was soon deserted. Just me, the still-before-the-storm water, distant lighting flickering across the sky and the pleasure of trying to lure a Bass onto an enticing topwater spook.

Thrash! One of the fierce predators was lurking right near the bank and attacked the lure at the end of my retrieve. A good fight with a decent Widemouth, who lived to fight again another day. There were a few more close calls, with a small school of fish surging up and out of the water around the spook, but no strike. Still, even that was action, and action against the dramatic backdrop of the lake.

It's a new lake, like most in Texas, and before its creeks were dammed, an archeological survey was done on the soon to be flooded area and what became the lake shore. There were any number of Indian campsites and small settlements, some of them dating from the not so distant past. They'd be hard to recognize if you're not an expert; mostly charred stones from campfires and the occasional worked piece of stone. Some of the sites remain, if you have eyes to see.

I imagined those Indians as I fished, under the big, threatening sky. There they had been, hunting and fishing on Aquilla and Hackleberry creeks, in the vastness of the land. Well, the land's still vast and the sky's still the same, and before long it began to crash down with a vengeance.

Time to get back to the Compound, a glass of wine and the latest awful news from the Jihad. But before that, the sky turned ominously green and it started to rain in earnest, Texas-style. No fooling, and a good thing I had a truck because the streets were flooding as I drove into town.

If the rain continues, it will all be underwater. Is there a moral in this story?

If you care to draw it.

Your Buddy,

LSP

A Sign

Seeing as we're on a roll, I present this sign without comment, because it speaks for itself.

Secede.

LSP

Get Back in The Saddle, Fool

It's been a little while, but I rode out on Tres this evening before Vespers. Tres is a horse of color who identifies with her biological gender as a mare. Tres is OK with people calling her "her" or "she", that's the kind of pronoun she goes by, at least for now. 

Tres also idolizes a white Stallion, called Whitey McPrivilege. Whitey feels, pretty aggressively I can tell you, that Tres belongs to him. Tres agrees and even seems to like it.

A Saddle on a Truck

I know. By now you're probably feeling a bit sick at the sheer spectacle of this heteronormative, self-imposed cisgender stereotyping. What's wrong with these horses, you're asking. Good question, and I don't know what's got into them, but I do know that Whitey McPrivilege wasn't there when we rode up on the herd.

Is Whitey Here?

They were all horses of color and Whitey wasn't there. Tres was pretty upset, no kidding, so we ran back to the safe space of the barn, fast. Maybe she'd find Whitey there, thought Tres. No, she didn't. Then we ran down to the big cow pasture. Was Whitey there? No, he wasn't. Maybe someone had shot Whitey for being a hate-filed, misogynist gender fascist. Whatever, he wan't there.

Where is Whitey?

Bereft of gender oppression, Tres posted back to the safe space, ate some grass and got turned out. So you see, readers, all six of you, everything turned out alright.

Ride on,

LSP

Detroit Gets Goats?

It's no secret that America's onetime automotive capital, Detroit, has fallen on hard times. Over 60% of the Motor City's population has left since 1950, leaving behind some 677,000 inhabitants and between 20 and 40 square miles of vacant land.

Yes, somewhere between 20 and 40 square miles of vacant land. So what do you do with all that land where houses once stood and the remaining 677,000 suffer from what's euphemistically referred to as "food security"? Simple answer, you turn some of that empty space into farmland and you change the city's ordinances to allow livestock.

If upcoming code amendments pass the city's Planning Commission, Detroiters will be able to farm with livestock, including chickens, goats and rabbits. Imagine, you're driving down Gratiot and there's a goat, on the rubble of a collapsed crack house, next to a field of wheat.

Good idea, right? But there's a catch. You see, farming's racist. According to Kathryn Lynch Underwood, a member of Detroit's Planning Commission:

“You have people that may have come from the South and don’t necessarily have good memories of their experience in the South, so the whole agriculture, animal thing reminds them of something they wanted to get away from.”

The curiously named Lynch Underwood is black and so is around 80% of what's left of the Motor City's population. How many of these will be able to shake off their memories of being slaves on southern plantations and return to the land, is presently unknown.

Maybe hunger will help solve that dilemma.

Way to go, Detroit. You're obviously coming back, or not.

LSP

Dust to Dust

There was a burial this morning, out in the country and the hot Texan sun. While we were waiting for everyone to arrive I talked with one of the gravediggers. He had a shamrock tattooed on his wrist and I asked him if he was Irish.

"Yes sir, I am," he replied, sounding entirely Texan, "I used to have red in my beard, but now it's grey." We had something in common. "My hair used to be brown, "I told him, "Now look at it." The gravediggers thought that was funny and stomped about laughing.

What can I say, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but let's not forget the sure and certain hope in the resurrection. After the burial was over and everyone was leaving, an elderly gentleman told me he'd shot five Cottonmouths in the last few weeks, but he hadn't seen a rattler.

RS, rest in peace and rise in glory.

LSP

It's Bushcraft Wednesday, Knives!

Bushcraft is an an art, the art of surviving in the field, possibly on your own and without modern conveniences, like the Nanny State and its herd of rainbow unicorns. More than that, it's a craft, and like any craft it demands tools to get the job done.

One of those essential tools is a good knife, which you can use for skinning, cleaning, prepping and eating food. Or for turning into a spear, which you can throw at the opposition when your AR15 is out of rounds.

Here at the Compound, we hope you find this infovideo as helpful as we do.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Divine Humor?

According to the UK's left-leaning Guardian, churches in Europe are experiencing growth from an unlikely quarter, converts from Islam.

A growing number of Muslim refugees in Europe are converting to Christianity, according to churches, which have conducted mass baptisms in some places.

Reliable data on conversions is not available but anecdotal evidence suggests a pattern of rising church attendance by Muslims who have fled conflict, repression and economic hardship in countries across the Middle East and central Asia.

Complex factors behind the trend include heartfelt faith in a new religion, gratitude to Christian groups offering support during perilous and frightening journeys, and an expectation that conversion may aid asylum applications.

At Trinity church in the Berlin suburb of Steglitz, the congregation has grown from 150 two years ago to almost 700, swollen by Muslim converts, according to Pastor Gottfried Martens. Earlier this year, churches in Berlin and Hamburg reportedly held mass conversions for asylum seekers at municipal swimming pools.

Well, you can't blame them, especially the women, and I'd imagine Christianity would be liberating after Mohammedanism. But perhaps there's an element of divine irony at work here, with the very people you'd most expect to destroy and supplant the Church riding, against all the odds, to its rescue.

No one, either on the right or the left of the Christianity v. Islam debate, has predicted this or would even dare to; it seems too implausible and upside down. But so does the Gospel, in  which death is overcome by death and the last are first.

Let's Have This Back

There would be a kind of divine justice, perhaps humor, in Christianity's perennial enemy, Islam, turning out in the end to be its lifeline, at least in the enfeebled churches of the West.

I hope this encouraging trend continues and let the reader understand, Muslim converts are known for the fervency of their faith. I'll resist the temptation to comment of the Church of England's Bench of Bishops.

God bless,

LSP

At The Range

Do you remember Day of the Triffids, in which alien plants, Kudzulike, overwhelm their terrestrial counterparts? It was like that at the range, though the plants were Texan, and who knew what was lurking under them. Watch out for snakes, shooters.

The snakes didn't appear though two Ruger American .22s did. One with a 4x Hawke Optics scope and the other with Ruger supplied iron sights. Both rifles performed flawlessly, picking off shotgun cartridges, steel plates, a Sprite can and an old kettle.

Now, you may scoff and look down upon this scene with smug condescension, while you chamber another round in your .375 H&H Magnum before cranking off a few rounds with a 45-70 bear rig. But before you turn away in scorn, read this about bolt action rimfire shooting:

There’s something cathartic about deliberate fire punctuated by a short-travel bolt cycling the next round into the chamber. Remove recoil from the equation entirely, and you have a great gun for working on those rusty fundamentals, or for teaching a new generation the finer points of marksmanship.

And here's the Shooting Times on the RAR (Ruger American Rimfire):

Who would have thought a new bolt-action rimfire rifle could be a game-changer? I mean, everything is all about autoloaders nowadays, right? But a game-changer is exactly what the new Ruger American Rimfire series is, and it’s positioned to become as dominant in the rimfire bolt-action world as the Ruger 10/22 has been for so long in the rimfire autoloader world. Maybe even more so.

You can read about the gun's specifics, such as its adjustable trigger, patented bedding, modularity, sighting options and more in the above reviews, but I'll throw my Guinea on the bench and say this. The RAR has excellent fit and finish for the money, it's accurate to minute of shotgun cartridge at 30 yards and, with a wood stock, has a satisfying aesthetic for wood and steel enthusiasts. A great little rifle. If you're looking for an affordable rimfire bolt-gun, get a RAR.

GWB Likes Ballistol. It's Green

A 525 round value pack of ammo and a lot of fun later, it was time to head for home. A good day was had by all.

Shoot straight,

LSP

Getting to The Range

There's not been a lot of shooting in LSPland lately because of our enemy, the Weather. Seriously, it's rained so much that the places I like to shoot at have been pretty much off-limits. But that's changed, at least for now, with a few days of heat and sun.

So I drove down to the range with GWB and a couple of wood stocked Ruger American .22s, a value pack of ammo and a mind set on a few hours of firearms fun. Make up for lost time, I thought to myself, and blaze away in the clean country air. Right on, get out and shoot.

Then disaster struck. Thanks to the Weather, part of a tree had fallen and was blocking the way into the range. It was a significant obstacle and there was no way it was going to move without a chainsaw and there wasn't one.

"We need a saw," said GWB, thoughtfully, and I agreed, "Yes, and there isn't one." I optimistically tried a bit of telekenesis on the fallen timber; maybe staring at the branches would shift them out of the way. No, it didn't, and then it came to me, GWB had had the foresight to bring a multitool. "What about your Leatherman?" I asked,  "That has a sawblade, a surprisingly good one."

Sure enough, the Leatherman Wave's handy saw made quick work of an offending branch and we were able to drive around the road block. Moral of the story?

Don't underestimate our enemy the Weather, it can throw some nasty punches. Also, be prepared, have the kit you need to reach your objective. Most importantly, when things go wrong you can sit there in your pajama onesie, whining into your coco as you wait for the Government to step in and save you, good luck with that. Or you can take matters into your own hands and find a solution.

That's what happened today. We cut through the wood and drove on through, to the other side.

Thanks, Leatherman Wave. You work.

LSP

D Day And The Fighting Monkey

It's the 72nd anniversary of D Day, when allied forces made their momentous landing on the shores of Nazi occupied France and began the work of rolling back the Hitlerites. Here's an excerpt from President Roosevelt's D Day Prayer:

Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our Nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity.

Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith.

They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard. For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph.

They did triumph and we should thank God for that. 

A Fighting Monkey

Now, I'm not a betting man, but I'll wager any eight, yes, eight, of your womyn priests against my fighting monkey that  it'd be inconceivable for a US president to make that prayer today.

God bless,

LSP

Tight Lines

Sure, you can sit around in slack-jawed amazement at the state of the Worldwide Anglican Non Communion (WANC), or you can get out and fish. I chose the latter option and RV'd with GWB, somewhere in Texas.

The Bass were biting in a small way and before too long I had a couple on the hook and reeled in; so did GWB. Then the the action was on. A monster of the deep took GWB's lure; tap, hookset, and out played the drag. 

Nice Fish, GWB

Big fun and a big fish. Good result. That Bass tournament was won by GWB. But then the sun was setting, the wind died down and the water smoothed out into a golden glassy stillness. Time for topwater.

Twitch that Torpedo and in fairness, a Bass exploded on my lure like a senior womyn clergyperson angling for a pointed hat. It was a close run thing, but the fish got away. Then it was time to get on the road and head back to the Compound.

And that was that, a good time was had by all.

Your Friend,

LSP