Fan Friday—Guns and Rapists


I just wanted to add a few things to my last two posts:

Regarding “mass shootings” which, in case you didn’t know, include those in which at least three people have been shot. I happen to disagree that this would be “mass” in any sense of the actual meaning of that word, but that’s a moot point. No one has asked me.

I read today that the US, of course, leads the world in “mass shootings,” some number around 78 in the last several decades. Or so. Really depends on what you read. During this same period, Germany has had 41. The “rest of the countries,” which aren’t specified, had a combined total of 41.

Please don’t say, “Yes, but any death is wrong!” Of course it is. No one would disagree. So it’s a pointless argument. And please don’t say “one death is NOT pointless.” You’re just digging a hole.

What I’m getting at is this:

The US population is four times that of Germany; five times that of the UK and France; nine times that of Canada; and 13 times that of Australia.

Right there, that says that many more unstable people in the US than almost anywhere else. Remember the bell curve, kids . . . it applies to batshit crazy just like it does any other characteristic.

I’m quite sure there are many reasons the US has more gun violence—but also quite sure that more legislation isn’t the answer.

The Feds investigated Mateen THREE times; at least one time, they closed the investigation because he said his coworkers were picking on him because of his religion.

Ahem. Think about that for a moment. Kind of like asking a bank robber if he stole the safe and, when he says no, letting him out of the cell.

PC run amok. Very amok.

Regarding ol’ Brock the rapist and his dear mum:

Carleen Turner did write a letter to the judge; it was released, with other documents, earlier this week. She basically sobbed about her little boy and how sweet he was and how this whole debacle had simply just RUINED their lives! Not a single mention of his culpability. Not one word about his victim.

Poor, poor Brock.

Asshole.

And asshole parents.

Really, I get that it might be hard to believe your child could do something so truly awful, but this—grow up, lady. Be a freakin’ parent. Be an adult.

I have zero sympathy for her. None. Parents who believe their little angels can do no wrong, regardless of evidence to the contrary, deserve what they get.

See, here’s the thing:

Carleen, you say Brock was never in trouble, ever. I call bullshit. Either you didn’t know or you chose to ignore it. And/or, you excused it.

The problem, of course, is that we all get it—we all get slammed with all the Brocks when they’re foisted on society.

 

 

Work Wednesday—Bathroom Remodel Part II


Sunday, my husband started more bathroom destruction: the removal of the giant corner jetted tub. Now, it might be nice to have now and then, but it’s a real PITA to clean—not to mention getting in and out. Plus, it takes up a lot of room and collects dust and tools and parts.

And the cat. He’s going to miss it . . .

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So we decided to remove the wide ledge at the back of the room, but left the other one on the east side. At press time, the cat is still trying to figure out why his dish moved and how he can reach it . . .

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The next step was rebuilding the walls; fortunately, we have all the old cherry that he pulled off the outside of the tub, and of course, after that, a new tool is needed for the edges of the sill.

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Off we went to the city.

About halfway down the state highway, the car dinged and it took me a minute to realize it was NOT the “change oil” ding, which sounded a couple days ago, but the YOUR ENGINE IS SERIOUSLY OVERHEATING ding.

Pulled off the road onto a farm lane and shut down the engine.

We were weighing our options when a pickup slowed and turned around. Brent offered to run home and get a couple gallon jugs of water, which we accepted, and then chatted with us for a bit while the car cooled down.

He also gave us recommendations for two local mechanics, told us he knew exactly where we lived, having known the previous owner some time back, and told us about the downfall and history of the little ‘burg nearby—actually, literally, a wide spot in the road.

He even offered us a ride, if the car wouldn’t make it either direction.

Finally we decided to go back home and grab the truck and go get a new whatchamacallit. You know, the thing that regulates the radiator pressure. The words, Robin, use the words!

It took us a bit to get there, though. We drove a few miles, the gauge went up. We stopped. We drove again, the temperature rose. The last stop seemed to do the trick—we made it 10 miles and the gauge stayed right where it was supposed to be.

Must have hit a rock or a pothole just right . . .

Well, I elected to stay home after this and finish up some trimming in the orchard.

Guess we’ll have to put off tiling the bathroom floor until tomorrow.

Oh, darn . . .