London: Not all pigeons are unwelcome

Refreshed after a mostly solid night’s sleep we returned to central London to pick up where we left off the day before. We passed through Trafalgar Square again on our way to Buckingham Palace. Upon entering the square this time my eyes were immediately drawn to a large bird sitting on a stand about four feet off of the ground in the center of the square. Too big to be a raven, definitely not a pigeon, could it be … “God save the Queen, it’s a hawk!” Noticing the jesses and bells on its legs I knew this bird wasn’t a tourist on its way to catch the changing of the guard. Rather, it was the changing of a guard in it’s own right. Just as I started to jest to my family, “I guess that keeps the pigeon population down” it hit me: it really does keep the pigeon population down. Looking around I quickly spotted the bird’s trainer, and we went over for a chat.

The City of London does employ live falcons — in this case, a Harris Falcon — to keep the pigeons out of Trafalgar (nearer to Parliament they’ve electrified the statue of Winston Churchill to keep the birds off). While we were there the Harris was fed by his trainer and didn’t actually have to swoop on any pigeons — mainly because there wasn’t one in sight. For action, then, the trainer kept sending the Harris off and then sneaking himself behind the Mall Diva before silently signalling the bird to return. The result was the bird would fly directly at her head before lifting just enough to land on the trainer’s glove. The fellow indicated it was because she had such a sweet smile. Or did he say, “shriek”? No, I’m pretty sure it was smile.

Of course, not all pigeons are unwelcome. We’ve been feeling especially plucked since our arrival and the fact that pounds seem to melt away by the second here; unfortunately this has nothing to do with reducing my robust frame. When I was here in ’79 the exchange rae was about the same, but somehow things didn’t seem that difficult to do on my student budget. Of course, I was paying for just one person then, but my alcohol consumption was much higher. Now it’s ?3 for this, ?8 for that, and ?20 or more for just about every attraction. You can basically double the figure to get the dollar conversion, so that a tuna salad sandwich (called a tuna-mayo sandwich) that seems reasonable at first at ?3.50, suddenly becomes harder to swallow. We knew going in that London was going to be expensive and we’d have to bite the bullet if we were going to do much of anything (we’re dropping $40 a day just on Tube passes). We’re trying to be wise about things but the girls are already tired of seeing us scratch our heads and do the math everytime they want an ice cream. I don’t blame them, because we came here to have fun and do different things. Fortunately, the burn rate for the rest of the trip should be slower (it better be!).

We could have saved some money on dinner tonight by eating at the local KFC or Pizza Hut which had some fairly low prices advertised on their windows — but we don’t even eat at these places when we’re in Minnesota, so we’re not going to do it here. We ended up at an Indian restuarant (one of my wife’s favorite cuisines) where we saw a number of dishes that we’ve never seen on the Indian menus in the Twin Cities — and a few extra levels of heat as well.

We decided against going inside Westminster Cathedral, but did opt for riding The London Eye (mainly because of Tiger Lilly’s big, imploring eyes when faced with the chance to ride a 400 foot high ferris wheel). It was worth noting that at the end of the ride, or “flight”, security guys entered each pod with long-handled mirrors and checked under the bench and in the overhead portions. As for the ride itself, the view was great but I don’t know that I’d do it again. Something I did do again, however, was the Tower of London tour, lead by an actual Beefeater Guard. Tradition is important to the Brits, so it was no surprise to hear our guide repeat the same joke that was told by one of his predecessors in ’79 while describing the gate next to the river where prisoners were brought into the Tower; it’s called the Water Gate.

The Tower is still fascinating, even when you’re just getting a small slice of it’s bloody history. It was a dangerous life then for those who were kings (or queens), wanted to be kings (or queens) or were in the line of succession. On top of that, traitors were not suffered (though they were made to suffer). Today’s political knife fighting and poisonings almost seem mild by comparison. And yes, we were asked to leave the Tower by one of the blue-suited Beefeaters. True it was closing time, but his request did come just after the Mall Diva recited her Monty Python bit (see her previous post). I didn’t even get a chance to take her picture on the battlements!

Another attraction worth checking out is Kew Gardens. We spent nearly the entire day there today, and it is spectacular. We’ve visited and thoroughly enjoyed the New York Botanical Gardens and the one at Wave Hill outside of New York, but I think Kew is another level above that. The grounds are so invitingly laid out that you just want to plunge in and walk through everything — and the best part is that you can! This is a place that cries out for you to walk barefoot through the grass, and that’s just what you can do (and what the Diva and Tiger Lilly did). Not to be missed if you’re ever in the vicinity.

Tomorrow we wind up this leg of the trip. We’re on our way to an apartment on a working olive farm and winery in Tuscany near Firenze. To commemorate the trip so far I’ve included some shots of the girls around London. If you want to see lots of pictures of historical things, buy some postcards. If you don’t mind shots of my daughters near historical things, click on the highlighted text immediately below. Positioning your cursor over the photo will reveal a caption; in most cases clicking on the photo will enlarge it. The next time you hear from me I hope it will be from Tuscany!

First Impressions

So, we arrived on Sunday around 8:45 a.m. our time, 2:45 a.m. CST. After landing, we didn’t rest, but went and saw some sights, like Trafalgar(tra-FAL-grr) Square. I was really too tired to enjoy anything very much except our dinner, which I am proud to say I didn’t fall asleep in.

One thing that I have noticed is that everyone here has great jeans. They’re the kind that actually fit; even for the guys, they don’t sag halfway to their knees.

Have you ever felt like you’re being watched? Well, for me, it’s not just a feeling. People have been openly staring at us for some reason, and it bugs me. It’s not like we look any different.

Anyway, I’m sure you all want to know why we were asked to leave the
Tower of London. It was because it was closing time. We were taking a tour of the tower, and at the end, walked through the Bloody Tower onto Raleigh’s Way (which were also the battlements) and I stood on it and looked over and started reciting the lines of the French soldier in Monty Python’s Holy Grail. “Don’t come back or I will taunt you a second time! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!” Just about the time I got to ” you silly Eenglish Knnnn-iggits!” the Yeoman Warder at the end of the battlement said “Alright, everyone time to leave!” I think he was offended.

And now for something completely different! Happy belated birthday to Uncle Benny! Here’s your present — a birthday finger-wagging in front of Big Ben!

Here’s something of interest for Kevvy-Wevvy, the oldest breech-loading guns in the Tower (can you see me in the picture?):

London: Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning

Eight hours of flying plus a six-hour jump into the future thanks to the time change brought the Reverend Mother, Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and myself into Gatwick Airport early on Sunday morning. Not much to see from the airplane window but tarmac and other airplanes that could have been in any airport in the world. It certainly smelled like an airport. The captain said it was London, however, and since they already had our money it was best to believe him.

Getting off of the airplane I saw some funny spellings of familiar words, but it only took a few moments before we could make out that most British of institutions: “the Queue”. It took us over an hour to make our way down a hall, around a corner and through a long series of turns as we criss-crossed a large room, channeled by black strips of fabric as we awaited our interview with the immigration officer. My carry-on sized wheely bag and one small shoulder tote — what I had thought constituted “traveling light” — soon made me feel like Marley’s ghost. Finally we were in front of the person who would let us in or send us back. It was all very reminiscent of the Bridge of Death scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: “Who would cross the Bridge of Death must answer me these questions three, ere the other side he see:”

“What are your names?”

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

“What is your favorite color?”

Aieee!

The flowers in St. James Park were a lot fresher than our little group.

Well, we all got in, but then we had to make two circuits around the baggage claim area because it had taken so long to get there that the videoscreens no longer showed at which carousel our baggage had been dropped. Then it was off to purchase train tickets to get into London, at a counter where the attendant’s credit-card reading machine was balky. Finally, though, we were on our way in an overcrowded train car, our bags on and under our laps. Emerging from the station and a tunnel we finally saw this new land to which we had committed ourselves. Gray, a bit grimy, but the rowhouses and architecture were distinctly British.

Arriving at Victoria Station we quickly fortified ourselves with caffeine and started to make plans for the afternoon. Except for some brief intervals of semi-consciousness on the flight some of us had been up for 24 hours by that time but we resisted the urge to find the B&B where we had reservations and crash. We wanted to get on the local schedule so we planned to check our bags for the afternoon and do some sightseeing. Bag-checking, however, runs you 6 quid per bag, with the exchange rate nearly two dollars per pound. Now I know where the British expression, “Oi!” comes from. Another thing we noticed, as we clutched our now-empty paper coffee-cups: no trashcans, or dustbins as they’re called here. At first I couldn’t believe it, but after steadily surveying the perimeter of the station there was no doubt – and no dustbins. There also wasn’t any trash laying around on the ground. Do people eat there trash here? What is the meaning of this mystery?

The answer was soon revealed when we got our first example of the security-consciousness of this country. I met up with a uniformed officer and asked where to find a couple of things, including a dustbin. “Oh, you’ll not find any dustbins around here, I imagine,” he said. “Security you know.”

Ah, culture shift. The lightbulb finally went on in my head: dustbins are just too nifty a place for bad guys to leave bombs, and I’m sure it was a lesson hard-learned. We finally found a place to dispose of our cups and also decided to go to the B&B first thing after all to drop our bags rather than pay the ransom for leaving them. After that we managed a little sight-seeing in central London, including passing by the barracks and parade-ground of the Queens Life Guards. Believe me, no matter how tired you are, it gets your attention when someone wearing a shiny helmet and carrying a sabre steps out from a box and stamps his feet next to you. We also stopped in Trafalgar Square where we found a wonderful public restroom. While we paused there I remembered my previous trips to London back in 1979 when I had spent a semester at nearby Reading University. Then Trafalgar Square had been so full of pigeons that they looked like a moving carpet. Now there was nary a pigeon in sight. How, in a land that recently banned fox hunting, had they dealt with these creatures? This answer, too, would come, but not on this day.

After a few sights we felt as if we’d done all we could, and it was time for supper and, at long last, bed. Returning to the residential neighborhood where we have our room we saw a street lined with ethnic restaurants. Here on our first night in England, what would we have to eat? Fish and chips? Bangers and mash? Yorkshire pudding or Welsh rarebit? No, there was an Italian restaurant, run by a family of real Italians. We went in and the hostess walked us back to our table, the Mall Diva in front of our family. One of the pizza cooks, a young and virile man, noticed her and quickly straightened his shoulders, smiled ever-so-boldy and tried to make eye-contact. Mall Diva was totally unaware of his attention, but that’s not to say it went unnoticed. Eye-contact he sought, and eye-contact he received, but from me. His smile went away, and with a Gallic shrug of his shoulders he went back to his pies. Oh yes, I can hardly wait until we get to Tuscany later this week. (The food was great, by the way).

Oh well, it had been a long day and we were literally and figuratively ready to crash. We fell into our beds; in my case 33 hours after I had left my own. Tomorrow we’d take on the city but with a little less grit in our eyes.

Next: More photos, fewer words, the fate of the pigeons, and why we were asked to leave the Tower of London. Or, maybe, something from the Mall Diva.

A last look at home for awhile

In a few hours the whole family will be setting off on our European adventure. I plan to blog from the road as often as I can, and I’ve just tested my new digital camera to be sure I can download to the laptop and post to the site. Regular features such as the Challenging Word of the Week and Friday Fundamentals in Film will be on hiatus while we’re gone.

I hope to report from London by Monday. In the meantime, here’s a shot of the flowering crabapple tree behind our house. Hmmm, the weather looks as if we’re already in England!

Best of: Merely a flesh wound

Despite all the problems of our healthcare system, as described yesterday, I still prefer it to the British system where the government decides when you’ve had enough healthcare and ought to just die. Since I’m leaving for England tomorrow, I hope I don’t come down with a light case of persistent vegetative state in the next three weeks.

As was earlier reported:

21st CENTURY BRITISH HEALTHCARE
(Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Scene 2)
CART MASTER: Bring out your dead!
CUSTOMER: Here’s one.
CART MASTER: Ninepence.
DEAD PERSON: I’m not dead!
CART MASTER: What?
CUSTOMER: Nothing. Here’s your ninepence.
DEAD PERSON: I’m not dead!

Terminally Ill Can Be Starved to Death, UK Court Rules
By Nicola Brent, CNSNews.com Correspondent, August 02, 2005(CNSNews.com) – An appeal court has denied a terminally ill British man the assurance that his wish not to be starved to death once he becomes incapacitated will be respected to the end.

Former mailman Leslie Burke, 45, has a progressively degenerative disease that although leaving him fully conscious, will eventually rob him of the ability to swallow and communicate.

He petitioned the High Court last year to ensure that he would not be denied food and water once he was no longer able to articulate his wishes.

CART MASTER: ‘Ere. He says he’s not dead!
CUSTOMER: Yes, he is.
DEAD PERSON: I’m not!
CART MASTER: He isn’t?
CUSTOMER: Well, he will be soon. He’s very ill.
DEAD PERSON: I’m getting better!
CUSTOMER: No, you’re not. You’ll be stone dead in a moment.

Burke won that right when judge James Munby ruled that if a patient was mentally competent — or if incapacitated, had made an advance request for treatment — then doctors were bound to provide artificial nutrition or hydration (ANH).

But last May, the General Medical Council (GMC) — the medical licensing authority — took the case to the Appeal Court, arguing that doctors had been placed “in an impossibly difficult position.”

The appeal judges have now agreed, overturning the High Court judgment and upholding GMC guidelines on how to treat incapacitated patients.

CART MASTER: Oh, I can’t take him like that. It’s against regulations.
DEAD PERSON: I don’t want to go on the cart!
CUSTOMER: Oh, don’t be such a baby.
CART MASTER: I can’t take him.
DEAD PERSON: I feel fine!

Those guidelines give doctors the final say in whether a patient should be given life-sustaining “treatment,” a term legally defined to include artificial feeding or hydration.

The latest ruling obliges doctors to provide life-prolonging treatment if a terminally ill and mentally competent patient asks for it.

However, once a patient is no longer able to express his or her wishes or is mentally incapacitated, doctors can withdraw treatment, including ANH, if they consider it to be causing suffering or “overly burdensome.”

Ultimately, the court said, a patient cannot demand treatment the doctor considers to be “adverse to the patient’s clinical needs.”

CUSTOMER: Well, do us a favour.
CART MASTER: I can’t.
CUSTOMER: Well, can you hang around a couple of minutes? He won’t be long.
CART MASTER: No, I’ve got to go to the Robinsons’. They’ve lost nine today.
CUSTOMER: Well, when’s your next round?
CART MASTER: Thursday.
DEAD PERSON: I think I’ll go for a walk.

Anti-euthanasia campaigner and author Wesley Smith told Cybercast News Service it was important Burke had taken the case to court because “it is now clear that a patient who can communicate desires cannot have food and water withdrawn.

“That is a line in the sand that is helpful.”

However, he added, the judgment had “cast aside” those who were mentally incompetent or unable to communicate their wishes — “those who bioethicists call non-persons because of incompetence or incommunicability.

“I believe that the judgment clearly implies that the lives of the competent are worth more than the lives of the incompetent since doctors can decide to end life-sustaining medical care, including ANH,” said Smith, a senior fellow at the Discovery Institute and author of Culture of Death: The Assault on Medical Ethics in America.

Burke was quoted as saying in reaction to the ruling that it held “no good news at all” for people who shared his concerns.

In the light of public health service cuts and underfunding, Burke said he was worried about “the decisions that will have to be made” by doctors in the future.

“I have come to realize that there are quite a few people who feel the same way I do,” the Yorkshire Post quoted him as saying. “Not everyone wants to be put down. Not everyone wants their life to be ended prematurely.”

CUSTOMER: You’re not fooling anyone, you know. (To the Cart Master:)Look. Isn’t there something you can do?
DEAD PERSON: [singing] I feel happy. I feel happy.
[Cart Master hits him in the head.]

Responding to the court’s ruling, the GMC said it should reassure patients.

The council’s guidelines made it clear “that patients should never be discriminated against on the grounds of disability,” said GMC President Prof. Graeme Catto in a statement.

“We have always said that causing patients to die from starvation and dehydration is absolutely unacceptable practice and unlawful.”

A professor of palliative medicine at Cardiff University, Baroness Ilora Finlay, supported the court ruling. “Stopping futile interventions allows natural death to occur peacefully,” she argued in a British daily newspaper. “This is not euthanasia by the back door.”

But the Disability Rights Commission (DRC) took a different view.

The commission was one of several campaigners, including right-to-life activists and patients’ groups, which had strongly supported Munby’s earlier ruling.

DRC Chairman Bert Massie expressed the group’s dismay at the Appeal Court decision, saying it did nothing to dispel the fears of many disabled people that “some doctors make negative, stereotypical assumptions about their quality of life.”

It had also “totally ignored” the rights of those who were unable to express their wishes, he added.

CUSTOMER: Ah, thanks very much.
CART MASTER: Not at all. See you on Thursday.

The Night Writer’s vote for the funniest line: “Ultimately, the court said, a patient cannot demand treatment the doctor considers to be ‘adverse to the patient’s clinical needs.'” You mean, such as, “Please don’t starve me to death?”

Best of: Going to the health store

Tuesday I was shuttling around the Garden State with the complimentary copy of USA Today from my hotel to fill the time between Oldwick and Hoboken. I was thinking something like, “Hmmm, news printed on paper – what a concept!” when I saw an article describing the challenges of trying to introduce competitive, market-driven shopping to our current health care system. I thought it was a particularly profound and insightful article, especially since I had covered the same thing here eight months ago:

Seen any coupons for cardiologists?

“Hello, this is ABC Cardiology. How may I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking to have a little work done, and I’m calling around to find out what it costs to see one of your doctors and have a couple of tests?”

“What kind of tests?”

“Oh, you know, EKG, stress test, enzyme test, whatever it is you folks do to figure out if something’s wrong with the old ticker.”

“Um, I don’t know what that costs. Let me transfer you.”

“Ok.”

“Hello, Coding Department.”

“Yeah, could you please tell me how much a visit with one of your cardiologists costs, and what kind of tests I might expect and how much they cost?”

“Well, I’m not sure I can tell you…”

“Look, it’s like this. I’m thinking it might be a good idea to have someone take a look at me, but I have a high deductible health plan so that means I’m paying for most, if not all, of any visit out of my own pocket and I’m just calling around trying to get some prices for a comparison.”

“Well, let’s see…a consultation is $334 to $432, depending on the amount of time spent.”

“Yow! Is there anyone in town who charges less?”

“No, that’s pretty much the standard Usual, Customary and Reasonable cost accepted by the health plans.”

“So, uh, do you have any coupons or specials this week?”

Best of: Good thing I have a permanent record

The countdown to leaving the country is winding down and things are being steadily crossed off my list. But first, I have to get out of New Jersey, where I’m currently on a business trip. Things can sure get complicated at times. It almost makes me wish for those simpler, carefree days of high school (right kids?).

Actually, life was plenty complicated for me back then, too. That said, I think things are even tougher for kids today — a point the following post examined last August:

A hard lesson

“This is the beginning of a much more in-depth education program, in which we tell our members why and what Wal-Mart does — not just to small towns, but to workers,” said Louise Sundin, president of the Minneapolis Federation of Teachers. (Strib: Twin Cities teachers unions push Wal-Mart boycott)

Honest, Mom, I wasn’t doing anything. I was sitting in my American History class and Ms. Wolverton was talking about the founding fathers, and when she got through telling us about the first president — Samuel Gompers of the American Federation of Labor, that is, so you know I was paying attention — she told us to take out our Diversity Journals and write about what it would feel like to be beat up by cops employed by fatcat capitalists and to not have health insurance besides.

So I was opening up my backpack when it slipped – honest! – and everything spilled out on the floor. Well, not everything, because I was able to catch my iPod, you know, and then the Wolf, I mean, Ms. Wolverton points at the floor next to me and says, really mean-like, “What’s that?”

Well, I look down and I say, “Nothing Ms. Wolverton, that’s just the condoms they gave us in third period today.”

“No,” she says, “What’s that?”

Then I say, “You mean this flyer about what time Tuesday morning we’re to catch the school bus to take us to the state capital to protest for higher education spending?”

“No!” she says, and now she’s really mad. “That looks like one of the new Trapper Keepers that Wal-Mart is advertising in the newspaper! How dare you bring something like that to school?”

“Hey, it’s not mine,” I said. “Someone must have stuck that in there just to get me in trouble, probably during Conflict-Resolution class!” Really, Mom, that Billy Swedberg is sooo passive-aggressive.

So anyway, now Ms. Wolverton is all, “shopping at Wal-Mart is the first step to economic servitude, and how buying a Trapper Keeper seems innocent enough now but, like, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to talk radio and voting Republican,” you know? Then she says something like, “someday when you’re working 70 hours a week for $1 you’ll wish you’d paid more attention in class.” Well, I didn’t really know what to say to that, but she gave me the idea, so I said, “I’m sorry, my ADD is acting up – what was the question again?”

Well, that seemed to calm her down and I thought it was all going to blow over when she says, “I don’t know what people are looking for when they go into a den of iniquity and social injustice like Wal-Mart.”

OK, Mom, I knooow I should have kept my mouth shut, but I wasn’t really thinking because I was still so nervous, so I said, “Good values?” And that’s when she went ballistic and told me I knew I wasn’t allowed to use that kind of language in school and that I had to go to the principal’s office and they were going to call you to come and get me.

So, am I in trouble?

Challenging Word of the Week: mallecho



Mallecho

(MAL ih choh) noun



As the play within the play begins in Shakespeare’s Hamlet (Act III, Scene 2) and the players act out the poisoning of the king and the wooing and winning of the queen by the poisoner, Ophelia enters and cries, “What means this, my lord?” and Hamlet answers, “Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief. Thus Shakespeare himself supplies the definiition: mischief. Mallecho was derived from the Spanish noun malhecho (evil deed), base on the prefix mal-(evil) plus hecho (deed). Miching (MICH ing) is an adjective made of the present participle of the verb miche, meaning to “skulk” or “slink,” thought to be a variant of mooch (British slang for “slouch about” or “skulk,” differing from the American slang usage, to “scrounge,” both, however, coming from the same source, Middle English michen, to skulk or hide)…



Thus, miching mallecho means “sneaky mischief.” You may never run into this eloquent phrase in contemporary literature, unless you happen to read An Awkward Lie by the English whodunitist Michael Innes (b. 1906), where his detective Sir John Appleby, considering the mysterious disappearance of a corpse from a golf bunker, wonders about this “elaborate piece of miching malicho.” Malicho is a variant of mallecho, or vice versa. Some authorities say that it is vice versa, mallecho, influenced by the Spanish, being a learned emendation of malicho, the form favored by Michael Innes.



My example: The blogosphere has made it much more difficult for a miching mallecho to go unnoticed.



Hmmm, the reference above to a corpse in a golf bunker being a miching mallecho reminds me of the upcoming Second Annual Millard Fillmore Memorial KAR Nation Open Championship Golf Outing Classic (sponsored by Buick and The Kool Aid Report), known as “The MilF.” Miching? MilFing? Mischief, no doubt, will ensue.



From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.


Best of: Three things you should read if you hope to date my daughter

Regular readers know that my wife and I take a dim view of dating, which is a topic that’s been addressed here several times. It’s nothing personal we have against any young men in particular who are in the vicinity or who might even arrive on the scene, but a belief that there is a better way and a desire for our daughters to approach things in ways that will lead to greater happiness.

Of course, if a guy shows up without an appreciation for the things we hold dear (especially our daughters), well, it could get personal real quick. Our philosophy isn’t all that complicated, but it does take some explaining, as illustrated by the medley of posts below.

While I haven’t kept a hard count, the first “best of” post below is without a doubt the most read and linked to post I’ve ever had. A year after it appeared I still get half a dozen visitors a week who have Googled their way to it, many from as far away as the Philippines, South America and even Saudi Arabia.

For a more light-hearted look at the situation, check out the following application I discovered (but didn’t write):

So how is this working? Well, despite my best efforts, a conspiracy was hatched and my oldest daughter ended up going to the Prom last spring. It’s quite a story of passion, betrayal, boys — and me wielding a bloody butcher knife:

Finally, let it be known that Faith, aka The Mall Diva, and I went to a gun show at the State Fairgrounds a couple of weeks ago. It was amazing – a huge room full of thousands of guns and hundreds of people and NO ONE GOT KILLED! Hard to believe, but not a single gun leapt up off of the table and attacked someone. Anyway, the always fashion-conscious Diva found a special edition Taurus .22 caliber with pearlescent handgrips that matched her purse.

I know what you’re thinking, punk. Did she really buy it? Well, considering everything else that’s been written here, I guess you really ought to be asking yourself one question: “Do I feel lucky?”