Another rockin’ good headline from those wild, whacky NYP kids.
The article itself is kinda meh, just more of the usual self-consciously “edgy” obnoxiousness from a standard-issue, Mark-1 Mod-0 NYC “artist” type, whereas the breathless “cache of illegal guns” hubba-hubba refers to about as scrawny and undernourished a so-called arsenal as you’re ever likely to point and laugh at—except for the Mossberg, a scattershot collection of cheap junk none but a hoplophobic denizen of the Big Rotten Apple would think frightening: a Mossberg 12 ga pump; a KelTec .22; a Seecamp .32; a goofy fixed-blade “fighting knife” likely purchased at a boondocks truck stop for less than a double-saw, made of steel so buttery-soft merely sheathing the stupid, gaudy thing would be more than enough to dull whatever notional edge it may (or may not) have ever had; random boxes of ammo, probably all in 5.56, 9mm, .45ACP, and/or other mismatched calibers; one of those useless kit-stilettos you gotta assemble yourself, a practical joke from the bottom end of the otherwise generally half-decent Boker product line so flippity, flappity, and all-round raggedy-assed you couldn’t pop a soap bubble with it (ask me how I know, I dares ya).
If you find that sort of horsepuckey intriguing, feel perfectly free to click on through and read the whole thing. For my money, the headline pretty much says it all.
HOW I KNOW: Okay, okay, here’s the skinny. Many moons ago, long before the Innarnuts was even a twinkle in Albert “Arnold the Pig” AlGore’s eye (in days of old/when knights were bold/and Amazon not invented), I mail-ordered two (2) assembly-required stiletto kits from Boker. I affixed the plastic decorative handles to the pot-metal frame with model-airplane cement (not included), attached the blade-actuator button in its slot according to the minimal instructions, and was appalled to learn that, when the button was pushed to bring the blade (NOTE: not even the vaguest hint of an edge on the sorry thing, and I do mean none) zipping out of the opening, the internal spring was too wimpy to eject the blade with sufficient force to click it into the “open, locked” position. Imagine my chagrin as I stood there slack-jawed, brand-new knife in hand, the stabby part (HA!) of which lolled weakly in and out of its frame, of no more use to me than a 2-pound bag of ice is to your average Eskimo…a great deal less than, actually.
Upon further experimentation, it developed that now and again I could make the blade lock into place with a few sharp, vigorous flicks of my wrist, which felt every bit as foolish to me then as it sounds today. Regardless of all the jiggery, pokery, and Afro-engineering trickery I attempted, though, the button steadfastly refused to get with the program; after several years occasionally endeavoring such bootless meat-beatery, I finally gave up and tossed the Boker into the broken and/or non-useful tool drawer in my rollaway at the H-D shop. Once my youthful innocence had been forever lost, the trusty old Gerber Gator resumed its established role as my EDC shank, and the Boker pieces o’ shite eventually wound up in the rubbish bin where they rightfully belonged. THE MORAL OF THE STORY: As personal defense weapons, the Boker switchers make perfectly adequate paperweights, doorstops, and/or letter openers.
- Entries
Slow news day at the post
“…including a 12-gauge Mossberg shotgun with six shells in the magazine, which was found hidden inside Castiglia’s bedroom closet”
Oh. My. God.
A shotgun, cleverly hidden in the bedroom closet. Next week he goes for the nuclear weapons.