Commentator JadeGold posted a comment to RF’s post Gun Control Is Alive and Well and Living at Sharon High School, wherein she accuses gun rights activists of relying on “fraudulent” arguments. JadeGold cites six specific examples from an allegedly endless list of erroneous pro-gun claims. Is it true? Do those of us that embrace gun rights live in a fraudulent fantasy world? JadeGold has utilized the rhetorical devise known as straw man argument. She has provided an exaggerated and distorted version of what gun rights advocates believe so that she can then knock those fabricated claims down. Because her straw man arguments fail to address the actual beliefs of gun rights advocates, her arguments are fallacious. Let’s examine these claims one at a time.
I was on my stomach with my hands and feet hogtied behind my back. The supply locker in which I was imprisoned was just narrower than I was tall from my knees to the top of my head. The pirates had shoved me in so that my head was lower than the rest of my body. Although my head was still covered by my pillowcase and a sock crammed into my mouth, my face was pressed so closely against a wetsuit that I could smell and taste the rubber. I wiggled and tried to crawl with my shoulders to reposition enough to gain a measure of comfort. The equatorial heat closed in on me in the airless compartment and my breathing became labored. Sweat soon lubricated the neoprene and my body slipped back into the original torturous position.
I owned a Ruger Mini-14 when in college. Briefly. I paid a friend $300 for a gently used stainless steel model with a walnut stock and flash suppressor. The gun was heaven. And that was the problem. I couldn’t shoot just one bullet at a time. It begged to be fired frequently and fast. I couldn’t help emptying the [paltry] five-round magazine in as many seconds. It was an addiction I couldn’t afford on a student’s salary. The least expensive ammo I could find at the time was $0.40 a round and I quickly spent as much to feed the beast as the rifle cost to begin with. Less than three months later I sold the gun for $280. Now I want it back.
There are numerous ways to communicate from one vessel to another when at sea: maritime radio, lights flashing Morse code, semaphore flags, flaghoist signals, and gale pennants and hurricane flags. But when facing down a Johnny boat full of pirates motoring through light chop toward our stern, the Captain improvised his own communication. He snatched the shotgun from my hands and held it over his head like a victorious minuteman. After the pirates got a good look, he grabbed the weapon by the forearm, again with one hand, and pumped a round into the chamber with a flick of his arm. Without aiming, he discharged a single shell from his hip over their heads.
The town of Sangin is best known as the southern epicenter of the Afghanistan opium trade. Today, however, the Pashtun town of 14,000 captured a headline at the Wall Street Journal (Sniper in Afghan Town Puts Marines on Edge) for another reason: an insurgent sniper that the US Marine Corps wants dead. So far, the Sangin Sniper and an accomplice are responsible for two dead (one British and one American) and three wounded. Some of the shots were spectacular . . .
After 36 hours of favorable winds, our sails fell slack in light airs. We were forced to motor through windless, putrid heat. The Gulf of Suez is narrow. A busy shipping channel dominates the 180-mile waterway running through its center. Even in this time of war this maritime highway was jammed with traffic — massive fast-moving container and tanker ships that would slice Neko II in half like PT-109 if she got in their way. Lacking the speed and agility of Jack Kennedy’s boat, we hugged the arid Sinai shoreline to avoid the Egyptian mainland, dodging oil wells and pipelines submerged, some only feet or inches below the surface.
“I read the entire book while I waited in line.” “I’m sorry, you did what?” the successful author asked without looking up from the book he was signing. The Rembrandt Affair, which I reviewed last week, is the tenth novel by Daniel Silva featuring the Beretta 92 toting Mossad assassin, Gabriel Allon. At the end of my review I concluded that this would be the last Gabriel Allon novel – at least for a while. “I’m just kidding.”
Ernie whisked me into the guardhouse at the foot of the dock. He checked behind me to make sure that I hadn’t been seen. As soon as he closed the door, I pulled a bottle of Plomari Ouzo from my bag and handed it to Bert. Ernie did a little happy dance and Bert cupped the bottle solemnly in his hands and raised it heavenward, as if presenting a newborn child to Allah for a blessing. Light from a bare overhead light bulb diffracted brilliantly through the clear liquid. His crooked, stained teeth worked the cork out of the bottle. He spat it into a corner. I handed Ernie a second bottle, holding two in reserve in my rucksack. And then I sat down to eat with the two men that I had been sent to kill.
When generating sequels, authors develop a recognizable template for stamping out their stories. The public demands it. Publishers require it. The ribbons around the literary tent pole must be familiar. Predictable. Safe. But I don’t like reading form letters. Give me variety. Be original. Take a risk. So I was pleased to discover that Daniel Silva’s The Rembrandt Affair—the tenth novel by the author featuring legendary Israeli assassin Gabriel Allon—satisfied both my craving for something fresh and this die hard fan’s desire to hang out with old friends.
The walk from Neko II’s gangplank to the guardhouse at the foot of the dock was laborious. Little ridges of black tar bubbled out of the dock’s creosote-impregnated timbers. Each step across the dock made a scandalous ripping noise. My gaze darted frenetically down the dock, to the window, the door, to the warehouses beyond. The oily smell of the dock, the aroma of the slow-roasted meats in my backpack, and the approaching stench of humanity emanating from the old dock house overwhelmed my senses. This would be the night we made our escape. Hidden behind a panel sewn in to the bottom of the bag was the gun I’d use to set our boat free. Yet I felt like I was marching to my own execution.
When I was a kid my grade schools had regular “emergency” drills. Sirens would wail as we’d crawl under our desks and fold our hands over our heads. It never occurred to us that it might be worse to survive a nuclear conflagration and face a slow death from radiation poisoning. We accepted that the world was a cruel place and soldiered on with our young lives. The world is still a cruel place. I was saddened to read in USA TODAY that school children living in the dystopia of Mexico are required to participate in classroom “shootout” drills, in which students are trained to . . .
DEBKAfile reports from New York that a suitcase containing four Glock 9mm handguns belonging to Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu’s security detail was stolen from his chartered El Al aircraft after it landed at JFK airport, New York. The bag was supposed to be on a flight to Washington, where Netanyahu met President Obama at the White House Tuesday, July 6. It was discovered later at Los Angeles international airport but the guns were missing. Don’t you hate it when that happens?