Shootin' the Breeze

and random targets

Ahmed Mohamed’s Clock

Ahmed Mohamed, a high school freshman in Irvine, Texas, has been in the news for bringing to school a clock that looked exactly like a bomb and then expecting an apology from the authorities who thought it looked exactly like a bomb.

President Obama, master of political correctness, invited Ahmed to the White House because he had been wronged by all who worried that what looked like a bomb might be one.  I seriously doubt that if one of my children pulled such a prank there would be a White House invitation.  What is special about Ahmed?  He is protected by political correctness.

Ahmed is a clever prankster.  He apparently counted on folks being so afraid of looking like racists for suspecting a kid from a culture which has produced  terrorists with bombs that no one would dare “profile” him as a bomb-maker.  Or, he wanted them to do so.  (If Osama bin Laden had a son, he would look like Ahmed.)  Ahmed knew it was just a clock, so he did not fear dire consequences.  But he surely intended that it look like a bomb, even bringing it in a suitcase.  It was not brought to school for a science fair.  He did not take precautions, as far as I know, to correct the impression that it looked like a bomb.

Looks and culture and religion aside, I remember two incidents close to me that were not funny pranks.

This week I drove past Columbine High School and Columbine Memorial Park.  We all know about the sad incident there that resulted in many deaths from two white students bringing a bomb and guns for deadly purposes.

On the subject of fake weapons, a woman in our county had a confrontation with police.  She refused to put down her toy water pistol.  She knew it was a toy.  The police did not.  She wanted them to think it was real.  She was shot.  Suicide by cop they call it.  Ahmed and Barack — It was not a funny prank.  Neither is it funny to make a clock look like a bomb in order to get frightened reactions.

Ahmed needs to grow up.  President Obama needs to stay out of school discipline.

Thoughts on the Black Lives Matter Protesters


Dr. Lynn wrote an excellent article. She has the credentials to say what she did.

Originally posted on Life In The Gym:

This is an off topic post so if you’re here for the gym stuff, come on back and see me tomorrow!


For the Black Lives Matter Protesters and Supporters

Useful Idiot is a term that you may or may not be familiar with.  It’s use is often attributed to Vladimir Lenin.  Regardless of it’s actual point of origin, it’s used to describe people who function as tools in a cause whose ultimate goals they are blind to and whose leaders hold them in contempt while simultaneously using them for their own ends. In the case of Black Lives Matter, it describes a purposeful manipulation of emotion and a spoonfeeding of propaganda on the part of the more powerful leaders that is taken up by the street level protestors or “marks” as truth.  

You see, they are using you, my friends.  They’re using you as attack dogs to help in…

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Our Signature Rock

Signature Rock

There are many “signature rocks” on many trails.  They are places that pioneers and later passers-by could carve their names into soft sandstone.  Near our house, a part of the Overland Trail has a Signature Rock.  We often take ranch guests up there.  Today, Sugar and I went there with the dogs.  Here are some photos so that you might feel you have vicariously traveled this portion of the Overland Trail.  Note the ruts from 140 years ago.  She even took a picture of our house as viewed from Signature Rock.  The final photo is of another landmark on the Overland Trail — Steamboat Rock.

Cross Creek Ranch from Signature Rock

sinature rock on overland trail

initials on rock Roberts sig

more signaturesoverland remnantsoverland trail rutssteamboat rock

Miss Sugar Visits The Line Shack


In many of my previous posts, I have alluded to the fact that Miss Sugar, my hot trophy wife, is a feminine female.  She has another side.  (When I say another side, I am not referring to Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner’s two sides.)  I am saying that Sugar is sort of a Tom-boy in that she is fun to hang out with and do stuff that two middle school boys would enjoy.  Tonight we had a little adventure.  It was an adventure which many women might not have considered fun, or so Sugar tells me.  She suggested that not all women would have fun hiking past two dead cows to get to an old line shack far from civilization.  Do you think she is pulling my leg?  I invite comments from my readership on this question about what women like because I thought I am an expert on the subject until Sugar shook my confidence.  So, dear readers, even if other women would not have enjoyed this adventure, at least Miss Sugar did.  Or so she told me.

Now I will describe the adventure.  But first I will describe the setting.

We live only about twenty miles from the metropolis of Fort Collins, Colorado, rich in Old West lore.  Our little ranch is adjacent to a 16,000 acre ranch that goes back 143 years, still in the same family.  We are the last place on the road we live on, which means we had to put in several power poles to bring electricity to where it had not previously extended.  Prior to building our house, only buffalo, pronghorns, deer, elk and, later, cows occupied the land.  Beyond us is open range, which means there are no fences.  Cattle cross the road when and where they please.  Drivers must beware.  Cattle and wildlife have the right-of-way.  The Overland Trail passes through the historic ranch as well.

James Michener’s book, Centennial, describes the area and when the TV mini-series based on the book was filmed, many scenes were on the ranch.  (Remember, no electric poles and lines spoil the view).  My friend Rodney was an extra in the series, cast as an Indian riding a horse.  This was an area which was indeed Indian hunting grounds.  There are teepee rings near our home.  Teepee rings are in clusters, indicating a portable village was in the area where the buffalo truly roamed. The grass in our pasture is a species known as buffalo grass.  There is a buffalo jump on the ranch.  The Indians would run a herd off a cliff and butcher them at the bottom.  The ASPCA would not endorse this technique.

Cattle replaced the buffalo.  The ranches were so huge that the cowboys charged with taking care of the herd could not easily go to town, or even to the main ranch.  So little cabins known as line shacks would be roughly built for the cowboys who had to stay with the herd in winter months, sometimes snowed in.

A few miles from our house, on the open range, we came across an old log cabin with only one window in each of two walls and no windows on the other two walls.  It appears to be an old line shack.  It fits the need of providing shelter in a very remote pasture close to a stream of water and protected from the west wind by a hill.  It is far from any grocery store.

Of course, we could not drive up to it because it is off the county road.  We had to hike.

On our hike we passed two dead cows.  All that is left is hide and bones.  And the putrid smell of death.  I think the coyotes did their job as scavengers.  Miss Sugar held her nose and hiked on.  She brought her camera.  She looked inside the shack and inside the barn.  Here is a photo she took.

line shack

So, if you are looking for ideas for a Saturday date night, take your date to an old line shack rather than dinner and a movie.


Robust Stache

Tom Selleck — Mustache Hall of Fame; Sam Elliott — Mustache Hall of Fame; Mark Twain — Mustache Hall of Fame; Albert Einstein — Mustache Hall of Fame; Wyatt Earp — Mustache Hall of Fame; Hulk Hogan — Mustache Hall of Fame.

The men listed above are mustache heroes of mine.  And now, I am prepared to join them in the Mustache Hall of Fame.  I will tell you the basis of my self-nomination.

Yesterday I bought a sandwich at a shop in Old Town Fort Collins, a very hip place, in a college town boasting Colorado State University.  Until then, I had not seen myself as a person with facial hair to which others aspire.  What changed my self-image?

The sandwich shop has a line from the sandwich makers to the cashier.  The cashier was a clean-shaven young man.  As I paid my bill, he said, “I want to comment on your mustache.  I really like it.”

“Thanks,” I cleverly responded with appropriate humility.

“I am clean-shaven now, but I used to have a mustache that kinda went down around my mouth like yours.  I gave it up because, well, mine was not as, as, I’d say as robust as yours.”  Robust?  The kid was obviously an English major.

I could see the admiration in his eyes.  I did not want to act superior.  I did not want to give false encouragement.  I tried to find the right words.

“Aw, shucks,” I eloquently began, “It don’t happen overnight.  Be patient.”

I think I gave that young man some hope.  Maybe someday, if he works diligently at proper cultivation of his whiskers, he too can find a place in the Mustache Hall of Fame.  Of course, there are no guarantees.  It is a pretty select group.



It is a special touch to have the tips highlighted in silver.  Some of us have it, some of us don’t.

Beau’s Fulfilling Day


Miss Sugar, Art Advocate, invited several artists to our ranch for a Plein Aire event, which is French for painting outside, a term I just learned and am sharing with those of you who, like me, were kicked out of French class in 7th grade.  Anyway, the artists are painting ranch scenes and Sugar provided lunch and drinks.  Beau provided a fun challenge: try to keep brushes away from him.  Actually, out of mercy for the artists, we chained him up to protect them.  The long chain almost reached the canopy over the tables where lunch was served, so he went there, and some kind folks gave him some scraps, so he was glad to be within reach of the buffet.

Later in the day, Michelle, who has been living in Nepal for more than a year, arrived at the ranch with her friend, Holly.  They have been friends since high school.  They both played on the basketball team.  One would think that athletes would have quick reflexes, and maybe they do, but not so quick as to be a challenge for Beau.  Michelle’s mother made breakfast for, presumably, Michelle, Holly, herself and me.  As it turned out, she also made breakfast for Beau, but not for me.  I heard Michelle request of Beau, “Get out of here.”  Nevertheless, before he complied he reached up on the counter and grabbed a bite.  Michelle reminded us that Beau is ill-mannered.  She is an Ivy League graduate and knows rudeness when she sees rudeness.  Apparently, it is rude to allow one’s dog to eat one’s breakfast off one’s kitchen counter.  Who knew?

That is not all.  The artists returned for Day Two.  One of them, a woman who claims to be educated with a Masters in Fine Arts, stopped at McDonalds for a “to go” lunch.  She foolishly opened the door of her vehicle without taking proper security measures.  Beau grabbed the McDonalds bag.  The “to go” lunch “went” — with him, briefly.  When Sugar retrieved it from the retriever, only a few french fries could be salvaged.

I know what you are thinking.  You are asking, “Why do they put up with such a thieving creature?”

I don’t rightly know.  I guess he grows on ya.  Plus, all these victims were warned in advance.

Daddy of ‘Em All

In rodeo circles, Cheyenne Frontier Days is the event known as The Daddy of ‘Em All.  This year’s version starts on Saturday and runs through the week to the next Sunday.  Besides the rodeo, there is a carnival, art show, and many booths with various items, most related to the American West.  There are concerts with big country music stars.  A fun time is had by all.

If you are able to attend, please say howdy to me.  You can’t miss me — I will be wearing a cowboy hat.

Last Day Decisions

It has been suggested

To live each day as your last.

That refers to not knowing

When is the last day

So always be prepared.

But some know.

A suicidal person

Decides which day

Is the last

And might live days

Deciding each day

If it will be

The last.

Until one really is.

P.C. Concerns about 4th of July

So I said to Mr. P.C. that I hoped he would have a nice 4th of July weekend.

He replied, “Thank you, but I don’t celebrate America’s self-centered sense of superiority.”

“Oh,” I responded, “I think we are celebrating the birth of our nation.  Isn’t that okay?”

“No because it is insensitive to the heritage of other nations.  It is not inclusive.”

“Can’t other nations celebrate their own histories rather than have their feelings hurt that they are not part of the United States?”

Mr. P.C. was not satisfied by my logic.  He repeated, unnecessarily, that “the 4th of July is exclusively an American celebration and thus not inclusive,” (which everyone knows is the highest standard).

I stubbornly persisted, “America can celebrate being America, I believe, without it being negative about other nations who are not, in fact, America.  When it is your birthday, I don’t think it is my birthday too.  I know it is not my birthday and do not resent that it is yours, nor that you are you and I am not you.”

“That is different.  I am an individual.  This conversation is about nationalism.”

“Okay.  I do not object, for example, that Mexicans celebrate Cinco de Mayo.  I have even attended events on that date without being Mexican and without resenting the celebration by Mexicans.”

“Of course.  So do I.  It is important to me to show that I am not prejudiced.  My celebrating Cinco de Mayo shows that I am inclusive; that I honor the history of Mexico and all nations.”

I saw a flaw in his argument.  “Let me get this straight — you celebrate Cinco de Mayo because you are not a Mexican but you do not celebrate the 4th of July because you are an American.”

“Precisely.  Now you understand political correctness.  I do not want to appear biased toward America.  The 4th of July is all about pride in America. Americans need to get off our high horse.”

“Umm.  Well, I still wish you a nice 4th of July, Barack.”

“You still don’t get it, but I wish you a holy Ramadan nevertheless.”

Amazing Grace

Members of Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina have amazed me with their gracious forgiveness.  Many family members of those killed at the church last week appeared in court to face the gunman and communicated two important statements.  They told the gunman of their pain from his murdering of their loved ones and they told him that, as Christians, they would forgive him.  What powerful witnesses!  If they can forgive when anyone would understand if they did not forgive, I ought to let go of my hurts to forgive those I have such trouble forgiving.

The rioters in Ferguson, Missouri could learn a lesson from the fine people of Charleston, South Carolina, who practice what they preach.  Bless their broken hearts!

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