ricketyclick

Gun fearing socialist pussies everywhere, relax: my favorite African-American, Kim du Toit, is closing The Other Side of Kim, having gotten tired of shouting the ugly truth into the faces of people who have an ideological commitment to not hearing it.

When he started, he was one of the few strong advocates for the crazy idea that ordinary American citizens, men and women regardless of creed or color, were competent to run their own affairs, even in matters of life and death. He started the idea of National Buy a Gun Day, as a part of his Nation of Riflemen campaign, aimed at re-arming the militia of which the Second Amendment speaks, the unorganized one.

He has also been a tireless critic of communism, socialism, nannyism,and big government generally.

He was one of my very first daily-read bookmarks when I myself realized that the Second Amendment imposed much the same duty as the first: to actively participate in the nation’s political process in ways far beyond mere voting. (What, you thought the First Amendment was all about Freedom From Religion, and your right to buy, sell, and make child pornography?)

He put his money where his mouth is, nearly suffering financial ruin when his employer discovered he, uh, Spoke Real Truth to Real Power, and fired him. So great was his distress that he actually sold off some of his substantial collection of firearms to make ends meet. (And you may judge the size and value of that arsenal by the fact that selling off only a part of it actually made a difference in the finances of a family, including teenagers, who had recently purchased a new home in Dallas.)

He has also taken dozens of people, men, women, and children, Off to the Range, and taught them how to shoot. Fittingly, one of his last posts today was about one such excursion.

All Americans can be proud that when he escaped from the hell hole of South Africa he chose to come here; all Texans can be proud that when he abandoned Mayor Daley’s fiefdom to its own rot, he came here. He came not for a free handout, but to do his part in holding the line in the world’s Last, Best Hope for Liberty.

He, a foreigner, has been a better American than I, a native; indeed, a far better American than almost all of us, including especially many of those who now hold elective office. He took an oath to become one of us, he meant it, and he’s done his level best to keep it.

Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. Please enjoy having a private life again; you have already done more than your share.

Chuck Norris, a.k.a. Walker, Texas Ranger, explains that while he, “a black-belt patriot”, could take out a robber with a roundhouse kick, he’d prefer to use a gun:

[Youtube link]

I am not a Chuck Norris fan, because all too often, his stories involve being a Hero who comes in to help those who won’t, or can’t help themselves.

Here, though, he’s not offering to bring either his gun or his feet to protect you. He’s asking you, you personally, to stand up for your right to protect yourself, by checking the actual voting records of politicians who claim to support the right to keep and bear arms.

Bravo, Chuck! This, not your kick, makes you my hero for the day!

Swiped from Tamara K’s Porch.

On a midnight post-office run (I don’t like to leave Netflix returns in my mailbox; sometimes they get lost) I impulsively stopped for Jack-in-the-Box cheesecake.

Exiting the drive through, I was approached by a panhandler. I shouldn’t have stopped, much less rolled down my window, but I did. He was middle-aged, middle-class, well-kept, well-spoken, and didn’t reek of alcohol or have that gap-toothed meth-head manner to him. (I hate being an easy touch. Dogs, cats, and children pick up on it too.)

“I know you! I’m one of your neighbors, from over there!” — and he points in pretty much the right direction. I hesitate for a moment, thinking, “Well, most of my neighbors are Hispanic, not black…” but I’m more or less sympathetic.

Unfortunately, he runs on:

“Listen, my kid just died, and….”

What? What the fuck? You bring that out, you lay that on me, you damn well better be playing straight.

“What’s the name of the street?” I ask.

His mouth gapes for a moment, then he frowns, and his voice takes on an impatient edge. His middle-class act starts to fray as his script derails.

“I don’t know the name of your street, man! Look, I’m not trying to come across as funny or nothing.” Well, pardon the hell out of me.

“What’s the name of your street, then?”

Long, fumbling pause, then he says a name.

“Never heard of it.” I pull away, and start rolling up the window.

“Hey, man, I got the wrong guy, I’m not trying to come across as funny or nothing…”

On the way back from the post office, there he is, across the street at a filling station, talking to an SUV…

… and pointing in the opposite direction.

You asshole, I think.

You pimp your dead kid to get a fix?

You worthless piece of shit.

Your dead child?

[update: Thanks to David Hardy of Arms and the Law for the link.]

Keep in mind, as you read what follows, that I am not a lawyer, just a citizen trying his best to understand the rules I’m expected to live under.

Mark Bennett, a criminal defense lawyer here in Houston, on his blog Defending People, forwards “notes from the portion of DEA training dealing with the use of deadly force. [My source] tells me that the students would be given certain fact patterns and told to stand up in class and respond with the exact phrases described in the notes to justify a shooting.”

This is life-and-death crucial, but very long, so I’m reproducing the whole thing, with my comments, below the fold: (more…)

Billy Beck demonstrates how it’s supposed to work:

That kid was frightened when I yelled “Hello!” up the road at him.

For years now, people have been hiking and biking up and down Daisy Hollow. It’s really funny: they roll out here from Ithaca or wherever in all their gear. Hikers walking with ski-poles in the summer. You name it, etc. People who live out here think they’re cute. When I go walking, I go up on the hill with a rifle.

The very first time I laid eyes on him, he looked like he was walking out the end of a neighbor’s driveway. He’d made about seventy-five yards up the road by the time I had my boots on and was out the door.

Walking up to him, I could see that he was apprehensive. I said from about fifteen yards away, “I hope you will understand why this is necessary.” I had all his attention, now. I’d say he was in his early twenties.

“You know,” I told him, “We’ve been watching people hike up & down this valley for a long time, but that is the very first time I ever saw what looked like someone coming out of that driveway.”

Read the rest to see how it comes out.

That’s all an armed citizenry is about, folks: people looking out for each other.

[Edit: In comments, Beck clarifies he was not armed for this encounter. I believe the overall point stands.]

As always, Robert Peel’s Policing Principle Seven holds: “…the police are the public and the public are the police; the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full-time attention to duties which are incumbent upon every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence.”

Beck takes a lot of heat for things like not paying taxes, not enlisting, not shouldering his share of the social responsibility.

That right there is Beck doing his share, directly, not subcontracting it to someone in a uniform. He exposed himself to risk, he accepted the potential responsibility of putting someone to death on the spot.

I can’t point to the last time I did that. Can you?

Oh, man, please don’t tell me I’m gonna have to start watching Boston Legal:

Crap. I’m gonna hafta start watching BL.

I asked ya not to tell me that.

Crap.
[Via Curmudgeonly and Skeptical.]