From: bobk@gibdo.engr.washington.edu (Bob)
Subject: Re: R.H.F Archives?  Where if any?
Organization: University of Washington
Date: Mon, 14 Sep 1992 21:50:18 GMT

amlovell@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Anthony M Lovell) writes:
| Can someone tell me:  is there an archive site for rec.humor.funny?
| 
| I have no copy of a joke I had appear there (an allegory about
| gun-control in which dogs serve as weapons - it was named Ruger, I
| think).  I would like to get a copy for posterity, and someone out West
| wants to print it.  Thanks.  BTW _ it appeared about 3 years ago.


  Here it is.  Although I am a shooter and subscribe to r.g., the point
  of the allegory and thus the humor of it escapes me.  Are you trying to
  say guns are like pets?  Please explain.


| From: amlovell@phoenix.Princeton.EDU (Anthony M Lovell)
| Newsgroups: rec.humor.funny
| Subject: Original weird story
| Keywords: original, smirk, wealth stereotypes, swearing
| Date: 20 Mar 89 00:30:06 GMT
| Sender: funny@looking.UUCP
| Lines: 120
| 
| This has gone the rounds in talk.pol.misc and was zilched (can you believe
| it?) in rec.guns.  Twas also in rec.humor some weeks back - original
| 
|   I was looking for a friend's apartment in Trenton and was highly lost.
| I'd taken the bus and had no idea where I was going - what I did know
| was that gentrification had not reached this portion of the city.  The
| neighborhood was completely devoid of pasta vending shops with ferns in
| the windows.  There were yellow caution signs on the roadside that read
| "Caution Rough Neighborhood".
| 
|   Being a Republican, I didn't stop off somewhere to ask for directions,
| but instead stayed the course.  I soon found myself in a dark, remote
| alleyway.  A shadow separated itself from the trash lining the walls,
| and it was wearing a gang jacket.  
| 
|   "Yo!  Got any spare change, man?", he inquired brusquely.
| 
|   "Heh heh.   I was going to ask you the same thing." I gulped in an
| effort at offhandedness. 
| 
|   It failed miserably and more figures suddenly appeared from points
| around the compass I wasn't carrying.  They were all gang members.
| You could practically SEE the exclamation point appear over my head.  I
| started to hum.  Right away, this tipped them off that I was not taking
| this encounter well at all, because I wasn't humming with my mouth.
| Rather, my whole frame had begun to resonate like a tuning fork.
| 
|   "Maybe he's got some spare BILLS!" exclaimed one as he took out an
| alleycat I could have sworn was too large to be concealed.  The mass of
| them closed in on me.  Unless they instituted affirmative action
| principles in their gang recruiting, I guessed that they were not about
| to initiate me into their little clique.  I was audibly perspiring.
| 
|   I saw they had crossed the line.  It was time to take action to defend
| myself - to stand up for RIGHT in a fit of violent derring-do.  I
| gulped once more at the lump in my throat and pulled out my 9mm
| Schnauzer, Ruger.  In one fluid, practiced motion, my thumb switched the 
| safety from the "Heel" position and I let off a warning shot.
| 
|   "ARF!" said Ruger.  A large, even integral number of eyes widened in
| surprise as the toughs stopped their advance to ponder this unexpected
| development.  "Drop the cat!"  I demanded, but the cat was already
| scampering away yowling.
| 
|   As an aside, I'd better take a little time to explain the history of
| the Schnauzer and Ruger in particular.  The Schnauzer was first developed
| in the Krupp Kennels in Hamburg back in World War I to answer a
| developing need for a small dog for use in the trenches where larger
| dogs such as the battle-proven Rottweiler could prove too cumbersome.  
| The British already had such a weapon in their Dobie (pronounced "doughboy") 
| and the Germans had nothing to counter it.  The 9mm auto-Schnauzer was the
| first effective response.   Small, mean, and outfitted with a dripping set
| of large ivories, a Schnauzer was highly devastating at short ranges
| and could clear a bunker in about ten seconds if you could squeeze him
| in the fireport.  Even after the war was lost, the Schnauzer proved to
| be a popular instrument of home and personal defense.  Hitler's Beer
| Hall Putsch might have been a success if he hadn't been obliged to check
| his Schnauzer at the door as no dogs were allowed in the bar.  Snubnosed
| and jam proof, it was widely copied by breeders from around the world
| and remains a popular model among collectors today.
| 
|   I'd had Ruger since he was a pup - he was my first dog.  I remember
| Mom didn't want to have a dog in the house at all.  But Dad gave him
| to me and taught me how to clean him and handle him safely.  It
| took some time to overcome my fear of such a dangerous possession, but
| soon enough I was out in the woods killing chipmunks and squirrels with
| Ruger.  I wrote articles for dog magazines whenever I could and went to
| shows with Ruger and was QUITE an enthusiast.  He was always at my side, 
| faithful and ready to defend me if the time for such ever arose.  I even
| slept with him at the foot of my bed.
| 
|   The echoes of that warning shot reverberated from the alley's walls
| and I could see the resolve of my would-be attackers melting before my 
| eyes.  (It was such a feeling of POWER!)  I kept Ruger's muzzle pointed 
| at the roughneck who had issued the most direct threats.  I was shaking 
| as much as they were.
| 
|   "The jig is up!" I cried, immediately disappointed in myself for
| scarfing that corny line for such a pregnant moment.  I made a mental
| note to alter that little bit of this saga if I lived to relate it at
| the weekly NDA meeting in Princeton.  "I think we're going to take a
| little walk down to the station, my friends."  Hee hee - "Don't mess with
| me, you doody-bunchers," I thought to myself as I revelled in the awesome
| control I'd established over these crooks.  I swear I had what seemed to be 
| the entire East Coast chapter of Satan's Pimps quaking at my disposal.
| But then something terrible happened.
| 
|   The humiliation of the proposed trip was too much for the ringleader to
| consider.  Before I could react, he presented a scruffy Pit Bull and
| said, "Waste the fucker, Tyrone!"  My life flashed in front of my eyes
| without commercial interruption as Tyrone tensed to spring...
| 
|  and JAMMED!  The mangy little fluffball sat down and scratched his gonads.
| 
|   I yelled out "Freeze!" and had them kick the cur over to me.  I
| examined him for a minute.  It was just SO typical.  Pit Bulls are
| giving dog owners a bad name and it's no wonder.  Real dog owners
| call them Saturday Night Specials - they're cheap, simple (I mean
| SIMPLE), and dangerous.  Tyrone here was unkempt and probably without any 
| license whatsoever.  Poor folk use them for protection or to commit tiny 
| street crimes (this story being a case in point).  They never brush them or
| clean them [Tyrone's scratching was probably parasites] and so you're
| just ASKING for a jam.  As often as not, the owner himself winds up
| being bitten.  I took the dog - he was going to impounded and destroyed.
| With disgust I noticed that this dog had a scar showing he'd been fixed
| to be fully automatic.  Playing with fire, there, pal.
| 
|   So it all came out in the wash.  You know the story - Tyrone was
| destroyed and the slimy punks were probably on the street later that
| night.  If the No-Dogs-Allowed lobby had taken Ruger from me, who knows how
| this might have turned out?
| 
| --
  ==

  Bob