Oh good grief:
Don’t need therapy, bro — just a testosterone injection will do the trick.
Bitch-slapping a guy for insulting your wife: good.
Getting therapy to deal with fallout from said incident: total pussy.
Be a man: express no remorse and tell ’em all to fuck off.
This is being typed on New Wife’s desktop PC, which has a keyboard of the IBM Selectric Model 1 type — meaning that I’ve had to relearn where the various DEL INS BKSP etc keys are located, and also have to pound the damn keys instead of caressing them gently into conveying my fevered thoughts and furious invective onto the screen.
All this, of course, because Moron Kim forgot his laptop’s power cord in Boise, as catalogued on these pages before.
Speaking of fury: a number of you have emailed me, telling me of your repeated inability to log in to this website. There’s nothing wrong with your systems; according to Tech Support II, I may apparently be coexisting on a server at WordPress HQ with another site which gobbles up all the bandwidth, leaving Poor Me to experience delays, 503 notices etc., all of which cause me serial RCOBs not even assuaged by repeated sips of gin. He has contacted the goblins at WP for guidance, and has received notice that a “ticket” has been opened, but so far no other response.
I myself have had to resort to using a “CTRL-A / CTRL-C” routine prior to posting a new piece, lest the input be forever lost in the Abyss Of Teh Intarwebz resulting in a Grade A (Deluxe) RCOB with many Bad Words uttered to upset the Sikh family living above us.
Don’t even ASK how miserable an experience it is to load pics. A single News Update, for instance, can take up to two HOURS to load, with my blood pressure frequently approaching 400/350. So forget any nude pics of Salma Hayek appearing anytime soon; it’s text-text-text for the foreseeable.
If TS II’s supposition is correct, I’m going to have to make a few changes around here, but we can talk about that later, perhaps after I’ve emptied a few mags downrange.
We’ve also been notified by our slumlord that the rent is to increase, to the point where we might actually have to consider moving. So over the weekend New Wife and I will be looking at rental alternatives in the area, few of which at a cursory glance seem to offer the same facilities we have in this place.
Ask me again about my RCOBs.
ANYWAY: all working as planned, I’ll be drawing the lucky ticket for the BoomerShoot ULD Rifle this weekend, and the lucky winner will be notified ASAP. I have to tell y’all, were it not for that UGLY scaffolding masquerading as a stock, I’d get one for myself. Once I’d sighted it in (and Mark C. will attest to this), it dropped pretty much every bullet into an MOA group at 400 yards, and its trigger is close to the best I’ve ever fired. Good grief; what a weapon. I might just repeat the choice for next year’s rifle, so much do I like it. (Caveat: the PMC .308 FMJ ammo I bought was crap — inconsistent, all over the place. Had I used proper target ammo, I have no doubt that I could have achieved one-hole groups at that distance. Lesson learned: next year, if I go, I’ll take handloads or premium target stuff.)
The multiple AARs of Boomershoot will have to wait for next week, but an executive summary would be that a good time was had by all, and that Friend Mark C. is an absolute monster on a rifle — I am truly jealous.
Till later.
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Got back to my lair (see above) late last night, and am now safely ensconced therein.
Of course, nothing ever runs to plan, and in this case it’s because Stupid Kim forgot his laptop power cord in Boise. But thanks to the ever-resourceful Mo K., it should be delivered to my sooper-seekrit mailing address sometime this afternoon, so proper blogging should recommence tomorrow. See y’all then.
Four, count ’em four snow storms between Boise and Denver.
Maybe tomorrow will be better, when we reach the parts of the country that are actually having spring, with flowers and grass and stuff.
And lo did Your Humble Narrator arrive with his squire, Mark C. unto the hostelry known as the House Of So-Called Friend Jay K. and his Wyffe, the lovely Mo (who is most surely a Witch).
And these fiends did ply Our Weary Travelers with much drinke, most especially the liqueuere called Morangie for Your Humble Narrator, and for his squire a hogshead of ale brewed locally.
There was Feasting and Merriment unto an hour so late that the cocks had long since crowed and gone back in for their Cockly Breakfast, of what I know not.
And there was no Bloggynge script inscribed, for which Your Humble Narrator begs fulsome pardonne.
With heads verily sore, and throats as the desert, did Our Weary Travelers resume their journey south, more or lesse, towards the city close to the mountains, in which it is said there lurk many dragons who would steal most foully Your Humble Narrator’s trusty Sword.