Neanderpundit

On the way home, Dickey Daley shoots off his mouth on the same day all those kids were killed.

No, I won’t quote him, because I won’t filthy my blog with his words. I was so disgusted I nearly vomited.

Had ONE STUDENT on that campus been armed, this might never have reached the levels it did. But no, they made it illegal, so it protected the students there.

Here’s some news for you, Larry Hincker: the blood of those students is on your hands and the hands of everyone who voted agaisnt the right of those students to protect themself. Chew on that. I hope you receive so much hate mail that your head explodes.

As for Dick da Turd, well, everything he says is suspect. He’s about to dig deeper into the pockets of all illonoisians for the Olympics. I hope y’all enjoy that. When the businesses leave Chicago because of the tax burden, and all that is left is your expensive park and some derelict olympic village, I hope the stench of the victims of your stupidity never leaves your nostrils, you purulent useless criminal asswipe. No punishment in hell can ever be bad enough for you.

Oh, and a tip of the hat to Kim, of course, for the link.

Dad worked a lot. A LOT. What time we had to spend together was pretty scarce and mostly, it involved work. Those times we hunted, or fished, or vacationed together, were pretty awesome.

One thing I never had an opportunity to do, one thing he loved, was rabbit hunting out on Beaver Island Michigan. He went up a couple years in a row, for a week each time, and before I had an opportunity to join him he’d died.

I did get to be there in spirit, though. A couple years before he died, he mentioned he had always wanted a light double for rabbit hunting, and since I was never any good at figuring out what dad wanted or needed, I took the bait.

It took a while, but i found a clean, well kept LeFever Nitro Special, in 20 gauge.

I gave it to him for Christmas. Took it out to him wrapped in a blanket, and gave it to him in the garage. Away from the women, where the tools were. Smelling of wood chips and oil and old wood fires.

Dad unfolded the blanket and sat it on the bench. He picked it up and put it back down again. Then he picked it up, broke it open, looked down the barrel, and sat it down on the bench again.

Dad was never good about showing his emotions, but tears welled up in his eyes.

Sorry, I can’t talk about it any more. It was a good Christmas.