We all know what sissies are, right?

You know what I mean. They’re like Idjits and Morons, comin’ in all colors, flavors, “life-style preferences” and two, three, or five genders, depending on what state you live in. For instance. This burglar-alarm company has a commercial out right now. Inside the house, Dad is up in the study playin’ with his video-games or somethin’. Mom’s getting the kiddies ready for bed. Oh, horrors! There’s a Bad Guy outside, breaking in! Wee-Honk! Wee-Honk! DangDangDang! — the alarm screams! Shocked an’ confused, Mom flies into flutteryaction, huddling the kiddies, I guess to make a more centralized target; beats me. The phone rings. It’s the alarm-company dude, asking if they’ve got a problem. Here comes the best part: Momma Hen’s got the chicks huddled in the hall, and Dad comes bumblin’ out, movin’ and lookin’ like he just smoked a Bob Marley Memorial Ganga-Bomber! And what does he ask? “What’s going on?”

What’s wrong with this picture, folks? It’s fulla Simpering Sissies, Insipid Idjits, an’ Mutant Morons! Oh, this is so wrong on so many levels! Where’s your Immediate Action drill? Got a plan to repel boarders? Why were you surprised the alarm went off? Ain’t that what it’s for? Don’t the RugRatz already know what to do? NO? Whose fault is that? Where the HECK is your Duty 870? Oh, man!

Then there’s “the Dad-person.” What does it mean when you’re in a house and the burglar alarm goes off? Get the door, it’s Domino’s Pizza? These people don’t need an alarm system, they need adult supervision, like a Sissy-Sitter. I’ve done some of that kinda work, but the subjects were mostly elected officials.

The Patented Memsaab Mug-Wipe

Now, not all sissies are professional victims. Some of ’em are predators. They just tend to prey on weaker sissies.
And sometimes, they get their “victim selection” criteria wrong — like, really, really wrong. Here’s a good example, and I also get to tell you about this tactical technique the Memsaab Helena pioneered, called The Memsaab Mug-Wipe.

She was drivin’ the High Lonely across Nevada, an’ ducked into a deserted rest stop to use the facilities. There was just one other car, a Dirtbag Special, kinda semi-abandoned off to one side. When she came out, that car’s occupants had come outta hiding and planted themselves against her fender, leerin’ and gawkin’ and engaging in “attempted recreational intimidation.” Who knows what they had on their teensy minds? Robbery, rape, murder, carjackin’ and tomfoolery? It didn’t matter. She knew it wasn’t gonna happen.

They probably got a peek at her when she arrived, and all they saw was this gorgeous redhead, all alone, in her khaki bush shorts, sandals and wispy blouse. What they couldn’t see was the Les Baer 1911 stuffed into an IWB rig just right of frontand- center down her shorts. Oh, it musta been inviting at a distance. As she strode closer, though, I’ll bet some bells went off, like, “Dang, that’s one big woman, and whoa, she walks like she means business, and why’s she smilin’ like that?”

That’s when she did the Memsaab Mug-Wipe. She stopped. Reaching across her body with her left hand with gun hand at the ready, she plucked the right front hem of that blouse and raised it, dabbing daintily at her chin and lips. This exposed a lovely bit of midriff — and a cocked-and-locked cannon — a sight sure to mesmerize, terrorize, and sometimes do both simultaneously. I’m thinkin’ both.

Here’s the very bestest part: They couldn’t bail out to their DirtbagMobile without moving toward her, so — they ran off into the desert! When the Memsaab called, she was laughing a lot and shakin’ a little, and she couldn’t quite remember exactly what she yelled after ’em, but it included something about “Don’t you wanta dance?” and “Ya big sissies!”

I told her about that “brutish Neanderthal” stuff. She just batted her Big-Blues, tossed me a little hip-check, and breathed, “He’s right — An’ that’s why I love ya, baby.” Me happy caveman. Go drag knuckles on pavement now. Bye-bye.

Connor OUT