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Feinstein Forgets to Registor her own name for website , fun stuff

http://senatorfeinstein.com/

 

The brilliant senator is so much smarter then us, she did not take care of this little matter. Some 2nd amendment defending patriot registered her name and using it as a site for pro gun info and for showing the senators hypocrisy and idiocy.   I encourage everyone to give this page as much traffic as possible.

 

While its still there and the guys running it are not locked up or get disappeared !

 

http://senatorfeinstein.com/

A proposed High-Capacity Magazine ban

Posted by Colonel Panic on AR15.com.  Used with permission.

 

For too long our children have been exposed to a looming threat, one which is also completely preventable in our modern world. I speak of course of these so-called magazines with a high-capacity to do harm to our youth. I therefore call for a reasonable ban and limitation on these despicable and a majority says useless, items.

Magazines have evolved a lot over the last 250 years. There are some now with 30, 50, even 100 pages of glossy advertisements, harming and tantalizing our youth. I propose limiting these periodicals to 10 pages so that writers will have to be considerably more precise if they wish to carry out mass-publications in the future. Think about how much harder it will be to break laws like libel when writers are forced to pause to properly reload their thoughts.

But you may also be thinking “But if we limit the number of pages, won’t the bad guys just buy more magazines?”. What an intelligent question! Of course we have thought of that and will be limiting citizens to owning 2 magazines. You can only read one at a time anyways, right? So who could possibly need more? And the best part is you are completely free to choose whichever two magazines you wish to own, as long as they are on the approved list below.

“Isn’t our freedom of speech protected in the Constitution?” you may ask, a rather reasonable question. Yes, but you can also agree that our Founding Fathers could not possibly have envisioned color photographs, printing press capacities of thousands of copies a minute or even the frightening aspects associated with digital media. Think of it more as a reasonable limit for the public good instead of a restriction on your rights. Remember, it is for the children.

As any respectable psychologist will tell you, the psyche of a developing child is very fragile. These magazines of today are nothing short of assault, rifle through the pages; I dare you, looking at beautiful faces and perfect bodies and try not to feel threatened. Hundreds, if not thousands, of suicides a year could be prevented by limiting society’s exposure to these self-esteem murdering periodicals. If it saves even one precious life, it will be well worth slightly limiting everybody’s freedom.

“This sounds like an expensive proposition!” one may think. Don’t worry, this too is planned for. There will be a small tax of $5 per magazine sold to go towards paying for the enforcement program. Dentist offices and Jiffy Lube waiting rooms around the country will be monitored by thousands of BATF agents from the newly created Bulletin And Tabloid Force. Private ownership will be carefully monitored through means of a registration program. Existing magazines will be charged a one-time tax of $200 or forfeited to the Government.

“What if I am the parent of a child who reads these magazines? Does that make me negligent?”. Of course not! The problem isn’t with you failing to teach your child what is right or wrong or the concept of personal accountability. Nor is it your fault that the school systems and society at large have failed to help your child through their self-esteem, behavioral and emotional issues, as these are new problems in the 21st century. The problem lies solely with the manufacturers of these weapons of mass distribution. Legislation, not better parenting or enforcement of existing laws, is the only way to solve this problem.

Non-approved List:
Newsweek (and any magazine even remotely resembling Newsweek)
Time
People
Playgirl
Reader’s Digest
(and 1288 more)

Approved List:
Popular Science
Guns & Ammo
Playboy
American Woodworker
(and 87 more)

How was this list created you may wonder? Easy, we picked magazines full of big words we didn’t understand and ones with scary features (like the black plastic covers on some of the pornographic magazines). Also, any magazine that we feel doesn’t serve a useful purpose in our modern age was forbidden. Who is “we”? Your elected officials, sworn to protect you at all costs.

Write your Congressman today in support of this proposition! Sign the 100,000 signature petition at WhiteHouse.gov to make your opinion known. Any bill with that level of majority support will clearly force Congress’s hand and make America safer for our future generations.

Once this passes, we plan to pass a law limiting clip sizes. Can you believe that YouTube allows up to one hour long videos of people doing dangerous activities that could possibly harm our children?!

This is not how your reloads should look

Bad Reload

Fortunately the owner had the good discretion not to fire the 20 rounds we found like this discarded at the range.

For those that can not tell whats going on, the bullet is setback and it has a high primer.  When bullets get set back, it can drasticly increase chamber pressure.  High primers can cause issues like out of battery detonations.  Both issues can cause personal harm.

Ryan’s Steak House

Introduction

The story below did not happen to any member of loose rounds nor did any member of loose rounds write it or have anything to do with it.

This is a story as told by a member of popular gun board www.ar15.com.  The unfortunate soul posted his  miss adventure up a few years ago and he has went down as one of the funniest things ever written.  As far as anyone knows, it is a true story and the author swears  to every word.  Since the original publication, it has become infamous and is worth every minute it takes to read. I would say it may be the funniest true story I have ever heard.

 

 

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.

Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan’s Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid’s night at Ryan’s, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you – in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It’s amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress… I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit. But in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire-cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit.

I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical portions. I began “The Move.”

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain “The Move.” Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that one’s ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about halfway into “The Move” when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night. It was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.

What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus.

Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake…you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of “30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi” or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.

But remember, I was only halfway down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force, and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat, that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall – at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you’re going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls – unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit…

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweatpants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants…on the inside…with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended. Yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper. What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I’m sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan’s making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels.

Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed, in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan’s Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten