Lest readers think that the Spectator is all about serious stuff–politics, terrorists, foreign debt, and health care reform–let me devote my space to advise that we also know how to have a pretty good time, especially at the most politically incorrect party of the year.
In order to celebrate Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Red Meat (and not the Bureau), we throw a party every fall for our staff, writers, supporters, and friends at my farm in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, just 80 miles west of the infamous Beltway–a party that would certainly get us all arrested within the confines of the Federal City.
It all started with a pig several years ago, and the political incorrectness has expanded every year since. If you’ve never cooked a whole pig on a spit over an open fire, you’ve missed a great part of Americana. Just don’t try it unless you can spare the sleep, you have lots of room, and lots of firewood. The pig in question was delivered on a Friday evening by my pig-farming, University of Chicago Business School graduate neighbor, gloriously gutted, cleaned, hairless, pink, and ready for the spit. The Spectator‘s favorite carpenter-mason-electrician-handyman and I stuffed her with apples, sewed all 100 pounds of her up, and hoisted her onto the fire for a slow, all-night roast, and we settled into a couple of old beat-up chairs in front of the fire, lubricated ourselves with a bottle of whisky, and watched the old porker cook. After prayers that it wouldn’t rain and expending our supply of off-color jokes, liberal jokes, Obama jokes, and the rest, we dozed off for a few minutes, awoke with a start to poke and stoke the fire now and then, stuck the pig, and dozed off again. After 12 hours or so, old piggy was ready to eat, and roasting lamb, beef, and chicken on the fire would all add up to a meat lover’s bonanza.
As the guests arrived, it was apparent that the Second Amendment was alive and well and highly regarded by Spectator aficionados, and before long the range was producing echoes off the Blue Ridge that would have made Chuck Schumer sick to his stomach. Everything from a World War I machine gun, World War II M-1s, various M-16s and its civilian equivalent, Rugers, Sigs, and Glocks of every shape and size made the place sound like Parris Island. Some were more sophisticated, like the Special Ops favorite, a semi-automatic called an M6A2 rifle–one of the most reliable firearms in use anywhere which operates on what’s called a short-stroke gas piston system, using the gases created by the discharge of the round to drastically reduce the buildup of carbon in the chamber. The thing can fire off 6,000 rounds between cleanings. Then there was the Belgian-design FN Herstal PS-90, Triple Rail, semi-automatic bull-pup carbine, chambered in high-velocity 5.7 x 28 mm ammunition with a 50-round capacity. It is used by our military (and many other countries) and the U.S. Secret Service as an urban tactical personal defense weapon. Looks like a toy, but it’s not.
My wife, who thinks I’m a political squish, wanted to get those cardboard cutouts of the most famous man in the world that you see at the gift shops along Pennsylvania Avenue for targets. We didn’t, just in case a Washington Post reporter showed up, though none did.
To complete the scene, Wasmund’s famous Single Malt Whisky truck and the Spectator‘s favorite distiller was parked close by, dispensing samples of Virginia’s finest whisky, rye, and spirit, as cigar smoke wafted through the trees.
The fires were still burning by the time the sun set and the crowd–some 150 strong–started returning to politically correct Beltwayland, several even to Manhattan and points north, and the spit, the range, and the rest would be still for another year. And, as you’ll see from what follows, we all got back to work to produce the most fun-loving magazine on the right.