Replacing the Colonel -- 38

The Colonel's alma mater is in the throes of a political correctness induced mascot replacement controversy. The University of Mississippi has been known as the Ole Miss Rebels since early in the last century. The Ole Miss mascot was a caricature of a southern planter named Colonel Rebel. A few years back, Colonel Rebel was banned from sports events, and this summer, the University officially "retired" Colonel Rebel as the school's mascot--supposedly in an effort to further distance the school from its racially insensitive past.

For the past couple of years, Ole Miss has been trying to find a replacement mascot. The problem is that when you are the Ole Miss Rebels, it's hard to find a mascot that reflects what that name infers without being odious to some. As a result, the handful of mascot candidates to which a year-long mascot search has been narrowed range from woefully lame to downright embarrassing. One candidate is actually two muppet characters named Hotty and Toddy (after the school cheer).

Really?

This Colonel has a better idea.

As much as the Colonel would dearly love to see Colonel Rebel return to his rightful place on the sidelines as the official mascot, he is ready to yield, and proffer another thought.

Why not have Chucky Mullins represent Ole Miss? Why not replace Colonel Rebel with Chucky Mullin's number 38?

For the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, and who may not have a clue who Chucky Mullins was, allow the Colonel to elucidate.

Twenty years ago this weekend, in a game against Vanderbilt, Safety Chucky Mullins made a career and life as he had known it-ending tackle. He was paralyzed from the neck down. Even before his accident, Mullins was known for his never-say-die attitude and courage on an off the field. Not recruited by Ole Miss, Mullins told then coach Billy Brewer that if given a scholarship Brewer would not be sorry.

Turns out that was the understatement of the decade.

Mullins eventually returned to school and inspired all with whom he came in contact. His always positive attitude and can-do spirit made you almost forget he was confined to a wheel chair.

A year later, a pulmonary embolism ended Chucky Mullins' life, but not his legacy. The Chucky Mullins Courage Award is presented yearly to the Ole Miss football player whose conduct on and off the field best exemplifies the courage displayed by Mullins. For a few years, the award winner wore Mullins' number 38 jersey. After Ole Miss retired his number (the only other number retired by Ole Miss was Archie Manning's number 18), the award winner wore the number 38 prominently on the shoulder of his jersey.

At the end of the tunnel from the Ole Miss locker room sits a bust of Chucky Mullins; each player and coach touches the head of the man whose name means Courage before running on to the field.

Ole Miss doesn't need an embarrassingly lame mascot replacement. Ole Miss has Chucky Mullins and the number 38. Every other school in the nation has some sort of personage, animal, or plant for a mascot. Some schools share the same mascot. No other school honors a player hero as mascot.

This is a no-brainer.

Thinking Ahead

The Colonel, as the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon can attest, is not exactly the most regular of writers. Some weeks, when the mood strikes, he'll punish his meager readership with a veritable blitzkrieg of blog posts. Then there are weeks when he is blessedly silent, allowing respite to those whose lives are so rudely afflicted by his curmudgeonry.

Often the Colonel opines on topics of interest or disgust gleaned from mass media. At other times certain dates awaken a memory of a history lesson learned or a personal lesson earned. Last week was a week that had a plethora of both--a target-rich environment of idiots and scoundrels, and a treasure trove of historical highlights and personal memories. The air waves and data streams abounded with opportunities for the Colonel's opinionated comment.

And, yet...it just seemed too easy to wade into the fray.

Don't misunderstand the Colonel. Ain't much he likes better than a good scrap--the bigger the melee the better. And this time of year seems to provide more melees per metered mile than any other season.

But, for some reason this past week it just felt too much like piling on to chime in with the Colonel's two cents worth. Could it be that the Colonel is developing a nascent sensibility--a sensitivity to other's opinion--a hesitancy to strike out in his customary hyper-criticality?

Nah.

The truth is the Colonel recognized a fight well-joined and saved his ammo for the next engagement.

While he waits on that next firefight, the Colonel will leave you with this thought:

Nine years ago, after a long night of watching skyscrapers collapse over and over, the Colonel woke the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda as he left for the office and told her to get ready. The Colonel was convinced that a major war was in the offing and that his bride needed to be ready to send both her husband and her sons off to fight.

When the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda asked "do you really think so?", the Colonel responded with "There's not a doubt in my military mind."

There still isn't.

For those who think that the minor campaigns in Afghanistan and Iraq, once concluded, will mark the end of America's latest war, the Colonel must regrettably inform you that harboring that thought is fool-hardy at best.

The real war hasn't even gotten started yet.

And, when it comes (and it will come most likely sooner rather than later), Americans will look back wistfully on the last decade. The real war will be more than the entertaining distraction that the Afghanistan and Iraq campaigns were for the majority of Americans. The real war will require real sacrifice. The real war will require a massive draft. The real war will challenge most Americans personally in ways only our grandparents and great-grandparents were.

The Colonel hopes he's wrong--but knows he isn't. And, you know he isn't either.

Ova-tion

The Colonel was torn over the appropriate title for this post. "Bombs Away" was a first thought. "First Fruit" crossed the ever-widening synaptic gaps in the amorphous goo lying fallow in the dark and largely infertile recesses of the Colonel's brain-housing group. "Opening Ova" richochetted randomly in the Colonel's cranial cavity.

The Colonel settled on... well, the memories of the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon aren't that short...

As the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon (and whose memories aren't short) will remember, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel started a chicken herd back on the first weekend after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox. In those early halcyon days of chick wrangling, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and the Colonel were concerned that our chicken herd would be an all-hen harem, sans rooster.

Turns out those fears were ever-so slightly unfounded.

Actually, worry over the presence of a rooster in the Eegeebeege Chicken Herd turned gradually to concern for the rooster ratio and finally to dismay at the realization that of the surviving original seven Rhode Island Reds ALL were roosters, save one.

The only thing that matches this circumstance for embarrassment was the Rebels blowing a 21 point halftime lead this past weekend against our FCS home opener practice patsy and letting them take us to double overtime. And, since we were in such a giving mood this weekend, we decided to give them the game.

The only way last Saturday could have been any more embarrassing would have been if the idiot administrators at my alma mater had decided this would have been the best weekend to introduce the new mascot. We still don't know what will replace the irreplacable Colonel Reb, but this Colonel will bet you a punch in the jaw, and give you fifteen minutes to assemble witnesses, that whatever the new mascot is, it will be more embarrassing than flatulence in the choir loft.

But, the Colonel digresses.

With a rooster-to-hen ratio of six to one, never has more hope been placed on the feathered shoulders of any chicken as have been laid (pun intended) on those of one Rhode Island Red hen, callsign: Olivia.

More hope than a fifteen-year-old who just spent his last five dollars on a jar of acne cream.

Doug Flutie had less hope riding on his last pass in the '84 Boston College-Miami game.

This afternoon, amid much cackling and and scratching in the hen house integral to the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, Olivia turned hope to elation. Never, in the annals of barnyard fowl, has the arrival of one egg been the cause for such celebration.

If there had been goal posts in the Colonel's backyard, he and the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda would have torn them down.

We'll probably have it bronzed.

Fuggedaboudit!

When it comes to its military preparedness, the United States seems caught in a repetitive boom and bust loop. We are entering the bust backstretch at a time we can least afford to.

At the close of the Second World War, a nation that had almost miraculously mobilized for (and won) a global total war and built the most incredible fighting force ever assembled on the planet, before or since, just as quickly de-mobilized and dismantled the vast majority of its land, sea, and air forces. In the short three and one half years that marked the United States' active participation in the great mid-20th Century conflagration, that nation took several unproved warfighting theories from the drawing board to practical application, combining theoretical vision, technical know-how, and an unmatched industrial base to build a strategic air force, a carrier battle group-centric navy, a mechanized/armored army, and amphibious forces. The latter, viewed as wasteful in terms of manpower and irrelevant in future warfare, and the Marine Corps whose stock in trade had become amphibious warfare, were placed on the chopping block of defense downsizing and efficiency.

Here we are again.

The Colonel has been blessed to work for many fine leaders and mentors over the years and one of the best of them, John Keenan (in whose regiment the Colonel served as a battalion commander and regimental executive officer), now Editor of the Marine Corps Gazette, writes http://www.mca-marines.org/gazette/august-editorial in the August issue of that fine professional journal, that our Corps faces challenges to its existence today as great as those it faced in the post-WWII years. Colonel Keenan references the earth-shattering news that for the first time in its storied 235 year history, the Marine nominated to be the next Commandant is not a ground combat officer, but (gasp!) an aviator. In the classic Brooklynese for which he was beloved by his Marines, Keenan dismisses the uproar over this "break with tradition" with "fuggedaboudit!"

Now, there's some fratricidal fog-clearing for you!

General Granville (callsign: "Granny") Amos will, if confirmed, inherit the reins of a Marine Corps faced with hard questions about its relevance and place in an "efficient" U.S. military establishment. While Marines like to boast that we provide nearly 15% of U.S. combat power for 5% of the Defense budget, the need for the primary mission (amphibious operations--i.e., opposed landings on hostile shores) for which the Corps equips and trains, is once again up for debate.

MacArthur's master-stroke amphibious landing at Inchon, Korea, 60 years ago this September, helped put down the anti-amphibious movement for a time, but the exigencies of our oft-warned against "land war in Asia" (Vietnam; where, from a macro view, the Marine Corps' battlefield activities were scarcely distinguishable from those of the Army) and the fearsome capabilities of our primary enemy (the Soviet Union/Warsaw Pact) during the Cold War, relegated amphibious capabilities to the back burner. After Vietnam, the Navy did build some new, more capable, amphib ships, and Marines did get some new battlefield weapons systems, but fielding of actual ship-to-shore systems has been, for all practical purposes, non-existent. The amphibious vehicle with which the Marine Corps would conduct an opposed landing on a hostile shore today, is (with some up-gunning) the same vehicle Marines have had since the early 1970s. Ditto the vast majority of the Marine Corps' helicopter fleet.

And, that's the problem.

The Marine Corps has greatly-improved ship-to-shore systems in the pipeline. The amazing and revolutionary tilt-rotor MV-22 Osprey is slowly replacing the CH-46 helicopter (introduced in 1964!). But, the Osprey is very expensive. And, don't get the Colonel started on the mis-information campaign that has been waged by the conventional helicopter lobby, who would have you believe that the Osprey is too dangerous and not very effective. Suffice it for the Colonel to say--t'ain't so! In the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, the Osprey is magic.

To replace, the aging, 7 miles-per-hour in the water, amphibious assault vehicle (AAV-7), the Corps has been developing a new high-speed (40 knots in the water and capable of keeping up with the speedy M-1 tank on land) Expeditionary Fighting Vehicle (EFV)--the cost of which makes the Osprey look cheap, by comparison. The EFV is still years away from operational service--if ever.

We won't even talk about the enormous cost of the V-STOL Marine version of the still-in-development F-35 Joint Strike Fighter, needed to replace the aging AV-8B Harrier.

So, the real quandary for defense planners and budgeticians is, even if one can make a very good case for the need for the Marine Corps specialty of launching from ships and kicking the bad guy's door down to allow the Army to enter and do what they do best (and, nobody does it better), how does the United States afford to field a state-of- the-art amphibious capability?

The short answer is, surprisingly the Colonel is sure, for the five of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and know of the Colonel's feelings for his beloved Corps, No.

No, the United States cannot afford to maintain a credible modern amphibious capability, and a Marine Corps dedicated to, and trained and equipped for, that mission.

But, the Colonel will argue, not-so-surprisingly for the five of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, that the United States cannot afford not to maintain a Marine Corps equipped and trained for amphibious warfare.

First, while the Colonel can quickly and easily draw up on a napkin the plan, organization, and training required for subsuming the Marine Corps into the United States Army as the 1st Amphibious Corps, the truth is that America wants there to be a separate and distinct Marine Corps. Marines have a place in the American psyche. No efficiency study will ever include that fact, but that doesn't make it any less so.

Second, the Colonel is one of a dwindling few, it seems, who still believes in American Exceptionalism. Attendant to that belief is the sure knowledge that America, with the responsibility for guarding the principles of freedom, as only America can, must never succumb to the miasma of defeatism, also known as "isolationism." We must keep all of the capabilities needed to keep the peace, or restore it by force of arms. We must be ready to answer any call for help. When we find ourselves incapable of answering those calls, we will no longer be exceptional.

So, to those who will in the coming months and years, in the name of cost-cutting, argue for elimination of unpopular and expensive military capability (such as amphibious warfare), the Colonel, with apologies to his mentor, says, Fuggedaboudit!

Not Smart and You Can't Make Me

A recent accidental reader (obviously not one of the five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon) commented on the Colonel's reference to Islamo-fascism thus: "...I find it hard to respect any 'educated' writer who uses the term Islamo-fascist." The Colonel takes great umbrage with that remark.

The Colonel has never, ever claimed to be "educated."

The five of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon know full well that the Colonel didn't even go to college...; the Colonel went to Ole Miss instead.

And, immediately following the four years of study-avoidance that marked his matriculation at what has since become widely known as the Harvard of the South (by reciprocal agreement, Harvard is allowed to call itself the Ole Miss of the North), the Marine Corps proceeded to heavily plaster over any vestige of the liberal arts education (a more accurate term would probably be minimal exposure) the Colonel had accidentally accrued whilst whiling away the last of his care-free youth in the kudzu-clad hills of North Mississippi with a liberal slathering of the fine art of leading men in the killing of the enemies of our nation and the destruction of their tools and toys. And, given that the Marine Corps is considered by most to be the single largest repository of the nation's Cretins and Neanderthals, anything that organization taught the Colonel can, therefore, in no way be mistaken for an "education."

Granted, the Colonel did have ample opportunity to further his, ahem, "education" over the years. Sadly, those opportunities were wasted in the most egregious fashion. A year as a student (and two further years as the Marine representative on the instructor staff) at the Air Forces' postgraduate equivalent Air Command and Staff College were mainly spent making fun of aviators and mocking the airpower zealots' mistaken belief in the primacy of strategic attack from the air.

Oh, there was that year spent coincident at the local extension of the ubiquitous Troy State diploma mill, from which the Colonel received a masters degree in Human Resource Management. But, it turns out that what the Marine Corps had already taught the Colonel about leading men in combat was quite easily translated into what was required to make the grade in case study analyses of the corrective actions needed to make boys and girls place nicely together in an office setting.

Yeah, and there was that summer at the Armed Forces Staff College in Norfolk. That's where the Colonel bought his first set of golf clubs.

The Colonel did suffer a year of incarceration behind enemy lines in Newport, Rhode Island where he attended the Navy War College and received that highly esteemed and universally applicable Master of Arts in National Security and Strategic Studies.

Actually, it turns out that knowing how to employ joint and combined military hard power in consonance with diplomatic and NGO soft power to influence the strategic will of another nation is not that readily applicable in the private sector as one might think. Not in the Colonel's experience, anyway.

So, it seems that the Colonel's decision to settle on a 100 acres and buy a tractor is perhaps the most educated thing he has ever done.

Sharing Sharia

To the blissful many, whose sacrifices on the altar of American freedoms are counted mostly in losses of temper at an inconvenience, and whose understanding of history is restricted to the pacifist pablum provided in a grade school textbook authored by a draft-dodger, the controversy surrounding the plans for an "Islamic Cultural Center" adjacent to the site of the 9/11 Islamo-fascist attack on America amounts to nothing more than a debate over the need for our society to honor our freedoms of speech and religion and "build bridges" to the Islamic world that so misunderstands our desire to live in peace with them.

See the desire to build the "Islamic Cultural Center" at the site of the Islamo-fascist attacks for what it is--the traditional Islamic tradition of erecting monuments (in the form of mosques) to Islamic triumphs. We Americans may kid ourselves into believing otherwise--the Islamic world will see it as a monument to a triumph. We Americans may come to view the mosque at Ground Zero as a symbol of outreach to the Islamic world--much as our President views it (and the mission of NASA, for that matter)--but it will be viewed in a much different light by the rest of the world.

We have allowed ourselves to be shamed into seeing the issue as one of respecting the cherished American ideals of religious tolerance and freedom of speech by a culture that respects neither.

Most in our nation have blindly accepted the lie that America is not at war with Islam. The Colonel asks those who purvey such nonsense simply, "Since when?"

Islam has been at war with Judeo-Christianity and the rest of the religions of the world since the middle of the 7th Century. And, at every site of an Islamic victory, a mosque has been erected in commemoration. The name for the planned Islamic Cultural Center at Ground Zero says all we need to know. Cordoba House.

A Muslim army captured Cordoba, a city in present-day southern Spain, in 711. By the end of the first millennium, Cordoba had become one of the great Muslim cities of the world. Cordoba eventually became one of the greatest Caliphates in the Islamic world, considered even greater by the fact that Cordoba represented the Western-most expansion of Islamic influence. Present day Islamic apologists and sympathizers point to the fact that Cordoba's library at the Great Mosque of Cordoba was the greatest in the world.

Berlin had a great library, too, in 1943.

Chicken Squint

As the Chicks of Eegeebeegee mature this summer, the Colonel's projected hen herd is turning out to be a lot less hen and a lot more heard than expected. The fool-proof hen chick-choosing method with which the mouth-breathing temp help at Tractor Supply assisted the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda with her peeper pickin' has been called into serious question by the obvious fact that the fledgling flock is demonstrating a decidedly roosterly majority.

The Colonel is considering holding an ad hoc session of the Tallahatchie Free State People's Congress in order to investigate how such a calamity could befall our new nation. The CBO (Congressional Biddy Office) egg-surplus projections have been revised downward dramatically. Seems the initial projections were made with a much too optimistic estimate of the rooster to hen ratio. Subpoenas have been issued and heads will roll...quite literally.

Three months ago, the Colonel and his clan were convinced that we would need to consider buying a rooster to augment our hen herd. We were (pardon the pun) "cock-sure" we had all hens. A month or so ago, one of our "girls" started going through what can only be described as "poultry puberty" and began demonstrating some very unlady-like actions; to include, but certainly not limited too, incessant crowing.

Fine. No need to procure a rooster, now.

Over the next couple of weeks the hen house pubescence reached pandemic proportions. The Colonel began to have serious doubts as to whether there was even one hen in the house. At this posting, the score is four roosters, two hens, and one unknown.

The first rooster to crow his credentials has rapidly become the Colonel's favorite...and the Colonel seems to be his favorite, as well. In the margin next to the word "quirky" in Eegeebeegee's on-line animal encyclopedia, Faunapedia (www.you'llneverfinditonthewebbecausethecoloneljustmadeitup.com/chickens) is a picture of the bird the Colonel has named "Smedley." The crazy bird's right eye is turned 90 degrees and blinks vertically. The Colonel kids you not.

"Why Smedley," you ask?

Well -- and this is a) the point at which two or three of the five of you dear readers who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon become disabused of the notion that continuing to read this electronic drivel will produce any appreciable value; and, b) the point at which members of the Colonel's clan perceive rightly that a combined vocabulary/geography/history lesson is about to emanate volubly from the Colonel's grits grinder, and run screaming from the room -- when that cock-eyed rooster looks the Colonel in the eye, the man curmudgeoned before his time is reminded of the descriptive phrase "gimlet eye." One of the Colonel's historical military heroes--Major General Smedley Butler, USMC--was nicknamed "Ol' Gimlet Eye" for the piercing look in his eye.

So, the Colonel named his favorite rooster for General Butler. Pretty sure the General won't mind--he's been worm-food since 1940.

When the Colonel approaches the pen each morning, and calls "Chick, chick, chick, chick, chick," Smedley is the first to answer with a combination of clucks, growls, and fluffed-feather displays. When the door to the pen is open, the other chickens sprint for favorite bug-huntin' spots. Smedley does a dance at the Colonel's feet and waits to be picked up.

The Colonel is quite sure there are few things more incongruously unsettling and sad than the sight of a warrior gone to seed clucking and baby-talking to a cockeyed rooster tucked under his arm.

Boudreaux and His Special Dog

Canjun banker man sees locally renowned duck hunter and nutria trapper, Boudreaux Broussard, walk into his bank and gets up from behind his big ol' desk to welcome him.

"Mornin' Boudreaux."

"Mornin'," say Boudreaux.

The banker man ask, "You killin' any ducks?"

"Sum," say Boudreaux.

"I hear you got a special dog, Boudreaux. Supposed to be the best dog in Louisiana."

"He okay," say Boudreaux.

"How 'bout you take me huntin' to your secret duck hole in the mornin'."

"Don' thin' so," say Boudreaux.

"Boudreaux," ask the banker man, "who dat owns the bank what holds the mortgage on your house?"

"Das you," say Boudreaux.

"Das right," say the banker man. "I'll be at your house at five in the mornin'."

Next morning, the banker man and Boudreaux climb into Boudreaux's pick-em-up truck and the banker man looks over at Boudreax and he ask, "Where dat dog?"

Beaudreaux say, "What dog?"

"Your special dog," say the banker man.

"We don' need him dis mornin'," say Boudreaux.

"Boudreaux," say that banker man, "who dat owns the bank what holds the note on dis here truck?"

"Das you."

"Das right. Git your dog."

An hour later, the banker man and Boudreaux are sitting in the boat at Boudreaux's secret hunting spot and along comes a flock of ducks. The banker man knocks down a duck with his fancy Italian shotgun with the gold trigger and Boudreaux starts to climb out of the boat.

"Where you goin' Boudreaux?"

"Ta git your duck."

"Send your special dog to get dat duck, Boudreaux."

"No. I get it ma'self."

"Boudreaux," ask the banker man, "who dat owns the bank what holds the note on dis here boat?"

"Das you."

"Das right. Now send your dog to go git dat duck."

Boudreaux hangs his head, snaps his fingers, and the dog, who has been sitting still as a statue, leaps out of the boat, and lands on the water. But, he don't sink and swim. Instead, the dog tippy-toes across the top of the water like he's afraid to get his feet wet. The dog goes straight to the duck, picks it up in his mouth, and tippy-toes on top of the water back to the boat. At the boat, the dog steps over the side and takes his seat, dropping the duck neatly at Boudreaux's feet.

The banker man looks over at Boudreaux with his mouth hanging open.

Boudreaux looks over at the banker man and shrugs his shoulders.

"Dang dog," say Boudreaux. "Never could teach him to swim."

Marital Mystery

There are many, many things the Colonel doesn't understand.

Take Chaos Theory, for example. The Colonel can spell (without the help of spell check) the words ... and, that just about exhausts his knowledge and understanding of the subject. Still, Chaos Theory is not the most perplexing concept the Colonel attempts to wrap his head around.

The Colonel doesn't understand a word of Farsi. Or Hindi, for that matter. Pushtu, likewise. Frankly, there's a lot of English that the Colonel struggles to understand and articulate. Yet, languages, foreign and domestic, don't leave the Colonel scratching his head the most.

The science behind the ability of a two-year-old to be in three places at the same time, the destructive power of a four-year-old, and the exponential energy surge present when the two of them occupy the same square meter is beyond the Colonel's comprehension. But, there is something else far more mysterious to the Colonel.

The Colonel is clueless when it comes to Calculus. Algebra pretty near puts him into apoplexy. Fractions fry the Colonel's circuits. Theorems and equations leave him queasy with confusion. However, these things don't puzzle the Colonel the most.

The Colonel cannot fathom the depths of God's love, the heights of man's folly, or the width of a mother's wisdom.

And, yet, there is something the Colonel finds even more unfathomable.

Thirty-four years ago, almost to this very hour, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda looked this miserable man in the eye and pledged her loyalty and love, forever. Despite this idiot's best efforts to show his worst possible side at the worst possible times and places, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has remained steadfast and true to her word.

That is something the Colonel will never understand.

Happy Anniversary, Sweetthing! What's for dinner?

Ducking Responsibility

With absolutely nothing else of consequence on which to opine, bloviate, or remonstrate, catching the Colonel's attention this morning, he will endeavor instead to catch the five of you who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon up on the latest fowl news from the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

In previous posts, the Colonel mentioned that the population of the Tallahatchie Free State, a virtual republic established as much tongue-in-cheek as hand-on-wallet, has grown considerably over the spring and summer. The first of April saw the addition of a flock of chickens, and, last month, the Colonel's favorite daughter completed her emigration from the Scumslime state to the welcoming shores of Lake Brenda and beckoning kudzu-clad hills of Eegeebeegee and was rewarded by the Colonel for her superior choice of residential locales with the gift of two ducklings.

Ugly ducklings.

Ugly, persistently peeping ducklings.

Ugly, persistently peeping, perpetually pooping ducklings.

The Colonel's favorite daughter spends hours each day cuddling and coddling her ducklings. No pair of waterfowl in the history of avian-human interaction has been more cuddled and coddled. The ducklings, in return, shower their adopted mother with unlimited affection, not to mention prodigious excrement. The Colonel is beginning to believe that there might actually be a government grant-worthy study possible regarding Oedipal Ornithology, with the Colonel's favorite daughter and her ducks as case in point.

The ducklings have outgrown the once spacious confines of the brooder box. The Colonel's favorite daughter believes it is time for her "babies" to have an appropriate pen of their own "like your stupid chickens."

The Colonel's suggestion that the ducks would be just fine released down at the spacious aquarian acreage of Lake Brenda was met with a mixture of scornful scowls and disagreeable discourse the likes of which the Colonel has only been the subject of from one other source--the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda.

Since it took the Colonel the better part of three months to construct and predator-proof the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House, he was not keen on the prospect of another round of post hole and wire trench digging. The Colonel thought it much more efficacious and labor-saving to allow the ducks to share the chicken's abode.

The chickens thought otherwise.

The introduction of two little ducks to their domicile elicited such a rancorous response from the chickens that one would have thought the Colonel had just let loose a pack of coyotes in the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House.

Did you know that George Lucas used a recording of an irate Rhode Island Red for the vocalizations of the velociraptors in Jurassic Park?

He didn't really, but sure could have.

The Colonel was not happy with the impolite behavior of the chickens and punished them by declaring eminent domain and appropriating a portion of the Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House, for the duck's pen.

Grand Opening and official ribbon-cutting ceremony to celebrate completion of the Eegeebeegee Recession Recovery Omnibus Regulatory (ERROR) Act-funded Eegeebeegee Chicken Coop, with Integral Hen House and Duck Pen will occur at a time and place of the Colonel's choosing. Invitation only.

Don't have the Votes

The Colonel was asked recently (by someone who obviously didn't know the Colonel very well) why he wouldn't toss his hat into the political ring. The short answer is that there are no skeletons in the Colonel's closet -- more like rotting corpses.

The long answer is that the Colonel is disqualified from politics by evaluation against every possible measurement. Let's review the checklist, shall we?

1. The Colonel is an angry white guy from Mississippi who adamantly opposes the "fundamental transformation of America" promised by Barrack Obama. That makes him, according to the current politically correct measurement, a "racist."

2. If the foregoing conclusion is accepted, the fact that the Colonel opposes the policy positions of Nancy Pelosi makes him a "misogynist."

3. The Colonel loves his wife--the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda--with all of his mind, body, and soul. That makes the Colonel a closed-minded "homophobe."

4. The Colonel seeks to follow Jesus' teachings. That makes him "intolerant."

5. The Colonel practices a balanced approach to child rearing; employing impassioned positive leadership and example-setting, reinforced with dispassionate attention-getting and boundary-establishing corporal punishment. He is, therefore, a "masochistic child-abuser."

6. The Colonel not only owns more guns than musical instruments, but is more than adequately proficient in their employment. This makes the Colonel "dangerous."

You have no idea how "dangerous."

7. The Colonel owns a sawmill and a chainsaw, both of which have seen significant action. This does not endear him to the tree-huggin' set.

8. The Colonel eats meat. Lots of it. Some of which he kills and cleans himself. There goes the Vegan/PETA vote.

9. The Colonel reads and thinks for himself and thinks Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck should be listened to only if there is absolutely nothing else on, and unintelligible back-ground noise is needed for relaxation. The Colonel does not suffer fools, clowns and dancing bears well. Don't even get the Colonel started on the breathlessly brainless babble bubbling from the likes of Maddow and Olbermann. So much for the "illiterate vote."

10. Last, but certainly not least, the Colonel is disqualified from political life due to an over-abundance of self-respect.

Bridge to the Future

The Colonel conducted the first full operational test of the Bridge at Eegeebeegee --known within the Colonel's immediate family as Caleb's Crossing, in honor of the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash One (H21CC-1)--this morning and is pleased and relieved to report that the Colonel's trusty red tractor (Semper Field) is not at the bottom of the thirty foot chasm spanned by said bridge. In fact, the bridge, engineered and constructed to withstand the blast effects of a low-yield nuclear explosion, did not even creak as the Colonel eased Semper Field across. Clear of the concrete ramp on the far side of Caleb's Crossing, the Colonel gave an unabashedly exuberant "Ooorah!!" to usher in a new chapter in the work-in-progress that is the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.

Inaccessible to all but foot traffic for better than two years, the fields on the far side of Caleb's Crossing have overgrown in a tangle of blackberry brambles, bushes, tall grass, and hardwood saplings. Into this jungle, the Colonel and his steed, Semper Field, plunged--bush hog in tow--and the field's overgrowth surrendered itself to the rapacious blades spun by the tractor's power-take-off. Lest the five of you (the Colonel has been advised that there are now that many) who regularly waste rod and cone time perusing posts hereon--as well as the casual reader who stumbles blindly into this literary morass--think the Colonel a completely thoughtless destroyer of nature, he would have you know that wherever his mowing uncovered an oak sapling the Colonel steered a path around it.

After a couple of hours of cutting, the field, where once stood bramble useless to man, now presents itself ready for the plow, with a dozen two-year old oaks dotting the landscape. The oaks will greatly complicate the cultivating of the field in the near-term, but the Colonel would like to think that someday in the future beyond his existence on this rock, H21CC-1 will sit beneath one of those trees and tell his grandson (H22CC-1) that they enjoy the cool shade thanks to a man who, riding a tractor one day, thought of a descendant known only to God and was inspired to veer from the path of convenience for that child's sake.

The Evolution of Tyranny

For those who would maintain that the Constitution of the United States is a flexible document that must evolve to meet the changing nature of the peoples' political and social appetites, the history of the Roman Republic is instructive.

What follows is, by design, a shallow, cursory look at the Roman republican experience, due in large part to the Colonel's mile-wide and inch-deep knowledge base and the limitations imposed by the few remaining cognitive cells lying fallow in the limpid pools of goo at the bottom of the deeper recesses of his brain-housing-group. Lucky for the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, a cursory look at the Roman Republic's history is all that is required to quickly understand why a conservative adherence to our written constitution's strictures is so critical to maintenance of the rights and freedoms enshrined within it.

Twenty-five centuries ago, the people of the small region surrounding a nascent city-state on the banks of the Tiber River in what is now central Italy, revolted against their monarch and embarked on a five century experience with a more people-centric form of government. What is most fascinating to the Colonel, and most germane to his point, is that the Roman Republic operated for nearly 500 years, not from a written constitution, but according to loose oral tradition and precedent that continuously evolved to meet either the desires of the political ruling elite or the whims of the people to whom that ruling elite catered. Because of their inherent flexibility, the Roman Republic's guiding principles eventually allowed the political ruling class to accumulate so much power at the expense of the people that the people willingly accepted tyrants who satisfied their baser needs and wants at the expense of any self-governance. It was the Roman Republic's lack of a concrete constitution that led to its fall and to the re-institution of tyrannical monarchical rule.

That, and the dole, Rome's welfare system.

While Republican Rome's malleable constitution did maintain a semblance of checks and balances on the elements of Roman government, what was lacking was a supreme judiciary charged with preserving the constitutional rule of law via review of the constitutionality of the laws passed by the various competing ruling bodies whose power in Roman politics waxed and waned with the personal leadership strength of the heads of those bodies. In other words, there was no effective judicial review check on the legislative and executive branches of government. The result was a continuous cycle of command and countermand legislation to which the least attention was paid by those legislators who crafted it. Into such increasing chaos a Julius Caesar could ride with loyal legions at his back and seize power.

Little known to the vast majority of Americans is the fact that at the height of the Great Depression, during which an enormously charismatic and popular President accrued extra-constitutional powers to himself and his administration--and packed and perverted the Supreme Court with lackeys who would not find his clearly unconstitutional actions thus--a group of industrialists actually began to plot a military coup. They approached a retired Marine war hero (recipient of two Congressional Medals of Honor)--Major General Smedley Butler--with promise of more-than-adequate funding and troops to march on Washington and seize control. Lucky for our nation, General Butler's loyalty to his oath to "support and defend the Constitution of the United States" was greater than his personal disgust with the unconstitutional antics of Roosevelt. Butler reported the plot to Congress.

Had Butler been more of a Caesar than a Cincinnatus, the constitutional rule of our nation may well have ended in 1934, as it did in Rome in 49 B. C.

The Colonel wishes that his fellow Americans understood just how lucky we are to have a strong, written Constitution (amended constitutionally), whose words mean today just what they meant when first penned.

Ornithological Broodings

It has been quite a bountiful brood-raising spring and summer so far here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. The Colonel fancies himself an amateur ornithologist, fascinated by our feathered friends and their free flights and frequent feeder visits, above and aboard Eegeebeegee. Much of the Colonel's leisure is engaged in avian antic appreciation.

Last year, the immediate surroundings of the Big House here at the capital of the Tallahatchie Free State--a virtual republic, founded as much hand-on-wallet as tongue-in-cheek--hosted the nesting activities of several species of feathered fauna. This year, a pair of barn swallows returned to and improved upon last summer's mud nest under the eaves of the front porch.

They brought friends.

Three other pairs of barn swallows joined the first and as the Colonel writes this frantically boring missive, the four parental pairs are busily feeding four identical broods of four ravenous chicks in mud nests under the four corners of the Big House's porch eaves.

A word of warning to the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon and might be interested in hosting your own breeding pair: barn swallow progeny poop prodigiously. In barely a day's time, four swelling swallows can process parental food offerings and manufacture a surprisingly large messy mound of manure below their nest.

It is, however, a small poopy price to pay for pest control.

One of the parental duties of a brood-raising barn swallow is the discouragement of all other creatures from a thirty-foot radius of their nests with a chattering swoop within inches of the interloper's brain-housing-group. Matters not who or what the interloper is. The Colonel's grandsons--The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes One and Two (H21CC-1 & 2)--are regular dive bombing targets. As are the rabbits which ease up to raid the flower beds guarding the front porch of the Big House.

The Colonel, who has been forbidden from firearmed rabbit removal by the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, wishes there was a way to surreptitiously arm barn swallows with miniature cotton-tail seeking rockets.

Not to be outdone, eastern bluebirds have already produced one brood earlier this spring (despite an indigo snake's attempted/prevented predation) and three more broods are peeping and pooping in the boxes at the periphery of the Gardens at Eegeebeegee. Unable to poke pooping posteriors out of their nest like the barn swallows, eastern bluebird chicks depend on their parents to carry away the waste product of insects brought to feed them. While the Colonel often envies birds' wings, current grandson diaper duty makes him thankful for hands.

Early in the spring, the first pair of ruby-throated hummingbirds met at a feeder on the back porch. A half-dozen other pairs have since joined them. The Colonel has been unable to find their diminutive domiciles, but has begun to notice their progeny at the sugar-water feeders. How can one tell young hummingbirds from their parents, you ask? Easy. The immature ones are always sticking their tongues out.

In addition to these favorites, a pair of mockingbirds raised a brood in a bush right outside the door to the back porch. The Colonel is not a big fan of mockingbirds. Turns out they aren't big fans of the Colonel. H21CC-1 & 2, however, were able to daily inspect the progress of the mockingbird chicks with impunity. Momma mockingbird obviously did not have the Colonel's clear understanding of the destructive power inherent in two small boys.

At this point in this pointless parade of paragraphs, at least one of the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon is bursting with the question: "What about the chickens?"

The Colonel is proud to announce that his Local War on Barnyard Fowl Predation has kept the Chickens of Eegeebeegee safe for two full months since the last attack. The Colonel would also like to take this opportunity to announce the latest addition to the domestic flock here at the Center of the Universe. Two nondescript ducklings, named Archie and Peyton by the Colonel's Manning-mad daughter, have joined the growing menagerie of mouths aboard the capitol grounds of the Tallahatchie Free State. She wanted them for her birthday.

Interesting side-story regarding the Colonel's favorite daughter's birthday. Born on the 5th of July, she had long lamented that she had not been born a day earlier so that she could share her adopted country's birthday. When she got old enough (21) to understand the concept of the International Dateline--no slam intended; the Colonel didn't figure it out until he was thirty--the Colonel informed his delighted favorite daughter that while it was indeed the 5th of July where she was born (Hong Kong) it had actually been the 4th of July here in the good ole re-United States.

So, last weekend she asked for, and got for her birthday, a pair of ducks to raise here on the farm.

Guess it could have been worse--she initially wanted goats.

Sharp Solutions

Thousands of men and women from the college class of 2010 are embarking this summer on a career as commissioned officers in the United States military. To this new generation of patriots the Colonel renders a respectful salute and offers some advice by way of a few anecdotal recollections.

Great piece of advice not found in any leadership manual, Number 1: The most elegantly simple solutions to the most pressing problems are most often resident in the brain housing groups of the most junior members of your team.

The Colonel wishes he had a dollar for every time he was personally involved in an episode that reminded him of this maxim. Here’s two of the most memorable:

More years ago than he would like to admit, the Colonel had the great fortune to be in command of the best rifle company in the Marine Corps. The Colonel (then the Captain) and his lieutenants were wrestling with the problem of how to move vehicles off of runways it was our company’s mission to secure. We had hot wire kits made up to start vehicles, but figured that we would need some way to get into a locked car or truck. We decided we would need to add slim jims, the tool police use to unlock vehicles, to our kits but couldn't figure out where to get them. When we finally asked our Marines if any of them knew where we could find a tool that would open a locked car, one lance corporal in the last rank raised his hand and volunteered, “Why don’t you just break the (expletive deleted) window?”

Six Marine officers removed their head gear and slapped their foreheads in unison.

A few years later, the Colonel had the great fortune to be in command of the best recruiting station in the Marine Corps. The Colonel (then the Major) and his lieutenants were wrestling with the problem of how to move the contracting and shipping status board from the old headquarters in Macon to the new headquarters in Atlanta, without losing the critical information tracked thereon. The status board (this was in the days just shortly after the invention of electricity) was a wall-sized magnetic board with twenty or so columns and just as many rows. The Colonel’s grasp of math ain't too good and he couldn't tell you exactly how many boxes that formed—in each of which a magnetic number resided—but it was, to use the technical term, a bunch. The Colonel (then the Major) and his lieutenants had decided to cover the board in plastic wrap and were measuring the board to see how big of a U-haul truck was needed to transport it, when the young sergeant, whose job it was to maintain the board and who had been quietly and respectfully observing his brainy leadership at work, reached into his desk, pulled out a Polaroid camera and snapped a picture of the board. While the Colonel (then the Major) and his lieutenants watched, the Marine waited patiently for the film to develop, looked carefully at it when it did, then pitched it onto his desk and proceeded to take the numbers off the board. The Colonel (then the Major) and his lieutenants edged over to the young sergeant’s desk, took a quick look at the clear picture of the status board, and went elsewhere.

Great piece of advice not found in any leadership manual, Number 2: Somebody on your team is always carrying a big enough knife for any job.

When the Colonel (then the Lieutenant) completed his initial infantry officer training and was enroute to his first operational assignment, he stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a large sheath knife. When he says large, the Colonel really means enormous. Jim Bowie would have been, not just merely envious, but apoplectic with inferiority. Crocodile Dundee would have remarked favorably on it.

The knife was so large that the steel in its blade represented an entire day's worth of production at a mill in Pittsburgh.

The hides of six cows, and a half-grown calf, were required to provide enough leather from which to fashion the sheath.

The knife was so heavy that when strapped to the Colonel's (then the Lieutenant's) side, it caused him to list dramatically to port. The resulting lopsided gait, on the Colonel's (then the Lieutenant's) first march to the field with his new platoon, wore out the leather on the outside portion of his portside boot.

The Colonel's (then the Lieutenant's) crusty old platoon sergeant remarked, in the third person manner of the old Corps, "Well, the Lieutenant has quite a knife there doesn't he." To which the Colonel (then the Lieutenant) responded with, "Yep! Where's yours?"

"Oh, the Staff Sergeant doesn't carry a knife, sir."

"Really? What do you do if you need to cut something?"

"Well, sir, the Staff Sergeant will just ask to borrow the Lieutenant's."

The Colonel (then the Lieutenant) traded in Excalibur for a small and infinitely less weighty pocket knife on his next trip to the gedunk.

Keeping the Republic

At the conclusion of the proceedings of the 1787 Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin was approached outside of Independence Hall and asked, "Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?"

Franklin responded, "A republic,...if you can keep it."

The Colonel would have you consider that the question asked of Franklin was not whether the delegates to the Constitutional Convention had crafted a democracy or a monarchy. Frankly, there had been no intent amongst the serious visionaries who labored to hammer out our Constitution to create a democracy. It will no doubt surprise the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon (as well as 99.9% of the U.S. population), to learn that nowhere in the Constitution of the United States does the word democracy appear. Don't take the Colonel's word for this, look it up.

In fact, many of the founders of our Republic and framers of the Constitution were disdainful of democracies and fearful of democratic tendencies.

James Madison, the principal author of the Constitution and fourth President of the United States, wrote, "Democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security, or the rights of property; and have, in general, been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths."

John Adams, co-author of the Declaration of Independence, champion of the concept of "Checks and Balances" that is embodied in our Constitution, George Washington's vice president, and second President of the United States, wrote, "Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide."

The foregoing are not snippet sound bites taken out of the context of the writers' otherwise love of democratic ideals, as many progressives would have you believe. Simple democracy was anathema to them.

Benjamin Rush, signatory to the Declaration of Independence, physician who led in the recognition of alcoholism as a chemical addiction and who provided medical training to Lewis and Clark's Corps of Discovery, and an early abolitionist, wrote, "A simple democracy, or an unbalanced republic, is one of the greatest of evils."

Unfortunately for the future of our Constitutional Republic, the acidic encroachment of simple democratic concepts has corroded the fulcrum upon which our Republic balances. Those who believe that the original Constitution and its "Bill of Rights" Amendments are simply antiquated general guidelines to be ignored when they interfere with our current pursuit of comfort or convenience, have, in the name of democracy, introduced popular concepts that would no doubt cause Dr. Franklin to lament that we have "failed to keep our Republic."

One such acidic democratic concept that unbalances our Republic is the popular, direct election of U.S. Senators. The framers of the Constitution intended the U.S. Senate to be a deliberative legislative counterweight to the popular-passion-fueled U.S. House of Representatives. Prior to the progressive-promoted 17th Amendment of 1913, members of the Senate were appointed by their respective state's legislature, thus enjoying a measure of insulation from the pressure to cater to fickle popular sentiment. Since 1914, the U.S. Senate has become increasingly susceptible to the popular passion of the moment and has lost its ability to act independent of that popular passion when that popular passion threatens the maintenance of our Constitutional Republic. Indeed, U.S. Senators now see their greatest role as securing federal funding of projects benefiting their constituents and in effect buying their constituents' votes for reelection. Democracy feeding on itself.

The "American Experiment," as envisioned by those who fashioned and established its parameters, was not designed to prove the efficacy of a democratic government. The results of other experiments with simple democracy were enough to convince our founders that such "mob rule" was not good enough for the people of our new nation. Americans, as exceptional as they were and were to be, deserved better. The "American Experiment" was a test of a completely new form of representative government wherein democracy was the power source, but our Constitution provided the mechanism by which that popular energy was converted into action for the good (not, wants) of the people.

The Colonel would go so far as to say, knowing it will subject him to criticism and dismissal by most, that our Constitutional Republic, as originally designed, is more like a benevolent dictatorship than a pure democracy. Most of you will recoil at that thought. We Americans like to think of ourselves as democrats (little d), and speak grandly of "Jeffersonian Democracy" in the mistaken belief that Jeffersonian ideals were purely democratic and reflected his trust in a "democratic government" to ensure the rights, and provide for the needs, of all. Most Americans have no more idea about the difference between the Jeffersonian and Jacksonian (Federalist) concepts of government than they do about the differences between Newtonian and quantum physics. It probably will come as a surprise to most to learn that Jefferson deplored big government. He would be aghast at the malevolent behemoth that has escaped and grown, extra-constitutionally, out of the Philadelphia political science laboratory.

Our ignorance of governmental philosophy is exactly why our Constitution was designed as a blueprint for a benevolently dictatorial mechanism of government--to protect us from ourselves.

Next: The Colonel will opine on the most critical question of the day--the evolution of collegiate sports conferences and the need for a Division I football playoff system.

A Rolling Stone Gathers No Stars

The Colonel has chewed vigorously on his tongue the past two days as the latest example of the ever-present American civil-military tension has splashed across the news. He had a lot to say on the subject, but most of it not fit for print.

The Colonel is more than a little chagrined, on a number of levels, with regard to reporter Michael Hastings' revelations in the forthcoming issue of Rolling Stone. Some basic questions, if the Colonel may...

First,... Rolling Stone?

You let a reporter from the Rolling Stone hang around with you and your staff? You let a reporter from the Rolling Stone go out drinking with you and your staff? Being open to the press is one thing, but the Rolling Stone? The Colonel ain't a smart man, but he knows that is about like letting Jane Fonda participate in strike mission planning.

(The three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon are old enough to remember Ms Fonda's treasonous behavior. On the outside chance that a fourth, unenlightened reader will stumble upon this post and not get it--Jane Fonda visited North Vietnam and had her picture taken sitting on an anti-aircraft gun and was quoted as wishing there was an American B-52 overhead that she could shoot at. Ms Fonda graced the pages of Rolling Stone in more than a few treasonous articles during that war.)

Second, you led your staff in yucking it up about and mocking members of the National Command Authority? You allowed an environment in which that kind of disrespectful and insubordinate behavior was so common-place that an outsider easily picked up on it and could quote enough of it to write about? You allowed an environment in which that kind of disrespectful and insubordinate behavior was so common-place that a freelance reporter from the Rolling Stone easily picked up on it and could quote enough of it to write a feature article about? The Colonel ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but even he wouldn't have been surprised at the result of that.

Who do you think you are? MacArthur?

Well, you just might be. We are fighting this [insert current euphemism] as if it were the latest incarnation of the Korean War--a conflict with muddled and contradicting aims, propping up a corrupt and ineffective government, at which we throw just enough men and resources to waste them without decisive result.

Mr. President, relieve the General. You must. Then, shut down his headquarters and bring home the rest of the troops as rapidly as you can.

The Colonel volunteers his rusty red pick-up, Semper Fillit, if you are short on transportation.

Simmer Solstice Sanctuary Statement

If this record-breaking heat keeps up, the Colonel may have to issue a public apology to Al Gore.

The official start of the calendar summer season in the northern hemisphere may be today, but it has been hotter than a pot-bellied stove lid here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere for the better part of the past three weeks. The combination of heat and humidity has made it all but impossible for the Colonel to accomplish any outside chores, and with the vast holdings of the Colonel and his kin having doubled recently there's more to do than ever. There are more fields to bush-hog, another bridge to be built, and don't get the Colonel started on the pressing need to start preparing food plots for the upcoming hunting seasons.

It occurs to the Colonel that perhaps the Tallahatchie Free State could increase the availability of cheap labor, and thereby decrease the likelihood of the Colonel spontaneously combusting, if it were to declare itself a Sanctuary Republic.

As the number of residents is quickly outstripping the number of citizens aboard Eegeebeegee (capital of the virtual republic founded tongue-in-cheek and hand-on-wallet), sanctuary status would only be extended to persons who qualify for admission to the Tallahatchie Free State as citizens. Whereas citizenship in the Tallahatchie Free State is contingent upon honorable United States military service--veterans of para-military organizations such as police, firefighters, and the U.S. Air Force may also qualify (with waiver granted by the Colonel)--sanctuary status can only be legally extended to those who have demonstrated acceptance of the idea of sacrificial service to a cause larger than themselves.

With increasingly large areas of the once-sovereign territory of these re-United States tacitly ceded to drug cartels, human traffickers, and other nefarious interlopers--by the nefarious interlopers now occupying positions of authority in the federal government--the Colonel reckons that there must soon be a steady stream of refugees from those overrun former outposts of freedom on our southern border; a small, but significant percentage of which should qualify for sanctuary here upon the kudzu-clad rolling hills of the former Chickasaw Nation (that's right, the Colonel is an occupier).

The Colonel encourages qualified sanctuary seekers not to delay in application for admittance. Current acreage (pending future acquisitions, notwithstanding) available for settlement is limited, and the Colonel expects that with an Exxon Valdez-load of crude gushing into the waters, and onto the beaches, of the Gulf of Mississippi (hey, we got as much right to it as anyone) every three or four days, the stream of refugees (and possible sanctuary-seekers) from the Gulf Coast should swell accordingly.

Send hand-written, essay-form application--along with non-refundable 5 Krugerrand application fee to:

The Colonel
End of the Pavement
Eegeebeegee, MS

From Nuke 'em to Nuke it

Sixty-five years ago, at the end of a war that had already claimed upwards of fifty million lives, two hundred thousand Japanese (mostly civilian) lives provided the horrific exclamation point to the declaration of the nuclear era. It was providential that it was the United States whose scientists won the race to split the atom, as our principled preeminence in nuclear power assured that, to this late date, nuclear power's peaceful application has claimed far less lives than would have been otherwise lost had the unprincipled likes of Nazi Germany or the Soviet Union crossed the fission finish line first.

Four generations ago, the promise of the peaceful application of nuclear power was unlimited. It has not been allowed to fulfill even a minuscule fraction of that promise. It is time to unleash nuclear power and fully employ its potential.

In 1945, and for a couple of decades thereafter, the world did not fully understand the enormity of the dangers inherent in the use of nuclear power. Some underestimated the safety requirements. Luckily, the United States' head start and preeminence in the nuclear arena allowed us, as we uncovered the asps hidden in the sands of fission, to move forward with an abundance of caution. The Soviet Union's approach was not so cautious. If the Russians had the likes of our brilliant, albeit highly eccentric, Admiral Hyman Rickover, they didn't pay attention and suffered scary accidents as a result.

Today, we benefit from two-thirds of a century of nuclear experience. We know how to safely harness fission. Companies like Japan's Toshiba (irony of ironies) are on the brink of marketing (in partnership with none other than Bill Gates) small community-sized reactors whose use of depleted uranium produces relatively minuscule amounts of waste--most of which can be recycled. Shouldn't the United States be the leader in this market?

Why, yes. Yes we can.

Think of it. Each community with its own non-polluting power source--with no need to network with other communities via a fragile and ugly transmission infrastructure.

Instead of spending the trillions of dollars necessary to build solar and wind generation facilities, and the needed transmission lines, whose land use is enormously wasteful and frightfully unsightly, why not bury a small self-contained reactor in every community, at a fraction of the total cost.

It's a no-brainer. The Colonel would not have considered it otherwise.

Belly of the Beast

Walmart, that ubiquitous leviathan of American consumerism, destroyer of the inefficient, employer of the oppressed, and whipping boy of the all those whose adherence to the political platform of progressivism is strangely at odds with their distaste for true progress, encourages us to "join the fight against hunger in America" and claims, dramatically, that "1 in 6 Americans don't know where their next meal is coming from."

Given that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda suffers extreme allergic reactions when placed in close proximity to meal preparation areas and food cooking appliances, the Colonel reckons that he is one of the “1 in 6.” Two signs hang over the entrances to the room containing the aforementioned meal preparation areas and food cooking appliances in the Big House here at the northern end of deep southern nowhere. The first innocently and accurately proclaims “I kiss better than I cook.”

The second sign warns, “The only reason I have this kitchen is because it came with the house.”

In as much as the Colonel’s second favorite pastime (right below the thing that the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda does better than cook) is strapping on the chow bucket, it is perhaps a fortunate thing that the Colonel’s lady is culinary challenged—else the Colonel would be big as a house.

But, back to Walmart's assertion that 1 in 6 Americans is on the verge of starvation-- gonna have to hoist the bovine excrement flag on that one. One need only spend half an hour on a bench in front of the local ubiquitous leviathan of American consumerism to disabuse oneself of any such notion.

Ever notice the thicker section of concrete across the parking lot at the entrance to a Walmart? That's not there to withstand the weight of vehicular traffic.

While Walmart's philanthropy is laudable, the idea that nearly twenty percent of Americans are face-to-face with famine is laughable.

The Colonel has seen starvation, up close and personal. The Colonel has even known hunger, personally. Starvation does not exist, today, in America. And true hunger is a very rare thing in our country. Consider this: if there were one extended-belly, malnourished child in America, would we not be bombarded with that child's picture daily? In our nation, today, food is so abundant and so amazingly affordable, that even the poorest have access to more than adequate nourishment. It has not always been so, nor are we guaranteed that we will be forever so blessed.

But, our current bounteous booties attest to our nation's bounty.

Recent headlines have proclaimed that a majority of our nation's youth are so over-weight and out of shape as to place our nation's future security at risk. The Colonel has experienced this, first hand, as the Marine recruiters under his charge screened hundreds of young men and women each day to find a handful that met the minimum physical standards (read: within weight standards) for military service. We were recruiting, not in the richest counties in the land, but in Appalachia.

Gotta go, the smoke alarm is going off and that means dinner is ready.

Less Cowbell

An ad hoc session of the Peoples' Congress of the Tallahatchie Free State met this morning on the front porch of the Big House at Eegeebeegee to hear a report from the Select Committee on Imposition of Politically Correct Rules to Aggravate Annoying People (SCIPCRAAP) on a recommendation to ban the possession/use/or reference to cowbells on any TFS property or in any building thereon.

Recommendation follows:

Whereas cowbells are the noise-maker of choice for fans of the other SEC school in the Great State of Mississippi; and

Whereas cowbells are by the following reasons deemed politically incorrect:

1. Their use is insensitive to both the hearing challenged and those who wish not to become hearing challenged.

2. Their use is insensitive to the muscle-challenged and as a weapon can cause grievous bodily arm.

3. Their ringing was once used to signal lunch and dinner breaks in the cotton fields.

4. Their use is insensitive to bovines who are reminded of their oppression at the hands of dairy farmers.

5. Their use is insensitive to Alabama fans, who are reminded that even though every official in the SEC is a 'Bama fan, they are still powerless to prevent cowbell ringing.

6. Their use is insensitive to LSU fans and their perpetual hangovers.

7. Their use is insensitive to Tennessee fans, who are made to feel inferior when confronted by anything louder than their clothes.

8. Their use is insensitive to Vanderbilt fans, whose favorite pastime is listening to themselves think.

9. Their use is insensitive to Georgia fans, who are already offended by another SEC school using their mascot.

10. Their use is insensitive to Auburn fans, who take offense at,...well...just about everything.

11. Their use is insensitive to South Carolina and Arkansas fans, who are reminded that they are in the big leagues, now.

12. Their use is insensitive to Florida fans, as the noise prevents them from hearing constant replays of Tim Tebow crying.

13. Their use is insensitive to Kentucky fans, who are trying to listen to replays of Wildcat basketball while their football team implodes, again.

14. Their use is insensitive to Ole Miss fans, who are trying to talk on their cell phones coordinating the after-game party.

Now, therefore, be it resolved this 3rd Day of June in the year of our Lord, Two Thousand and Ten; and of the establishment of the Tallahatchie Free State, the third; that possession/use/mention of a cowbell, or any facsimile thereof, be expressly forbidden; punishment for violation of such prohibition to include forced listening to the Hotty Toddy cheer for an extended period of time.

Linking Strategy and Tactics

In war, in love, throughout life, the best intended and most highly prized strategic goals can be rendered unattainable by a tactical action taken in complete confidence of one's tactical capability.

In the late 1980's the Colonel, then a captain, commanded a 200-man reinforced rifle company tasked with the mission of conducting helicopter-borne operations while on a Marine Expeditionary Unit--Special Operations Capable (MEU--SOC) deployment to the Mediterranean. One of the operations for which this unit trained was take-down or reinforcement of merchant shipping--both of which called for fast-roping (sliding down a 40-foot rope dangling from a hovering helicopter) onto the cluttered deck of an underway merchantman. Great fun. Within much less than a minute of the helicopter coming to a stable hover over the target ship, a dozen heavily-armed Marines could be out of the helo and taking up initial positions on the deck. Exciting stuff.

Get a squad of heavily-armed and well-trained Marines anywhere and that chunk of territory is rapidly under their control--or destroyed; take your pick.

So, as the three of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon can well imagine, the Colonel took a great deal of interest in the Israeli navy commando operation to take control of the Turkish-flagged merchant ships attempting to break the Israeli blockade of Hamas-controlled Gaza. The Colonel even received some encouragement from a surprising quarter to post hereon regarding the Israeli operation. Seems there might actually be FOUR of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon. Unfortunately, that fourth quarter may be somewhat disappointed at the slant this post takes. (Enough football references for you?)

The Colonel's initial assessment was that the Israelis acted appropriately and with remarkable restraint to interdict the blockade-runners. Appropriately, because anyone who believes that there were no intentions to provide arms and ammunition to Hamas (the Islamo-Fascist regime currently governing the Gaza Strip, whose over-arching strategic aim is the destruction of Israel) along with milk, cookies, and medical supplies to the Palestinian people has been smoking something a wee bit stronger than a Marlboro. Remarkable restraint, because the Israeli navy could have easily stopped the merchant ship flotilla with torpedoes and heavy deck guns--actions which have ample precedent in Israeli military history.

But, as with all battlefield activities, first reports are always false and first assessments are always off the mark.

The Israeli tactics succeeded. The merchant ships, carrying what the Israelis had good reason to believe was more than just humanitarian supplies, did not physically break the blockade. There were no pictures of torpedoed merchantmen going down by the stern or the smoke of burning merchantmen against the bright blue Mediterranean sky.

The Israeli operation may well have failed, though, to accomplish its strategic aim. Nine civilians died. They obviously were not innocent civilians. But, they were civilians. It may indeed turn out that there were ONLY humanitarian supplies aboard these ships. If that is the case, the Israeli operation will have to be deemed an even greater strategic failure.

Israel occupies a rather unique position among the community of nations. No other nation on the planet is so surrounded by enemies so intent on its destruction. This fact has driven Israeli policy and decision-makers to take actions that all-too-often do not endear them to international opinion. They don't care. Nor would you, in their position.

And, the Israelis are tactically very good. Not as good as American soldiers on the whole, but very competent. Operationally (operations link tactics to strategy), however, they suffer myopia caused by their tactical competence. They tend to underestimate the operational and strategic competence of their enemies because their enemies are so tactically incompetent.

The Colonel believes that the Israeli blockade of Hamas in Gaza has been broken. This is a serious blow to Israeli strategic goals. They wanted to prevent Hamas-fired missiles from raining down on their cities. They may have stopped a resupply of those missiles this week. The trickle will now become a flood.

There is a lesson in this for these re-United States and our tactics in Talibanistan. Our remotely-piloted drone strikes have been tactically very effective and efficacious. The problem is the disconnect between effectiveness and efficacy. The Colonel worries that our operational mindset against the Taliban and other Islamo-fascist organizations has begun to mirror the Israeli operational mindset against the terror organizations at their throats. We are busy very accurately swatting flies when we should be cleaning up the piles of barnyard excrement attracting the flies.

Reminds the Colonel he needs to clean out the chicken coop this morning.