Thoughts from the ammo line


First, a little somethin’ for the ladies…This is a picture of our Pinal County sheriff, Mark Lamb. Although he said he would not arrest any Thanksgiving dinner miscreants privately hosting more than 10 people, it is rumored that he did receive an anonymous phone message from a female busybody advising that “a certain woman on Misty Lane is roasting a 20 lb. turkey and probably should be investigated immediately. She’ll be the short one with her hair fixed for a change, wearing an evening gown, high heels, and lipstick.”

Haha. I kid. That’s my job, most of the time. When I’m not releasing steam from my ears. But, hey, is that not one hunka hunka burnin’ sheriff? (With a beautiful wife and many children…)


When I was a young mother, several decades ago, I had a handy expression that my young son hated. I got it from MY mother who probably got it from hers. Very simply it went like this: “There is a chance this may not turn out bad, but nothing GOOD can come of it.” This was said, for example, when he was kicking a soccer ball around in the living room.

How well I remember the last time it was said to me. It was a lovely May afternoon in Minnesota, and I was in 9th grade. To practice pitching, I had propped a pillow up against the back of the couch. You know the thing…we called it the “davenport,” but East Coast girls at college found that hilarious. The couch was right in front of the picture window. (Haha, you’ll never guess where this is going, right? And by now you doubt that I ever WENT to college…) Mother noticed what I was doing, saw me hit dead center of the pillow two strikes in a row and said, “Honey, there is a slim chance this may not turn out bad, but NOTHING GOOD CAN COME OF IT,” as the very next pitch sailed through the glass. Oopsie. Ball One.

As reported last week, Daddy is now 95, recovered from a broken hip AND a bout with that pesky COVID deal you might have heard of, but he’s not quite as robust as when I was 14. Back then he was a fearsome presence with a slight anger management problem. As I waited for him to get home from work, I considered fleeing the country. The only foreign language I knew was Latin, so, maybe the Vatican? I was fully qualified to discuss the tripartite division of Gaul with His Holiness. Without either a passport, a car, a license, or more than two or three dollars (all in quarters) from babysitting, I doubted I could even get to Canada.

We’ve all caught an inexplicable lucky break in our lives. Daddy walked in, looked at the window, said, “Well, thank God it’s May, not January. Dorothy can you call the glass people in the morning?” And that was that. I’m pretty sure my pulse went from that of a baby bunny caught in the jaws of a weasel, back to that of just a normal high-strung teenage girl.

My old go-to expression, my friends, is exactly what I thought when I first heard about this great mail-in voting idea. It might not be a TOTAL steal, but nothing GOOD could come of it. Legal citizens, registered to vote in only one precinct, COULD have requested ballots, filled them out, signed them to be compared against known signatures, and mailed ‘em in.

But where’s the fun in that? And how can a demented influence peddler in a basement who can get on the DL just from playing with a dog win under those circumstances? Especially without even campaigning! Leaving nothing to chance after the Hillary Debacle, they opted for the trifecta – traditional unsupervised paper ballot stuffing in urban areas, programming the voting machines to turn Trump votes into Biden votes, AND blanketing the world with a blizzard of unrequested ballots that have to be processed through an entity that has ENDORSED Biden. What could possibly go wrong?


So far, one of the silliest postmortems about this travesty of an election was an analysis of why Trump “lost white male voters.” Haha. First of all, of course, he did NO SUCH THING. Remember when Willie Sutton said he robbed banks “because that’s where the money is”? Well, if the vile, stupid Democrat thieves are going to “find” votes to change, naturally, they will think first of taking white male votes in heavily working class areas. BECAUSE THAT’S WHERE THE TRUMP VOTES ARE. Duh. President Trump got ELEVEN MILLION MORE VOTES THAN IN 2016. More votes than any incumbent in the history of U.S elections.

But the hilarious notion that white – or any color – working-class people of maleness were so off-put by Trump’s alleged meanie Tweets that they voted utterly against their own interests is absurd on the face of it. I must ask in all sincerity to anyone making that claim: have you ever known a man personally? Maybe knew someone who knew a man and told you about him? Here would be the thinking of such men:

“Sure, we are grateful to have high paying jobs in the industries that were being shipped to China. We admit that we are thrilled to be part of the complete U.S. dominance in the fossil fuel industry. We like secure borders. And aren’t crazy about killing babies. But what we really care about is DJT Tweeting mean things. That is something up with which we will not put. And that’s why 57,000 of us here in PA, for example, have come great distances to stand around for hours in the cold waiting for President Trump so that we can chant No More Tears at him. It might SOUND LIKE Four More Years to the untrained ear, but trust me, we manly male men just want him to quit making the poor pansies on CNN cry.”

As they say in Minnesota, “You betcha.”


So in the event that Justice rolls down like a mighty river, what to do with Slow Joe Of the Broken Toe? I say make him a little mock-up about half-size of the Oval Office and get him a Fisher Price red telephone and keep calling him the president-elect. Explain that before he can occupy this Oval Office, he will have to stay in the basement a while longer because the White House is being renovated with a special secret entrance for Hunter to bring supplicants to see The Big Guy. It will be a great office with a huge vault like Scrooge McDuck’s for bribes, kickbacks and payoffs and maybe an adjoining Entertainment Complex with poles for Friends and Baby Mamas of Hunter.

As this surreal year lurches to a close, why not add the sight of grown man talk show host Stephen Colbert salivating in the direction of Barack Hussein Obama and saying “I just want to take a moment to drink you in.” THIS from a pretend comedian who once accused the President of being a ****-holster for Putin. The mind reels. And the stomach turns.