The Colonel is proud to announce the birth of his third grandson -- Joshua Bradley Gregory -- aka: the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 3 (H21CC - 3).
The latest manchild in the Gregory lineage began his air-breathing ride 'round Ol' Sol shortly after noon yesterday, 1815Z 04182013.
H21CC - 3 weighed in at 8 pounds, 3 ounces; 20 and 1/2 inches.
The Colonel's daughter-in-law, she of the high and exalted position of Provider of Grandsons, executed her duties in an exemplary manner with which the Colonel takes great pride and relief.
Dozens of family and friends are now taking turns cradling and cooing at the young man.
They had better get their fill in quickly.
The Colonel has announced loudly and repeatedly, lately -- to any one who would listen and to many who would prefer not to listen -- that all such cradling and cooing will soon come only at the Colonel's pleasure.
For the Bama and LSU fans, who have felt a tremor of dread foretelling the birth of yet another future Ole Miss Rebel who will one day carry the Gregory name into gridiron battle, and who have come fearfully and reverently searching for him, the Colonel would have you understand that what he means by the above is that NO ONE except the Colonel gets to hold H21CC - 3 if the Colonel is in the room -- unless the Colonel decides otherwise.
The Colonel further decrees and announces that the Tallahatchie Free State will hold welcoming ceremonies this weekend, replete with manifold gunfire from select semi-automatic, high-capacity magazine-fed firearms from the Colonel's vast Constitutionally-protected collection.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
The Greatest Warrior
The Colonel has embarked on myriad journeys over the course of his ride 'round ol' Sol.
Many took him by routes carefully planned to destinations fully expected.
Some took him physically to new climes and places.
Other journeys required the Colonel to climb new mental heights.
The latter were always the most challenging journeys, given the Colonel's dearth of usable grey matter.
The Colonel's latest journey -- one of the heart -- may be the most difficult yet.
When one takes a spiritual road trip, the heart is where the rubber meets the road; and the Colonel's heart is dry-rotted, deflated, and inelastic.
It's going to take some supernatural strength to stretch the Colonel's heart back into large enough shape to provide room for more than just the Colonel's concerns.
It's also going to take a fierce warrior to drive out the demons of destructive desire filling every nook and cranny.
Luckily for him, the Colonel serves a Savior God who has authority over EVERYTHING, with the infinite power of creation at His command.
For over a year, now, the Colonel has been praying intentionally and specifically for spiritual revival in his church and nation. As his prayers have become more and more fervent, the Colonel's own sins and shortcomings have become more and more manifest.
It has become painfully clear, and please don't take this as a lack of humility, that any revival must begin in the Colonel's heart first. The Colonel is now convinced beyond a reverse-slope defense of doubt in his military mind that the spiritual revival of his church and nation is entirely dependent on the condition of the Colonel's heart.
Not the condition of your heart.
Not the condition of any political leader's heart.
Not the condition of any one's heart, but the Colonel's.
Further, the Colonel has been convicted of late that his spiritual revival (and, subsequently, yours) will not happen until he sees God for who He really is.
The Colonel has always had a healthy respect for Jehovah God, and a personal relationship with Jehovah God through Jesus God (Jesus is the Christ -- the Messiah -- but Christ is not Jesus' last name). But lately, the Colonel is beginning to see Jesus God in a whole new light.
And, this newly understood Jesus ain't your Grandmother's Jesus.
Jesus is first and foremost, a warrior.
Jesus is the "man" who appears to Joshua prior to the Battle of Jericho (Joshua, Chapter 5).
13 Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?”
14 “Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” Then Joshua fell facedown to the ground in reverence, and asked him, “What message does my Lord have for his servant?”
15 The commander of the Lord’s army replied, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did so.
How do we know this is Jesus?
Well, He identifies himself as "commander of the army of the Lord." That's Jesus. John tells us it's so in Revelations 19: 14.
11 I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice He judges and wages war.
12 His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on Him that no one knows but He Himself.
13 He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and His name is the Word of God.
14 The armies of heaven were following Him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean.
15 Coming out of His mouth is a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. [The Psalmist prophecies (Psalms 2:9)] “He will rule them with an iron scepter.” He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty.
16 On His robe and on His thigh He has this name written: King of kings and Lord of lords.
How else can we know that this is Jesus and not just some angel appearing to Joshua?
Look back at Joshua 5: 14. Joshua falls on his face in reverence. Any other time an angel has appeared to men, the angel has refused to accept worship.
Not this time.
In fact, the "man" appearing before Joshua uses language with which Jehovah God addressed Moses from the burning bush:
"Remove your sandals. You are standing on holy ground."
Commander of the army of the Lord.
Accepting worship.
That's Jesus.
Jesus, God's only Son, the commander of the army of the Lord, humbled himself to be the once and for all sacrificial lamb, whose blood covers the sin of the world.
Now get this. Jesus was, and is, no pacifist. He was, and is, the greatest Warrior. He humbled himself -- from commander of the army of the Lord...
... to crucified Christ.
No one took His life.
He gave it.
Then, he whipped death in mortal combat.
Don't know about you, but the Colonel is looking forward to his ringside seat at Armageddon. Hope to see you there.
On the Colonel's side of the ring, of course.
Many took him by routes carefully planned to destinations fully expected.
Some took him physically to new climes and places.
Other journeys required the Colonel to climb new mental heights.
The latter were always the most challenging journeys, given the Colonel's dearth of usable grey matter.
The Colonel's latest journey -- one of the heart -- may be the most difficult yet.
When one takes a spiritual road trip, the heart is where the rubber meets the road; and the Colonel's heart is dry-rotted, deflated, and inelastic.
It's going to take some supernatural strength to stretch the Colonel's heart back into large enough shape to provide room for more than just the Colonel's concerns.
It's also going to take a fierce warrior to drive out the demons of destructive desire filling every nook and cranny.
Luckily for him, the Colonel serves a Savior God who has authority over EVERYTHING, with the infinite power of creation at His command.
For over a year, now, the Colonel has been praying intentionally and specifically for spiritual revival in his church and nation. As his prayers have become more and more fervent, the Colonel's own sins and shortcomings have become more and more manifest.
It has become painfully clear, and please don't take this as a lack of humility, that any revival must begin in the Colonel's heart first. The Colonel is now convinced beyond a reverse-slope defense of doubt in his military mind that the spiritual revival of his church and nation is entirely dependent on the condition of the Colonel's heart.
Not the condition of your heart.
Not the condition of any political leader's heart.
Not the condition of any one's heart, but the Colonel's.
Further, the Colonel has been convicted of late that his spiritual revival (and, subsequently, yours) will not happen until he sees God for who He really is.
The Colonel has always had a healthy respect for Jehovah God, and a personal relationship with Jehovah God through Jesus God (Jesus is the Christ -- the Messiah -- but Christ is not Jesus' last name). But lately, the Colonel is beginning to see Jesus God in a whole new light.
And, this newly understood Jesus ain't your Grandmother's Jesus.
Jesus is first and foremost, a warrior.
Jesus is the "man" who appears to Joshua prior to the Battle of Jericho (Joshua, Chapter 5).
13 Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?”
14 “Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.” Then Joshua fell facedown to the ground in reverence, and asked him, “What message does my Lord have for his servant?”
15 The commander of the Lord’s army replied, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did so.
How do we know this is Jesus?
Well, He identifies himself as "commander of the army of the Lord." That's Jesus. John tells us it's so in Revelations 19: 14.
11 I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice He judges and wages war.
12 His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on Him that no one knows but He Himself.
13 He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and His name is the Word of God.
14 The armies of heaven were following Him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean.
15 Coming out of His mouth is a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. [The Psalmist prophecies (Psalms 2:9)] “He will rule them with an iron scepter.” He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty.
16 On His robe and on His thigh He has this name written: King of kings and Lord of lords.
How else can we know that this is Jesus and not just some angel appearing to Joshua?
Look back at Joshua 5: 14. Joshua falls on his face in reverence. Any other time an angel has appeared to men, the angel has refused to accept worship.
Not this time.
In fact, the "man" appearing before Joshua uses language with which Jehovah God addressed Moses from the burning bush:
"Remove your sandals. You are standing on holy ground."
Commander of the army of the Lord.
Accepting worship.
That's Jesus.
Jesus, God's only Son, the commander of the army of the Lord, humbled himself to be the once and for all sacrificial lamb, whose blood covers the sin of the world.
Now get this. Jesus was, and is, no pacifist. He was, and is, the greatest Warrior. He humbled himself -- from commander of the army of the Lord...
... to crucified Christ.
No one took His life.
He gave it.
Then, he whipped death in mortal combat.
Don't know about you, but the Colonel is looking forward to his ringside seat at Armageddon. Hope to see you there.
On the Colonel's side of the ring, of course.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Raising the Next Greatest Generation
Here in a couple of weeks the Colonel will welcome another air-breathing resident to the Tallahatchie Free State.
The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 3 (H21CC - 3) -- the Colonel's third grandson -- has been present and accounted for in a gestative state for nearly three quarters of a trip 'round Ol' Sol and all the legal residents and citizens (one not to be confused with the other, owing to strict citizenship requirements) of the representation-restricted republic here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere (established with tongue firmly planted in cheek and hands tightly gripping any one of a large assortment of firearms) are anxiously awaiting his birth.
No one more than the Colonel.
Grandchildren, grandsons in particular, represent many things to many people.
To some, a grandchild represents an opportunity to exact revenge through spoilage on the intervening generation.
To others, a grandchild represents an opportunity to correct mistakes made in the parenting of the fore-mentioned intervening generation.
Yet to others, a grandchild represents an opportunity for proud comparison with the grandchildren of peers and siblings.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to do all of the above... and more.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to build another in the long line of family patriots.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to educate and produce one of the most rare humans on the planet -- one who knows, appreciates, and understands history.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to train and produce another increasingly rare human -- a gentleman who places the life and security of women and children above even his own dignity; knowing that no manly dignity is attainable otherwise.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to pass on the increasingly rare belief that there are indeed things worth fighting for; and that following Jesus does not mean forsaking the responsibility to fight -- with weapons as well as words.
Find that last clause troubling?
You may find it so because you have been mistakenly led to believe that Jesus preached and practiced "non-violence."
News flash -- Jesus was Almighty God in the flesh; not a pre-incarnate of Gandhi. Today, Jesus is Almighty God. Tomorrow, Jesus will be Almighty God's war-bringing judgement for the nations.
The Colonel invites any self-professing Christian who believes otherwise to read Revelations 19: 11 -- 16.
Raise your grandsons to be politically correct, "tolerant" followers, if you wish.
The Colonel's grandsons will be prepared to fight in the company of a principled few for the protection of the many whose upbringing without virtue hamstrings their ability to even defend themselves, let alone others.
The Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash 3 (H21CC - 3) -- the Colonel's third grandson -- has been present and accounted for in a gestative state for nearly three quarters of a trip 'round Ol' Sol and all the legal residents and citizens (one not to be confused with the other, owing to strict citizenship requirements) of the representation-restricted republic here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere (established with tongue firmly planted in cheek and hands tightly gripping any one of a large assortment of firearms) are anxiously awaiting his birth.
No one more than the Colonel.
Grandchildren, grandsons in particular, represent many things to many people.
To some, a grandchild represents an opportunity to exact revenge through spoilage on the intervening generation.
To others, a grandchild represents an opportunity to correct mistakes made in the parenting of the fore-mentioned intervening generation.
Yet to others, a grandchild represents an opportunity for proud comparison with the grandchildren of peers and siblings.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to do all of the above... and more.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to build another in the long line of family patriots.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to educate and produce one of the most rare humans on the planet -- one who knows, appreciates, and understands history.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to train and produce another increasingly rare human -- a gentleman who places the life and security of women and children above even his own dignity; knowing that no manly dignity is attainable otherwise.
To the Colonel, a grandson is an opportunity to pass on the increasingly rare belief that there are indeed things worth fighting for; and that following Jesus does not mean forsaking the responsibility to fight -- with weapons as well as words.
Find that last clause troubling?
You may find it so because you have been mistakenly led to believe that Jesus preached and practiced "non-violence."
News flash -- Jesus was Almighty God in the flesh; not a pre-incarnate of Gandhi. Today, Jesus is Almighty God. Tomorrow, Jesus will be Almighty God's war-bringing judgement for the nations.
The Colonel invites any self-professing Christian who believes otherwise to read Revelations 19: 11 -- 16.
Raise your grandsons to be politically correct, "tolerant" followers, if you wish.
The Colonel's grandsons will be prepared to fight in the company of a principled few for the protection of the many whose upbringing without virtue hamstrings their ability to even defend themselves, let alone others.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Lt. Col. Kevin M. Clifford, Marine
The 31st MAU Lieutants' Protective Association; November 10, 1982; Aboard USS Bellau Wood, somewhere in the Western Pacific. From left: 1stLt Powers, 1stLt Clifford, 1stLt Gregory, WO-2 Marzean, 1stLt Bartow, 1stLt Sullivan.
The Colonel has a heavy heart and a smile on his face as he writes this.
Earlier this week, an old Marine buddy from his first few years in the Corps was brought to the Colonel's mind by the loose collection of cognitive cells in his brain-housing group dedicated to nostalgia.
Kevin Clifford had, at one point, been as close to the Colonel as any brother. To the Colonel's discredit, he had allowed the miles and years of separation since to result in a break in contact.
There had been sporadic reconnections over the years but no contact in at least ten.
The Colonel tried an internet search for his old friend a couple of days ago and found his obituary.
The terse announcement indicated that Kevin had died of natural causes late last month.
The news shamed the Colonel.
A friend like Kevin -- a Marine Brother like Kevin -- deserved the Colonel's presence at his funeral.
Kevin and the Colonel had been in a company of 250 brand new second lieutenants who had been prepared for service as leaders of Marines at The Basic School in Quantico, Virginia, during the sweltering spring and summer of 1978. The Colonel doesn't think they even spoke during those six months -- different 50-man platoons, and different career choices. The Colonel was headed for the infantry; Kevin became a ground supply officer.
In January of 1982, the Colonel (then a first lieutenant) was assigned as the Training Officer on the staff of the 31st Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU), after three years of leading Marines in an infantry battalion at Camp Lejeune. A couple of months later, then First Lieutenant, Kevin Clifford, joined the staff.
At first handshake, Kevin and the Colonel seemed to have very little in common. Kevin was from Chicago, educated by Jesuits at Quincy College, and, in the discriminating world of Marine infantrymen, NOT infantry -- worse a supply officer.
Supply officers are a subset of the larger collection of a group known as logisticians -- the bane of infantry officers' existence.
Logisticians tell infantry officers "no." Logisticians poke gaping holes in the best laid plans of infantry operators. Logisticians consider themselves professionals in the practice of the art and science of war -- infantry tacticians are amateurs.
Infantry officers consider logisticians to be out-of-touch, rear echelon softies, who spend their days kicking boxes and counting beans.
It didn't take long, however, for Kevin's quick wit, professionalism, competence, and Colonel-rivaling initiative, to break down the Colonel's stone walls of bias and disdain for all things not infantry.
As they were the two most junior officers on the staff, Kevin and the Colonel shared a tiny stateroom in the behemoth amphibious ship on which the MAU was embarked. As the amphibious squadron sailed hither and yon across the Western Pacific and Indian Ocean carrying two thousand Marines from exercise to exercise, Kevin and Colonel made it each of their missions to educate the other on the error of his ways.
One of the best educations the Colonel ever got in his career.
In February of 1983, the Colonel was reassigned to the staff of The Basic School. A scant four years after graduating, but with two "fleet tours" under his belt, the Colonel (selected for, but not yet promoted to captain) was now teaching lieutenants. A couple of months later, Kevin Clifford walked into the office space the Colonel shared with several other instructors.
The Colonel will never forget Kevin's greeting,
"Hey, remember me? We used to be friends."
Mind you, only a few months had elapsed since the last time they had seen each other. The "We used to be friends" line was reprised many times over the next ten or fifteen years.
In the prodigious amounts of spare time available to Marines embarked on amphibious shipping sailing hither and yon on the high seas, Kevin and the Colonel learned much about each other's upbringing, hobbies, faith, and plans for the future. The Colonel introduced Kevin to the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda via the cassette tapes sent back and forth in those days before near-instantaneous e-mail and inter-continental cell phones. The Colonel thinks even now that Kevin looked forward to mail call and the next tape from Miss Brenda as much as the Colonel did.
The Colonel opined frequently that Kevin's never having wet a hook or forayed afield for furred and feathered game was a serious deficiency in his claim to manhood. Kevin opined frequently that the Colonel's never having learned to play golf left much to be desired in the Colonel's manhood department.
At Quantico, Kevin and the Colonel went in together on the purchase of a small jon boat suitable for navigating the local lakes and estuaries off the Potomac.
Kevin took to bass fishing and duck hunting like a natural.
The Colonel and golf -- not so much.
Kevin and the Colonel often talked about a business plan for their retirement -- buying a bunch of land and opening a hunting/fishing lodge catering to high-dollar clients wanting to "get away" as much as wanting to hunt and fish. The Colonel would do the guiding and Kevin's quick wit and world-class sense of humor would provide the after-field entertainment.
The Colonel still thinks it would have been successful. Kevin would have made it so.
The last contact the Colonel had with Kevin was nearly ten years ago -- a couple of one-line e-mails over the Marine Corps' intra-net. Shortly thereafter, they both retired from active duty.
Kevin's obituary mentioned he was an avid golfer.
The Colonel wonders if Kevin, living in St. Petersburg, Florida, ever went fishing, again.
The Colonel isn't looking forward to the next twenty years -- there are going to be way too many weeks like this one.
Thursday, February 07, 2013
Recruiting Victories
Frankly, there never really was any reason to pay attention to Ole Miss Football recruiting...
Until this year.
A little over a year ago, Ole Miss hired a new head football coach -- Hugh Freeze. At that time, the Colonel opined, for the reading pleasure of the two dozen of you who regularly waste precious rod and cone time perusing posts hereon, that this bright, young, energetic coach would, in all likelihood, not be able to transcend the entrenched intransigence of the University of Mississippi's pathetically ineffective athletic administration, nor be able to excite, let alone expand, an apathetic, albeit long-suffering, fan-base. The Colonel went on to predict that this new head football coach would be replaced by yet another bright, young, energetic coach well within the life-expectancy of a mourning dove.
The Colonel will go on the record today and admit that evidence to date indicates that the Colonel's prognostications regarding the football program at Ole Miss may indeed have been in error.
In tandem with the hiring of Coach Freeze, Ole Miss also replaced one of Division I's most inept Athletic Directors with bright, young, energetic, and surprisingly savvy Ross Bjork. The difference has been amazing! When announcing Freeze's hire, the head of the coach search committee -- Saint Archie himself -- said that Freeze had the "it factor." The same can be said for Bjork.
The promising signs of a resurgent Ole Miss sports program have been hard to miss over the past year. In particular, a football team, that won only two games in 2011, played above all expectations and won a bowl game this year. The team was made up of pretty much the same members who played the 2011 season with an enthusiasm quotient, on a scale of 1 to 10, of...
...minus 13.
Freeze fixed that piece as his first order of business. The 2012 Rebels played with heart and for each other. The Colonel has a fair amount of experience in the team-building arena and knows a team when he sees one. Ole Miss fielded a team this year.
Out-manned in several games, the 2012 Rebels fought hard to the bitter end. A couple of the games were so out of hand that the Colonel was tempted to leave the stadium early, but stayed till the end because his Rebels were not giving up.
For several months now there have been rumblings of a potential Ole Miss football recruiting windfall. Leading up to "National Signing Day" yesterday Ole Miss was mentioned prominently as having a shot at signing some of the most talented and promising high school football players in the country.
As with all things Ole Miss, the Colonel paid close and hopeful attention -- yet, prepared himself for the inevitable let-down with which all Rebel fans of a certain age are fearfully familiar.
And then, as ESPNU broadcast in such unending amazement and constant comment that some on social media joked that they had become the "Ole Miss Network," the Rebels signed the single greatest class of high school football talent in school history -- headlined by four consensus 5-star recruits, Nkemdiche, Tunsil, Treadwell, and Conner.
Every one of these young men, and most of the other very talented players in this class, were heavily recruited by the likes of Alabama, Georgia, LSU, and Florida. They could have gone to any one of those schools and been nearly guaranteed at least a shot at playing for conference and national championships.
As one recruit put it, "those programs are run like very professional businesses."
The difference, he said, was that Ole Miss "felt like family."
The Colonel has long maintained that competing consistently in the SEC was a near impossibility for a football program like Ole Miss'. Particularly if Ole Miss tried to compete by copying the big boys.
The Colonel also knows a little something about recruiting against the "big boys." Nearly a fifth of his career in the Marine Corps was spent in command of recruiting outfits. Marine recruiters are always out-manned and out-resourced by the other service's recruiters.
Most young men and women who have joined the U.S. military over the last four decades -- the lifetime of what is known as the "All Volunteer Force" -- did not walk into a recruiting office on their own initiative. Most young men and women who walk into U.S. Armed Forces recruiting offices on their own initiative don't qualify for enlistment.
The vast majority of young men and women who enlist today do so only after they are contacted by a recruiter and sold on the "benefits" of foregoing college and serving their nation as a soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine for four years.
The Colonel's last assignment in the Marine Corps was command of one of the six recruiting regiments responsible for replenishing the ranks. He believes, without a shadow of a doubt in his military mind, that Marine Corps recruiters are the best salesmen in the world.
Don't believe that?
Look, anyone who can convince an eighteen year-old, and his mother, that it is in that eighteen year-old's best interest to forego college and enlist for four years, during a war, in the toughest, least-resourced, lowest standard of living service; and, oh, by the way, take his graduation trip to Afghanistan...
Well, let's just say that recruiter is a salesman!
The Colonel digresses.
What struck the Colonel most about Coach Freeze's recruiting effort was that, in addition to offering a top-notch recruit the opportunity to -- instead of maintaining an old, traditional dynasty -- be a part of building a new dynasty, the Ole Miss football coaching staff seems to be focusing on the things that mean most to a recruit's momma.
The Colonel took command of a Marine recruiting regiment three months before 9/11. It was like deja vieu all over again. He had taken command of a Marine recruiting battalion just one month before Saddam did the stupid in the summer of 1990.
Watching brothers in the infantry battalion he had just left months before go off to war without him in 1990 had been nearly more than he could stand. Having it happen a second time began to feel like a little more than just coincidence. There was the bitter taste of fate in the Colonel's mouth this time around.
But, the Colonel had to grudgingly admit that having been in command of a recruiting battalion during Desert Shield / Desert Storm gave him just the experience needed to mentor the eight Marine recruiting battalion commanders under his charge as the nation plunged into the Global War on Terror.
One of the things the Colonel and his regimental staff figured out early on was that helping recruiters over the largest obstacle on the recruiting battlefield would mean finding a way to "soften" Momma's heart toward the Marine Corps. National youth attitude tracking surveys perennially reveal that while Momma was the single most influential person in a prospective recruit's life, she was the least likely of all the "influencers" to approve of, let alone recommend, military service.
There had to be ways to close the "Momma Gap" in order to help our recruiters do their job.
Really a no-brainer, when you devote half a brain cell to the issue for half a second.
Only, higher headquarters didn't.
Doing things to soften Momma's heart wasn't their idea, so the Colonel was told to stop.
One can only beat one's head against the brick ceiling for so long. The Colonel voted with his feet.
The Colonel congratulates and salutes Coach Hugh Freeze and his staff. Keep winning Momma's heart and building team.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Cause Celebre
The Colonel celebrates completion of yet another air-breathing lap 'round ol' Sol today.
Well, celebrates is probably not the appropriate word.
More like acknowledges.
Begrudgingly acknowledges.
There was a time, far back in the halcyon days of his youth that the Colonel was of the fairly certain belief that he wouldn't live to see his 30th birthday.
He had no death wish, mind you. Nor even a paranoid sense of doom. Just a firm grasp on the statistics attached to his chosen profession.
So, perhaps the Colonel should be in more of a celebratory mood this morning. After all, his bones are not bleaching white on some forgotten battlefield.
Indeed, there is much to celebrate in the Colonel's life.
Please indulge the Colonel as he devotes a few of the rapidly diminishing cognitive cells lodged in forgotten corners of his cavernous cranium to an accounting of reasons for celebration.
There's strong hot coffee in his mug. That, in and of itself, is a situation that brings cheer to the Colonel when little else does.
He has a chair in which to sit while he composes this post for the perusing pleasure of the three dozen of you who will stumble across it in error. There have been a lot of times in the Colonel's life when a chair was luxury.
There's a roof over his head. It ain't canvass.
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is within physical reach. At some point this morning, she will stir from her unneeded beauty sleep and tell the Colonel how much she loves him. That is a very good thing.
The sun is rising over the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. Want to know the best thing about this patch of Mississippi? It's the Colonel's.
The Republic still stands. Despite the best efforts of those who would fundamentally transform it into something far less than the "patriots' dream."
God is still in control of the fires burning at the heart of every star in the Universe and every calorie burning in the Colonel's core.
Yep, much to celebrate.
Well, celebrates is probably not the appropriate word.
More like acknowledges.
Begrudgingly acknowledges.
There was a time, far back in the halcyon days of his youth that the Colonel was of the fairly certain belief that he wouldn't live to see his 30th birthday.
He had no death wish, mind you. Nor even a paranoid sense of doom. Just a firm grasp on the statistics attached to his chosen profession.
So, perhaps the Colonel should be in more of a celebratory mood this morning. After all, his bones are not bleaching white on some forgotten battlefield.
Indeed, there is much to celebrate in the Colonel's life.
Please indulge the Colonel as he devotes a few of the rapidly diminishing cognitive cells lodged in forgotten corners of his cavernous cranium to an accounting of reasons for celebration.
There's strong hot coffee in his mug. That, in and of itself, is a situation that brings cheer to the Colonel when little else does.
He has a chair in which to sit while he composes this post for the perusing pleasure of the three dozen of you who will stumble across it in error. There have been a lot of times in the Colonel's life when a chair was luxury.
There's a roof over his head. It ain't canvass.
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda is within physical reach. At some point this morning, she will stir from her unneeded beauty sleep and tell the Colonel how much she loves him. That is a very good thing.
The sun is rising over the Colonel's vast holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere. Want to know the best thing about this patch of Mississippi? It's the Colonel's.
The Republic still stands. Despite the best efforts of those who would fundamentally transform it into something far less than the "patriots' dream."
God is still in control of the fires burning at the heart of every star in the Universe and every calorie burning in the Colonel's core.
Yep, much to celebrate.
Monday, January 07, 2013
No More Kissin' the Bull
A few days ago the Colonel "pulled the plug" on his participation on FaceBook. Were he a "tweater" he would have likewise truncated his Twitter account.
At the time he was reacting to disappointment in his own gross lapse in judgment, propriety, and self-discipline with regard to a recent series of posts. At least that was the proximate cause for his self-imposed social media death penalty.
In truth, the Colonel had been experiencing increasing unease over the past year or so with FaceBook for a variety of reasons he will enumerate below.
1. The Colonel was increasingly uneasy with the uncivil, derisive, and downright nasty tone exhibited by many of his "friends" toward anyone with a different point of view. FaceBook has become more an opportunity for ad hominem personal attacks on opponents than a forum for critical analysis and reasoned discussion of issues. Perhaps it was never designed for the latter. If it was designed for the former, then the Colonel has far better use of his time and few remaining brain cells.
2. The insipid nature of the vast majority of posts on FaceBook have served to drag the Colonel's already severely challenged grasp on maturity and acceptable adult behavior down to a level approaching that of a caged rhesus monkey. Even lower, perhaps -- down to the level of an LSU fan.
(See what the Colonel means about the corrosive nature of FaceBook on the thin veneer of civil discourse?)
3. The Colonel's lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, was increasingly vocal about the amount of time the Colonel spent perusing FaceBook posts and crafting ad hominem personal attacks on his opponents, beginning to refer to the Colonel's iPad as his "mistress." The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda had even begun to closely track the hours the Colonel was spending on FaceBook, announcing elapsed e-time at the end of each day and claiming lately that the Colonel had reached the six hour mark.
(Not even close, Dear! Five and one half hours, tops.)
Which leads the Colonel to the real reason he has pulled the plug on his participation on FaceBook.
You see, it has to do with a man named Hosea, and what God inspired him to tell the Northern Kingdom of Israel nearly 2800 years ago.
Hosea prophesied that God was about to allow the ascendant Assyrian Empire to gobble up Israel as punishment for their apostasy -- their faithless falling away from the one true God who had made the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob "His People;" who had brought them out of Egypt and sustained them with miracle after miracle after miracle; who had gone before them in the land of Canaan and defeated giant enemies in walled cities; and who was, as Hosea wrote, their one and only savior (Hosea 13:4).
Hosea was writing to a people who still called themselves "God's Chosen" and yet practiced every abomination imaginable. Not only did they worship the false god Baal like the Canaanites, but they took perverse pride in worshipping Baal BETTER than the Canaanites. Hosea wrote that the people of Israel weren't just influenced by the culture of the societies around them, they
"...sin more and more;
they make idols for themselves from their silver,
cleverly fashioned images,
all of them the work of craftsmen.
It is said of these people,
'They offer human sacrifices! They kiss calf-idols!'" (Hosea 13:2)
The Canaanite Baal-worshippers were in awe of the Israelites' Baal- worshipping fanaticism! The Israelites were doing things (infanticide, chief among them) that they -- the Canaanites -- no longer did!
The Israelites had a slobbering love affair with Baal -- not only bringing sacrifices to the giant metal bull idol representing him, but also demonstrating their extreme devotion by kissing the bull.
FaceBook had become the Colonel's bull of apostasy.
In the fourteenth and last chapter of his prophetic work, Hosea implored God's people to return to Him, and gave them the simple calculus for their free return to the full grace and love of God.
“Forgive all our sins
and receive us graciously, that we may offer the fruit of our lips." Hosea 14:2
"The fruit of our lips" actually translates into English what was originally meant to say "we won't kiss the bull anymore, but give that reverence to You, God."
For the Colonel, "no more kissin' the bull" not only means no more FaceBook -- it also means all that time he spent "kissin' the bull" now belongs to God. Not gonna replace kissin' the bull with some other waste of God-given time.
For the past several years, posts on this blog have automatically posted to FaceBook. This is the last one that will. The Colonel is, admittedly, the chief of hypocrites here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, but he ain't that hypocritical. The Colonel will still post on his blog -- thecolonelscorner.blogspot.com -- from time to time, but the two dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will have to access it directly.
Okay, Miss Brenda, "the mistress" has been sent packing.
At the time he was reacting to disappointment in his own gross lapse in judgment, propriety, and self-discipline with regard to a recent series of posts. At least that was the proximate cause for his self-imposed social media death penalty.
In truth, the Colonel had been experiencing increasing unease over the past year or so with FaceBook for a variety of reasons he will enumerate below.
1. The Colonel was increasingly uneasy with the uncivil, derisive, and downright nasty tone exhibited by many of his "friends" toward anyone with a different point of view. FaceBook has become more an opportunity for ad hominem personal attacks on opponents than a forum for critical analysis and reasoned discussion of issues. Perhaps it was never designed for the latter. If it was designed for the former, then the Colonel has far better use of his time and few remaining brain cells.
2. The insipid nature of the vast majority of posts on FaceBook have served to drag the Colonel's already severely challenged grasp on maturity and acceptable adult behavior down to a level approaching that of a caged rhesus monkey. Even lower, perhaps -- down to the level of an LSU fan.
(See what the Colonel means about the corrosive nature of FaceBook on the thin veneer of civil discourse?)
3. The Colonel's lady, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, was increasingly vocal about the amount of time the Colonel spent perusing FaceBook posts and crafting ad hominem personal attacks on his opponents, beginning to refer to the Colonel's iPad as his "mistress." The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda had even begun to closely track the hours the Colonel was spending on FaceBook, announcing elapsed e-time at the end of each day and claiming lately that the Colonel had reached the six hour mark.
(Not even close, Dear! Five and one half hours, tops.)
Which leads the Colonel to the real reason he has pulled the plug on his participation on FaceBook.
You see, it has to do with a man named Hosea, and what God inspired him to tell the Northern Kingdom of Israel nearly 2800 years ago.
Hosea prophesied that God was about to allow the ascendant Assyrian Empire to gobble up Israel as punishment for their apostasy -- their faithless falling away from the one true God who had made the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob "His People;" who had brought them out of Egypt and sustained them with miracle after miracle after miracle; who had gone before them in the land of Canaan and defeated giant enemies in walled cities; and who was, as Hosea wrote, their one and only savior (Hosea 13:4).
Hosea was writing to a people who still called themselves "God's Chosen" and yet practiced every abomination imaginable. Not only did they worship the false god Baal like the Canaanites, but they took perverse pride in worshipping Baal BETTER than the Canaanites. Hosea wrote that the people of Israel weren't just influenced by the culture of the societies around them, they
"...sin more and more;
they make idols for themselves from their silver,
cleverly fashioned images,
all of them the work of craftsmen.
It is said of these people,
'They offer human sacrifices! They kiss calf-idols!'" (Hosea 13:2)
The Canaanite Baal-worshippers were in awe of the Israelites' Baal- worshipping fanaticism! The Israelites were doing things (infanticide, chief among them) that they -- the Canaanites -- no longer did!
The Israelites had a slobbering love affair with Baal -- not only bringing sacrifices to the giant metal bull idol representing him, but also demonstrating their extreme devotion by kissing the bull.
FaceBook had become the Colonel's bull of apostasy.
In the fourteenth and last chapter of his prophetic work, Hosea implored God's people to return to Him, and gave them the simple calculus for their free return to the full grace and love of God.
“Forgive all our sins
and receive us graciously, that we may offer the fruit of our lips." Hosea 14:2
"The fruit of our lips" actually translates into English what was originally meant to say "we won't kiss the bull anymore, but give that reverence to You, God."
For the Colonel, "no more kissin' the bull" not only means no more FaceBook -- it also means all that time he spent "kissin' the bull" now belongs to God. Not gonna replace kissin' the bull with some other waste of God-given time.
For the past several years, posts on this blog have automatically posted to FaceBook. This is the last one that will. The Colonel is, admittedly, the chief of hypocrites here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere, but he ain't that hypocritical. The Colonel will still post on his blog -- thecolonelscorner.blogspot.com -- from time to time, but the two dozen of you who regularly waste valuable rod and cone time perusing posts hereon will have to access it directly.
Okay, Miss Brenda, "the mistress" has been sent packing.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Boom or Bust?
The Colonel ain't as old as his grandsons (the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes One and Two) think -- their recent estimates range from "about eighty" to "a hundred and something" -- but, he is old enough to have personally experienced several predicted, prophesied, and even scientifically postulated apocalyptic "ends of the world."
In lieu of a frantically boring and unimaginably unoriginal recounting of the past year, the Colonel thought instead that he would provide a review of apocalyptic busts just to set the mood for the forthcoming Mayan Calendar Polar Shift Zombie Rampage Planetary Collision Nuclear Winter.
For the Bama and LSU grads -- among the rapidly expanding electronic circulation of these missives -- feverishly grinding out those wonderfully informative holiday family newsletters replete with the obligatory RTRs and corndog recipes, you may continue your feverish grinding happy in the knowledge that, Mayan Calendar Polar Shift Zombie Rampage Planetary Collision Nuclear Winter hysteria notwithstanding, the day after tomorrow will not bring an end to your annual provision of hysterical reading material (not to mention hideous pictures of family in pachyderm-printed sweatshirts in front of your faux-log fireplace).
Yep. The Colonel assures you, this one will be a bust in but a long line of busts.
Let's review the apocalyptic busts, of which the Colonel has personal knowledge, shall we?
Remember Y2K?
Bust.
How about any of Jeanne Dixon's predictions?
Busts.
The election of Barack Obama?
Bust.
The re-election of Barack Obama?
Yet to be seen..., but likely no apocalypse. So, bust.
Black hole created by the CERN particle accelerator?
Bust.
How about the 1970's prediction of an impending Ice Age?
Bust.
The Colonel could go on, but you get the drift.
In addition to the long list of world-wide apocalyptic prediction busts, the Colonel would add the following personal "end of the world as he knew it" prognostication busts.
The Colonel's father's warning that if he didn't get his "act together" he wouldn't "see a 21st birthday." Love you, Dad, but you blew that call.
The Colonel still ain't got his "act together" and he is rapidly approaching completion of a second lap of the 21 mile post.
And who can forget the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's prediction that the Marine Corps would survive the Colonel's retirement from active duty?
An aviator commandant? Epic bust.
So, crawl into your survival bunker tomorrow night if you must. Have a sleepless night wondering whether you will have enough time to snap a picture of Nibiru and post it to your FaceBook page before it slams into Earth.
The Colonel will remain above ground and be here -- God willing -- when Ol' Sol clears the eastern horizon on the morning of the 22nd.
Even so, maranatha!
In lieu of a frantically boring and unimaginably unoriginal recounting of the past year, the Colonel thought instead that he would provide a review of apocalyptic busts just to set the mood for the forthcoming Mayan Calendar Polar Shift Zombie Rampage Planetary Collision Nuclear Winter.
For the Bama and LSU grads -- among the rapidly expanding electronic circulation of these missives -- feverishly grinding out those wonderfully informative holiday family newsletters replete with the obligatory RTRs and corndog recipes, you may continue your feverish grinding happy in the knowledge that, Mayan Calendar Polar Shift Zombie Rampage Planetary Collision Nuclear Winter hysteria notwithstanding, the day after tomorrow will not bring an end to your annual provision of hysterical reading material (not to mention hideous pictures of family in pachyderm-printed sweatshirts in front of your faux-log fireplace).
Yep. The Colonel assures you, this one will be a bust in but a long line of busts.
Let's review the apocalyptic busts, of which the Colonel has personal knowledge, shall we?
Remember Y2K?
Bust.
How about any of Jeanne Dixon's predictions?
Busts.
The election of Barack Obama?
Bust.
The re-election of Barack Obama?
Yet to be seen..., but likely no apocalypse. So, bust.
Black hole created by the CERN particle accelerator?
Bust.
How about the 1970's prediction of an impending Ice Age?
Bust.
The Colonel could go on, but you get the drift.
In addition to the long list of world-wide apocalyptic prediction busts, the Colonel would add the following personal "end of the world as he knew it" prognostication busts.
The Colonel's father's warning that if he didn't get his "act together" he wouldn't "see a 21st birthday." Love you, Dad, but you blew that call.
The Colonel still ain't got his "act together" and he is rapidly approaching completion of a second lap of the 21 mile post.
And who can forget the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's prediction that the Marine Corps would survive the Colonel's retirement from active duty?
An aviator commandant? Epic bust.
So, crawl into your survival bunker tomorrow night if you must. Have a sleepless night wondering whether you will have enough time to snap a picture of Nibiru and post it to your FaceBook page before it slams into Earth.
The Colonel will remain above ground and be here -- God willing -- when Ol' Sol clears the eastern horizon on the morning of the 22nd.
Even so, maranatha!
Monday, December 17, 2012
Reaping the Whirlwind
That was the topic of the Colonel's personal ruminations this past weekend.
Until he read some Scripture that convicted him that neither our nation's culture nor a lack of national leadership was at the root of its clear and accelerating slide toward irrelevancy.
It's all the Colonel's fault.
The Colonel bears personal responsibility for the decline of our once-great republic.
The Colonel has long felt a degree of professional responsibility for the decline of the republic.
After all, he did swear a solemn and as yet unrevoked oath to "defend the Constitution..., against all enemies." He did so with the clear understanding that his very life was pledged to that requirement. Still is.
The Colonel is way too hard on himself, you say? Wait, it gets harder.
But first, a little history to set the scene...
A little over 2700 years ago, the ascendant military and economic super-power in the Middle East was the Assyrian Empire. The Assyrians expanded their empire by overwhelming their neighbors with a technologically-advanced military, and maintained their empire by displacing and replacing the former inhabitants of captured lands. Every last bit of treasure, right down to every lumber-bearing tree, was stripped from conquered lands and brought back to increase the wealth and prosperity of the Assyrians.
They were awesome!
The Colonel digresses...
In the path of Assyrian expansion to its south and west lay the lands occupied by the Hebrew tribes -- by this time (after the passing of the unifying kingships of David and Solomon), divided into the northern kingdom of Israel and the southern kingdom of Judah.
God's prophets had long warned that God's "Chosen People" would someday suffer divine punishment for their national sin against God. The gathering Assyrian storm proved to be the instrument of God's justice, about which they prophesied.
One prophet, Hosea, wrote poetically that Israel would fall to the Assyrians as a consequence of turning away from God, while at the same time continuing to boast of being "God's People."
The Book of Hosea begins with his own personal story of love, betrayal, and redemption -- mirroring God's experience with His people.
Clearly, Hosea understood that even the largest nation was still a collection of individuals, each responsible his or her own actions.
After setting the tone of individual personal responsibility, Hosea wrote that the fate of Israel at the hands of God's instrument -- Assyria -- was a result of "sowing the wind" for which they would "reap the whirlwind" (Hosea 8:7).
"Sowing the wind," for the LSU and Bama grads struggling to keep up, is emblematic of the empty, fruitless pursuits of an undisciplined, uncommitted, and selfish people (see current American culture, in which we ALL are willing participants to one undisciplined, uncommited, selfish degree or another).
Whirlwinds bring nothing but destruction, death, and heartbreak.
The vast majority of Hosea's poetic prophecy is filled with imagery of the destruction and heartbreak of a sinful nation, and its individual members. But, there is one brief interlude wherein Hosea pauses to provide a narrow off-ramp from the highway to hell.
"Sow for yourselves righteousness; reap steadfast love;
break up your fallow ground; for it is time to seek the Lord,
that he may come and rain righteousness upon you." Hosea 10:12
"...break up your fallow ground."
The Colonel was struck that he possesses a lot of fallow ground in his life. Ground (gifts, skills, abilities) that should be producing fruit for others.
The Colonel is convinced that revival of our nation's greatness will begin not in national policy, but in the heart of each of us.
What is your fallow ground?
Ask God. He'll tell you.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Slow is Smooth, Smooth is Fast
The Colonel is still feeling the need for speed, but lately he's been seeing a lot of caution flags.
Take the Colonel's latest in a long line of brushes with death, for example.
This story is probably best told starting from the beginning...
Sometime in the six days of creation God created ducks. Sometime shortly after that, man discovered that standing thigh deep in freezing water blowing on a kazoo yielded the inestimable pleasure of seeing a duck turn into the wind, cup wings, and begin final approach down the barrel of a shotgun.
The Colonel is a creation of God.
The Colonel is a duck hunter.
The Colonel loses what remains of his scant reasoning resources during duck season.
A boat is often required to ferry a duck hunter and three or four hundred pounds of decoys, shotguns, and ammunition from his (or her -- the Colonel ain't no warrior in the war on women) truck to remote thigh-deep sloughs favored by ducks.
The Colonel's #2 son has a boat parked under the lean-to attached to the Colonel's Man-Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
The Colonel's #2 son, whose primary duck hunt-preparation job is pulling the boat out of the lean-to (the Colonel's primary duck hunt-preparation job is brewing a thermos of coffee), was coming late for a march to the marsh of a recent afternoon.
So, the Colonel, not known for his patience, broke long-standing protocol and decided to do a duck hunt-prep job for which he was not fully cross-trained -- Task 13a on the duck hunt-prep checklist: hook boat trailer to truck and pull boat from under lean-to.
Because the Colonel was not (and still is not, as you will shortly see) fully cross-trained in Task 13a, just getting the truck bumper hitch lined up with, and under, the tongue of the boat trailer was pretty much taxing his meager truck-backing skills to the max.
The Colonel backed the truck up to a point he thought was close, put the truck in park, jumped out to check bumper hitch -- trailer tongue proximity and alignment, found same lacking, jumped back into the truck, put the truck in reverse, backed up so more, put the truck in park, jumped out to check bumper hitch -- trailer tongue proximity and alignment, found same lacking...
The Colonel lost count of how many times he cycled through the sequence above. It was cold and he didn't want to take his boots off.
At some point several hours into his attempt to accomplish Task 13a, the Colonel successfully attached the boat trailer to the bumper hitch on his truck and pulled #2 son's boat out from under the lean-to attached to his Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
At this point the Colonel discovered another nuance in Task 13a for which he was not fully cross-trained.
He had pulled the boat so far forward out of the lean-to attached to his Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility, that he could not make a left-hand turn onto the driveway without driving though one of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's carefully manicured flower beds.
Loath to back the boat back under the lean-to from which he had labored long to pull it, and wanting to conduct a few more truck-backing drills for which his fine motor skills had just recently proved greatly lacking, the Colonel cobbled together enough widely separated brain cells to determine a step not found in the manual under Task 13a -- unhook the boat trailer from the truck and re-position the truck.
Yeah. The Colonel knows. Doesn't make sense. Well, where were you when the Colonel needed you?
The Colonel, now operating at a pace just shy of the mark on the meter labeled "frenzy," slammed the gear shift into park and leaped from the truck.
As the Colonel shuffled back toward the rear of the truck, he noticed that, no matter how fast he shuffled, he was not making any progress toward the rear bumper.
The Colonel wondered momentarily whether he had entered some sort of age-related time-warp and then noticed that, relative to other fixed objects and tools left strategically placed on the ground in the position of their last use, the Colonel and his truck were both making progress, forward and rearward, respectively.
The Colonel, now in a trot just one notch short of the position on the meter marked "sprint," glanced to his left into the cab of the truck and noticed that he had not placed the truck in park.
Nope. Clearly in reverse.
The Colonel could clearly see this because, luckily, the driver side door was still wide open.
The Colonel pivoted left and dove into the cab.
Well, almost.
Unluckily, the driver side door was still wide open and it knocked the Colonel to the ground...
...and under the truck.
Ever wondered what might possibly go through your mind during the short seconds separating you from certain maiming and possible final entries in your medical record?
No? Well, allow the Colonel to provide some insight.
As the left front tire of the Colonel's truck, now gaining speed at an exponential rate, closed rapidly on the Colonel's person, the Colonel had time to ponder the imponderables.
Time to reflect on accomplishments.
Time to regret boxes left unchecked on his bucket list.
Time to chastise himself for denying himself dessert the night before, out of some deluded desire to live forever.
Actually, there really wasn't any time for all of that. There really was only time for...
"DON'T LET THE TRUCK RUN OVER YOU, KNUCKLEHEAD!!!
How the Colonel was able to extricate his carcass from under the truck prior to becoming a not-so effective speed bump on the boat's return to its berth in the lean-to adjacent to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility is a matter the Colonel will take up with his Creator face-to-face someday.
Suffice it to say, the Colonel strongly suspects there was a Divine fist grasped surely around his belt at his back.
At any rate, the truck was now not only returning the boat to its berth, but was also attempting to join it.
There is a slight problem with that.
There is only room for the boat.
One of the projects over which the Colonel has procrastinated is closing in the back of the lean-to adjacent to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
As the truck and boat continued on their journey, the Colonel sat watching -- thankful for his procrastination.
Until he realized that the likely end of the journey was going to be a pile-up of truck and boat in the ravine behind the lean-to attached to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
Two things saved the Colonel from realizing that likelihood.
First, a lone pine tree behind the lean-to attached to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility stood in the way.
The Colonel had time to begin regretting having to tell #2 son how a pine tree happened to be wrapped around the treasured 60 horse four-cycle outboard on the boat, when the second thing occurred.
Remember the wide-open driver side door through which the Colonel clearly saw the truck gear shift in reverse?
The same wide-open driver side door that provided the Colonel's guardian angel yet another opportunity to earn his wings?
The wide-open driver side door struck the corner of the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility to which the boat berth lean-to was attached.
The sound of door hinges being wrenched is reverberating in the Colonel's brain-housing group still.
The sight of the driver-side door bending completely backward and alongside the front left corner panel of the truck is one the Colonel will likely never forget.
That, and the sight of a truck tire, with truck attached, rolling toward him.
With the truck slowed by the driver side door sacrifice, the boat motor came to rest against the lone pine tree, and the journey ended without the feared pile-up.
It's been a week now and the Colonel is still shook.
Take the Colonel's latest in a long line of brushes with death, for example.
This story is probably best told starting from the beginning...
Sometime in the six days of creation God created ducks. Sometime shortly after that, man discovered that standing thigh deep in freezing water blowing on a kazoo yielded the inestimable pleasure of seeing a duck turn into the wind, cup wings, and begin final approach down the barrel of a shotgun.
The Colonel is a creation of God.
The Colonel is a duck hunter.
The Colonel loses what remains of his scant reasoning resources during duck season.
A boat is often required to ferry a duck hunter and three or four hundred pounds of decoys, shotguns, and ammunition from his (or her -- the Colonel ain't no warrior in the war on women) truck to remote thigh-deep sloughs favored by ducks.
The Colonel's #2 son has a boat parked under the lean-to attached to the Colonel's Man-Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
The Colonel's #2 son, whose primary duck hunt-preparation job is pulling the boat out of the lean-to (the Colonel's primary duck hunt-preparation job is brewing a thermos of coffee), was coming late for a march to the marsh of a recent afternoon.
So, the Colonel, not known for his patience, broke long-standing protocol and decided to do a duck hunt-prep job for which he was not fully cross-trained -- Task 13a on the duck hunt-prep checklist: hook boat trailer to truck and pull boat from under lean-to.
Because the Colonel was not (and still is not, as you will shortly see) fully cross-trained in Task 13a, just getting the truck bumper hitch lined up with, and under, the tongue of the boat trailer was pretty much taxing his meager truck-backing skills to the max.
The Colonel backed the truck up to a point he thought was close, put the truck in park, jumped out to check bumper hitch -- trailer tongue proximity and alignment, found same lacking, jumped back into the truck, put the truck in reverse, backed up so more, put the truck in park, jumped out to check bumper hitch -- trailer tongue proximity and alignment, found same lacking...
The Colonel lost count of how many times he cycled through the sequence above. It was cold and he didn't want to take his boots off.
At some point several hours into his attempt to accomplish Task 13a, the Colonel successfully attached the boat trailer to the bumper hitch on his truck and pulled #2 son's boat out from under the lean-to attached to his Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
At this point the Colonel discovered another nuance in Task 13a for which he was not fully cross-trained.
He had pulled the boat so far forward out of the lean-to attached to his Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility, that he could not make a left-hand turn onto the driveway without driving though one of the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda's carefully manicured flower beds.
Loath to back the boat back under the lean-to from which he had labored long to pull it, and wanting to conduct a few more truck-backing drills for which his fine motor skills had just recently proved greatly lacking, the Colonel cobbled together enough widely separated brain cells to determine a step not found in the manual under Task 13a -- unhook the boat trailer from the truck and re-position the truck.
Yeah. The Colonel knows. Doesn't make sense. Well, where were you when the Colonel needed you?
The Colonel, now operating at a pace just shy of the mark on the meter labeled "frenzy," slammed the gear shift into park and leaped from the truck.
As the Colonel shuffled back toward the rear of the truck, he noticed that, no matter how fast he shuffled, he was not making any progress toward the rear bumper.
The Colonel wondered momentarily whether he had entered some sort of age-related time-warp and then noticed that, relative to other fixed objects and tools left strategically placed on the ground in the position of their last use, the Colonel and his truck were both making progress, forward and rearward, respectively.
The Colonel, now in a trot just one notch short of the position on the meter marked "sprint," glanced to his left into the cab of the truck and noticed that he had not placed the truck in park.
Nope. Clearly in reverse.
The Colonel could clearly see this because, luckily, the driver side door was still wide open.
The Colonel pivoted left and dove into the cab.
Well, almost.
Unluckily, the driver side door was still wide open and it knocked the Colonel to the ground...
...and under the truck.
Ever wondered what might possibly go through your mind during the short seconds separating you from certain maiming and possible final entries in your medical record?
No? Well, allow the Colonel to provide some insight.
As the left front tire of the Colonel's truck, now gaining speed at an exponential rate, closed rapidly on the Colonel's person, the Colonel had time to ponder the imponderables.
Time to reflect on accomplishments.
Time to regret boxes left unchecked on his bucket list.
Time to chastise himself for denying himself dessert the night before, out of some deluded desire to live forever.
Actually, there really wasn't any time for all of that. There really was only time for...
"DON'T LET THE TRUCK RUN OVER YOU, KNUCKLEHEAD!!!
How the Colonel was able to extricate his carcass from under the truck prior to becoming a not-so effective speed bump on the boat's return to its berth in the lean-to adjacent to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility is a matter the Colonel will take up with his Creator face-to-face someday.
Suffice it to say, the Colonel strongly suspects there was a Divine fist grasped surely around his belt at his back.
At any rate, the truck was now not only returning the boat to its berth, but was also attempting to join it.
There is a slight problem with that.
There is only room for the boat.
One of the projects over which the Colonel has procrastinated is closing in the back of the lean-to adjacent to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
As the truck and boat continued on their journey, the Colonel sat watching -- thankful for his procrastination.
Until he realized that the likely end of the journey was going to be a pile-up of truck and boat in the ravine behind the lean-to attached to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility.
Two things saved the Colonel from realizing that likelihood.
First, a lone pine tree behind the lean-to attached to the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility stood in the way.
The Colonel had time to begin regretting having to tell #2 son how a pine tree happened to be wrapped around the treasured 60 horse four-cycle outboard on the boat, when the second thing occurred.
Remember the wide-open driver side door through which the Colonel clearly saw the truck gear shift in reverse?
The same wide-open driver side door that provided the Colonel's guardian angel yet another opportunity to earn his wings?
The wide-open driver side door struck the corner of the Man Toy Storage and Sawdust Production Facility to which the boat berth lean-to was attached.
The sound of door hinges being wrenched is reverberating in the Colonel's brain-housing group still.
The sight of the driver-side door bending completely backward and alongside the front left corner panel of the truck is one the Colonel will likely never forget.
That, and the sight of a truck tire, with truck attached, rolling toward him.
With the truck slowed by the driver side door sacrifice, the boat motor came to rest against the lone pine tree, and the journey ended without the feared pile-up.
It's been a week now and the Colonel is still shook.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Thanksgiving; Extended Version
However, the Colonel, as those of you who know him well can attest, and those of you who have regularly subjected your sensibilities to insensitive posts hereon have no doubt surmised, is a stubborn stick-in-the-mud, marching to the beat of his own distinctly different drummer.
His parade float hasn't yet reached the grandstands.
His ball game is still late in the third quarter.
He's still waiting on the vote in the Electoral College.
In other words, the Colonel ain't ready to move on.
Therefore, he will use the occasion of this post to prolong his celebration of Thanksgiving. There is indeed much for which to be thankful... TO GOD.
First and foremost, the Colonel gives thanks to the Creator of the Universe and every atom and free radical in it. The Colonel thanks GOD for creating him, and loving him enough to send HIS son Jesus to die for him.
The Colonel thanks GOD for placing, and keeping, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda in his undeserving life.
The Colonel thanks GOD for giving him two sons and a daughter, of whom he could not possibly be more proud.
The Colonel thanks GOD for two tremendous grandsons -- the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dashes One and Two.
The Colonel thanks GOD for the coming of the Hope of 21st Century Civilization, Dash Three.
You read that right; the Colonel is expecting a third grandson.
The Colonel's beautiful and wonderful daughter-in-law, she of the exalted and protected position of "Provider of Grandsons," will round out the Colonel's fire team with another rifleman early in the Spring of 2013.
The threat of civilization's calamitous collapse at the hands of Mayans, zombies, socialists, and political correctness Nazis notwithstanding, the Colonel is proud to announce that the Ole Miss Football Rebels will be led to victory over the (dis)likes of Bama, LSU, and TSBU by a Gregory at quarterback for the better part of the decade beginning around 2025.
Oh, and one more thing...
HOTTY TODDY!!!!
Friday, November 16, 2012
Hate That
Used to be, the word was used rather freely and without fear of recrimination.
The Colonel pauses to apologize to the errant LSU fans, who may have accidentally stumbled on this post in search of a corndog recipe, for the use of such a big word. Recrimination. Nope, you crazy purple bead-wearers, it don't mean "repeatin' a crime."
Hating something was once an acceptable stance. Not any more.
Unless you are a member of the self-designated political correctness thought police. It's okay for you to hate.
It's okay for you to be intolerant of the Colonel's views and beliefs, because you are so much more intelligent and so much more enlightened and so much more cool than he is.
It is true that the Colonel is a knucle-dragger, whose world-view is based on the study of an archaic and largely irrelevant subject (history), and whose "cool" quotient ranks in the negative numbers.
Way down in triple digit negative numbers.
So, the Colonel will not waste any of the few remaining synaptic connections in his rapidly dwindling supply to participate in recriminations (oops, sorry Boudreaux) with those of you whose self-scored political correctness quotient rivals the USA basketball team's total against Lithuania.
He'll just hang on to his hate and let you hate him for it.
So, just what does the Colonel really hate?
Well, some in these parts (the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere -- aka: Yoknapatawpha County) feel like it's never too early to hate Mississippi State.
The Colonel can't bring himself to hate State.
He has all of his hatred dedicated to Bama and LSU.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Sunshine and Rain
The last week or so provide more attenuation to the Colonel's already perpetually dampened mood, but he must admit that there were some rays of sunshine peeking out occasionally from the gloomy overcast.
Sunday morning a week ago, the Colonel learned that an uncle had gone to his final reward. The Colonel only had two uncles and Uncle Wiley's passing left him with none.
Sadly, the Colonel learned more about his last uncle from his eulogy than he ever knew from personal experience.
Because he was a military brat, and then a career military rat, the Colonel's first half century of life was spent far away and disconnected from blood family.
The Colonel envies those whose extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins were/are constant close elements in their lives. He never had that. And, he will admit, a lot of it was his own fault.
Nevertheless, the Colonel listened with heart-filling pride as he heard his Uncle Wiley remembered as a selfless servant of Jesus, whose humble behind-the-scenes service to others was greater and of more impact than anyone knew or appreciated. Uncle Wiley wanted it that way.
The Colonel didn't even know that Uncle Wiley had been a veteran. His generation was like that -- service of nation was expected and nothing to crow about.
Uncle Wiley continues to give. Last week the Colonel got to hug cousins he hadn't seen in over 30 years.
The same day Uncle Wiley's mortal remains were laid to rest, the Colonel's republic executed its most sacred duty.
Even given the acrimony of this particular election, and the fact that his candidate lost, the Colonel was proud that his nation followed its constitution to the letter. The Colonel was given hope by the fact that a president, whose obvious disdain for many of the constitution's principles, provisions, and prohibitions (disdain shared by more than a few former presidents, the Colonel must admit), still resisted the storm-excuse temptation to act extra-constitutionally.
Perhaps there is a bit of hope for the hopester.
The Colonel seriously doubts it. But, his God is capable of changing even the darkest hearts -- the Colonel's was changed.
At any rate, the Colonel takes heart in knowing that our republic will change leadership hands (in this case, maintain) peacefully and purposefully in a way in which most inhabitants of this big blue marble can only dream that their country would or could.
The Colonel's week was darkly cloaked on Saturday by two more disappointments through which a few bright threads were woven.
First, he awoke on the 237th birthday of his beloved Marine Corps and realized that he would not be surrounded and buoyed by Marines. It really bummed him out, and he took it out on his family, disappointing them and himself.
The Colonel's heart, though held in God's loving hands, is still a flinty cinder, devoid of any self-redeeming value.
Luckily, a quick stop in the Grove that afternoon prior to filling his appointed place of duty in Vaught-Hemingway Stadium, reunited the Colonel briefly with a couple of Marines with whom he began his journey in the Corps nearly four decades ago. They wished each other "Happy Birthday, Marine!" and then talked about grandchildren.
Grandchildren... amazing. More rays of hopeful sunshine.
Lastly, the Colonel's Rebels once again raised his hopes... before crushing them with yet another last quarter collapse.
Guess he should take solace, in this era of change for change's sake, that Ole Miss' failure to return to gridiron greatness is one constant the Colonel can continue to count on.
Sunday morning a week ago, the Colonel learned that an uncle had gone to his final reward. The Colonel only had two uncles and Uncle Wiley's passing left him with none.
Sadly, the Colonel learned more about his last uncle from his eulogy than he ever knew from personal experience.
Because he was a military brat, and then a career military rat, the Colonel's first half century of life was spent far away and disconnected from blood family.
The Colonel envies those whose extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins were/are constant close elements in their lives. He never had that. And, he will admit, a lot of it was his own fault.
Nevertheless, the Colonel listened with heart-filling pride as he heard his Uncle Wiley remembered as a selfless servant of Jesus, whose humble behind-the-scenes service to others was greater and of more impact than anyone knew or appreciated. Uncle Wiley wanted it that way.
The Colonel didn't even know that Uncle Wiley had been a veteran. His generation was like that -- service of nation was expected and nothing to crow about.
Uncle Wiley continues to give. Last week the Colonel got to hug cousins he hadn't seen in over 30 years.
The same day Uncle Wiley's mortal remains were laid to rest, the Colonel's republic executed its most sacred duty.
Even given the acrimony of this particular election, and the fact that his candidate lost, the Colonel was proud that his nation followed its constitution to the letter. The Colonel was given hope by the fact that a president, whose obvious disdain for many of the constitution's principles, provisions, and prohibitions (disdain shared by more than a few former presidents, the Colonel must admit), still resisted the storm-excuse temptation to act extra-constitutionally.
Perhaps there is a bit of hope for the hopester.
The Colonel seriously doubts it. But, his God is capable of changing even the darkest hearts -- the Colonel's was changed.
At any rate, the Colonel takes heart in knowing that our republic will change leadership hands (in this case, maintain) peacefully and purposefully in a way in which most inhabitants of this big blue marble can only dream that their country would or could.
The Colonel's week was darkly cloaked on Saturday by two more disappointments through which a few bright threads were woven.
First, he awoke on the 237th birthday of his beloved Marine Corps and realized that he would not be surrounded and buoyed by Marines. It really bummed him out, and he took it out on his family, disappointing them and himself.
The Colonel's heart, though held in God's loving hands, is still a flinty cinder, devoid of any self-redeeming value.
Luckily, a quick stop in the Grove that afternoon prior to filling his appointed place of duty in Vaught-Hemingway Stadium, reunited the Colonel briefly with a couple of Marines with whom he began his journey in the Corps nearly four decades ago. They wished each other "Happy Birthday, Marine!" and then talked about grandchildren.
Grandchildren... amazing. More rays of hopeful sunshine.
Lastly, the Colonel's Rebels once again raised his hopes... before crushing them with yet another last quarter collapse.
Guess he should take solace, in this era of change for change's sake, that Ole Miss' failure to return to gridiron greatness is one constant the Colonel can continue to count on.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
The Cherry Tree Died
Contrived narratives have a way of taking on a life of their own.
Politics is by no means the exclusive realm of contrived narratives. But, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, politicians and their handlers have elevated the practice to an expressionist art form.
Like most expressionist art, contrived narratives are appreciated from a disinterested distance; not bearing up well under close scrutiny.
In full disclosure, the Colonel has been a purposeful practitioner of the contrived narrative his own self.
He told every military unit or civilian organization he ever led that they were the "best." He said it often enough and with enough sincerity that his subordinates actually began to believe it; act it; live it.
The Colonel even began to believe his own contrived narratives -- to this day he holds the unshakable belief that he commanded the best rifle company and the best infantry battalion in the Marine Corps.
The most effective contrived narratives develop their own immunity to metrics -- believers bind blindly, proudly perpetuating perfidy, oblivious to any facts to the contrary.
A carefully crafted contrived narrative can be found at the inception of every armed conflict between two or more nations. A contrived narrative formed the basis for the American colonial revolution against the British, the American wars with Mexico and Spain, the American war with itself, two wars against German hedgemonism, two interventions in Asian civil wars, numerous interventions in Latin America, numerous interventions in the Middle East, and, most recently, the insipid American war on a tactic (terrorism).
Politicians ride contrived narratives, most often about themselves, into office, and once in office, almost always fall prey to a prideful perniciousness perpetrated by a narcissistic belief in their own infallibility to rally sycophantic believers to yet more contrived narratives.
The current occupant of the Oval Office is but the latest in a long line of contrived narrative riders, and the Benghazi bungle invites the close scrutiny that exposes expressionist art as nothing more than marginally talented obfuscation.
As he left office at the end of his two terms as the first President of our nascent constitutional republic, George Washington warned against entangling alliances abroad and, by implication, against intervention in the affairs of other nations.
His advice was ignored by nearly every American president who succeeded him.
George Washington is perhaps best known for the quote (part of his own handlers' contrived narrative) that resonates from our childhoods:
"I cannot tell a [contrived narrative]."
Politics is by no means the exclusive realm of contrived narratives. But, in the Colonel's not-so-humble opinion, politicians and their handlers have elevated the practice to an expressionist art form.
Like most expressionist art, contrived narratives are appreciated from a disinterested distance; not bearing up well under close scrutiny.
In full disclosure, the Colonel has been a purposeful practitioner of the contrived narrative his own self.
He told every military unit or civilian organization he ever led that they were the "best." He said it often enough and with enough sincerity that his subordinates actually began to believe it; act it; live it.
The Colonel even began to believe his own contrived narratives -- to this day he holds the unshakable belief that he commanded the best rifle company and the best infantry battalion in the Marine Corps.
The most effective contrived narratives develop their own immunity to metrics -- believers bind blindly, proudly perpetuating perfidy, oblivious to any facts to the contrary.
A carefully crafted contrived narrative can be found at the inception of every armed conflict between two or more nations. A contrived narrative formed the basis for the American colonial revolution against the British, the American wars with Mexico and Spain, the American war with itself, two wars against German hedgemonism, two interventions in Asian civil wars, numerous interventions in Latin America, numerous interventions in the Middle East, and, most recently, the insipid American war on a tactic (terrorism).
Politicians ride contrived narratives, most often about themselves, into office, and once in office, almost always fall prey to a prideful perniciousness perpetrated by a narcissistic belief in their own infallibility to rally sycophantic believers to yet more contrived narratives.
The current occupant of the Oval Office is but the latest in a long line of contrived narrative riders, and the Benghazi bungle invites the close scrutiny that exposes expressionist art as nothing more than marginally talented obfuscation.
As he left office at the end of his two terms as the first President of our nascent constitutional republic, George Washington warned against entangling alliances abroad and, by implication, against intervention in the affairs of other nations.
His advice was ignored by nearly every American president who succeeded him.
George Washington is perhaps best known for the quote (part of his own handlers' contrived narrative) that resonates from our childhoods:
"I cannot tell a [contrived narrative]."
Monday, October 15, 2012
Eggs Etouffee, Anyone?
The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda cooked fried eggs for the Colonel's breakfast yesterday morning.
Remarkable, why, you ask?
Well, if you were ever lucky enough to have visited Eegeebeegee -- capital of the Tallahatchie Free State -- and were even luckier to have been invited into the Colonel's humble abode without first being challenged for the security countersign at gunpoint, you would have undoubtedly noted the sign prominently posted at the entrance to one of the Colonel's Lady's least favorite rooms:
"The only reason I have this kitchen is it came with the house."
Even more remarkable is the consumption of a breakfast meal by the Colonel.
Unless you count his ritual morning-kick-starting three mugs of coffee.
And, given the strength and thickness of the Colonel's morning joe, one might very well count it so.
The Colonel, and spare him the lecture on it being the most important meal of the day, has never been much of a breakfast eater.
Unless there was chocolate cake or a slice of pie left over from the night before.
However, that may be changing.
As the thousands of you who regularly imbibe of the literary libations ladled out liberally, if irregularly, on posts hereon will remember, the Colonel has a burgeoning hen herd extant upon the domesticated portion of his vast, mostly wild, holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.
Said hen herd has grown from an inauspicious beginning wherein the hen (note singular form of the female fowl noun) was greatly outnumbered by roosters. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has been relieved of all chick-sexing duties following that near derailment of the entire egg-production enterprise. The Colonel's hen herd now numbers fourteen, and one cock-eyed top-kick rooster -- Smedley.
And one side-kick rooster, Mason, who seems to be growing into his role as -- ahem -- heir apparent to the duties and responsibilities of top-kick rooster.
Did you know that a chicken hen lays an egg..., every day?
A dozen + fresh eggs are collected daily from the Colonel's critter-proof chicken coop.
And, given that the investment cost in chicken feed and construction materials for the Colonel's critter-proof chicken coop make each egg worth just slightly more than their weight in silver bullion, not one egg goes to waste.
The Colonel is fast becoming the Benjamin Buford Blue of eggs. Much like Forrest Gump's shrimp-cook savant army buddy, the Colonel knows all the different ways to prepare eggs for human consumption.
Fried eggs.
Scrambled eggs.
Poached eggs.
Boiled eggs.
Two-egg omelets.
Three-egg omelets.
Fried eggs on toast.
Rocky Balboa eggs.
Papal eggs (Eggs Benedict)
Deviled eggs.
The Colonel's cholesterol count has spiked a good hundred points, but at least the cookware he bought his curiously not-so-appreciative bride for their 35th wedding anniversary is finally getting used.
Remarkable, why, you ask?
Well, if you were ever lucky enough to have visited Eegeebeegee -- capital of the Tallahatchie Free State -- and were even luckier to have been invited into the Colonel's humble abode without first being challenged for the security countersign at gunpoint, you would have undoubtedly noted the sign prominently posted at the entrance to one of the Colonel's Lady's least favorite rooms:
"The only reason I have this kitchen is it came with the house."
Even more remarkable is the consumption of a breakfast meal by the Colonel.
Unless you count his ritual morning-kick-starting three mugs of coffee.
And, given the strength and thickness of the Colonel's morning joe, one might very well count it so.
The Colonel, and spare him the lecture on it being the most important meal of the day, has never been much of a breakfast eater.
Unless there was chocolate cake or a slice of pie left over from the night before.
However, that may be changing.
As the thousands of you who regularly imbibe of the literary libations ladled out liberally, if irregularly, on posts hereon will remember, the Colonel has a burgeoning hen herd extant upon the domesticated portion of his vast, mostly wild, holdings here at the shallow northern end of deep southern nowhere.
Said hen herd has grown from an inauspicious beginning wherein the hen (note singular form of the female fowl noun) was greatly outnumbered by roosters. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda has been relieved of all chick-sexing duties following that near derailment of the entire egg-production enterprise. The Colonel's hen herd now numbers fourteen, and one cock-eyed top-kick rooster -- Smedley.
And one side-kick rooster, Mason, who seems to be growing into his role as -- ahem -- heir apparent to the duties and responsibilities of top-kick rooster.
Did you know that a chicken hen lays an egg..., every day?
A dozen + fresh eggs are collected daily from the Colonel's critter-proof chicken coop.
And, given that the investment cost in chicken feed and construction materials for the Colonel's critter-proof chicken coop make each egg worth just slightly more than their weight in silver bullion, not one egg goes to waste.
The Colonel is fast becoming the Benjamin Buford Blue of eggs. Much like Forrest Gump's shrimp-cook savant army buddy, the Colonel knows all the different ways to prepare eggs for human consumption.
Fried eggs.
Scrambled eggs.
Poached eggs.
Boiled eggs.
Two-egg omelets.
Three-egg omelets.
Fried eggs on toast.
Rocky Balboa eggs.
Papal eggs (Eggs Benedict)
Deviled eggs.
The Colonel's cholesterol count has spiked a good hundred points, but at least the cookware he bought his curiously not-so-appreciative bride for their 35th wedding anniversary is finally getting used.
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