Hey folks, now I know why I took the end off the the two piece mag extension. The one that comes with two screws. Because of the whacked weather here in NJ this winter (?) I was out and about today without a jacket. So I was wearing an undershirt with my polo outer while carrying IWB. When I got home, as I was pulling the gun out to put it in the GunVault, the extension top piece caught and hooked into the thin undershirt. Caught it solid, too. Couldn't clear the holster and even after tearing a hole on the next pull, still couldn't clear the holster with my G19C. I had already took that top piece off my extended mag release on my G36 and sanded the edges smooth. Good thing I did because I carry the G36 95% of the time. Well, I can see what's on my itinerary for tomorrow.
Wow. Imagine what could have happened if a perp showed up with you in his sights. Scary. Glad you "caught it" (heh-heh) before it became a real-life issue. 'Luck to ya!
Yeah, and every now and then I run into one of our summa cum laude graduates from the *ahem* boys school. Can't help it in NJ. But, I'll say this, with all those years I've done jailing, and with most of it on the rock an' roll team, I've only had one bad incident with an ex-inmate and that was because he was "profilin'" in front of a couple of his buddies. I think that the fact that his girlfriend started going ballistic on him and the realization we were in the middle of a mall, he saw the light...before he saw the light. Usually when we cross paths on the street, it's just wink and a nod and we go each other's way. Of course, when I get home I check on the computer to see if he's an escapee, or if from a halfway house, an "elopement" (isn't that cute what NJ calls that). I never initiate a conversation with an ex just in case it gets ugly and I get accused of instigating an incident.
One time though, this is funny, me and my old charter fishing partner walk into this old waterfront bar. Long, narrow, U-shaped bar. We sit down and the bartender is already right in front of us. We order and as he steps aside, BINGO! There's one of my all-time favorite, woof ticket selling, biker boys from the prison sitting right across from me. At the same time I turn into granite with a thousand yard stare, his eyeballs almost bug out of his head. His eyebrows looked like they were going to climb right over his head to the back. Now my buddy is catching this action and he senses something bad is coming but thankfully he just sits there looking back and forth not saying anything. The ex-inmate gets up and starts walking like he's coming around the bar, but he stops at the payphone (you can tell it was a while ago), picks it up and acts like he's talking on the phone. Only thing is, I noticed he didn't put any money in and I never heard it ringing. About 30 seconds goes by he hangs up the phone, takes two steps and out the side door he goes. He left his beer, cigarettes, lighter, money and one burning in the ashtray and put it in the wind. I think if he had a coat, he'd have left that, too. Well, being it was back in my younger, dumber days, we hung out about a half an hour to see if he was going to come back. Nope. By the time we left, even if he did come back, he'd have gotten laughed out of the bar by then. Always did want to give that punk a shot at the title. Never saw him again.
Nice story there! Too bad he didn't sh*t his pants while "on the phone"! That would've been something, eh! Downside of course, he could've summoned some buddies and been waiting outside. You know how they think: they got tossed in the slam out of no fault of theirs, so they would salivate at a chance for payback. They are all nothing but a bunch of ow-life scumbag bottom-feeding a-holes!
Like I said, my younger, dumber days. Oh, don't get me wrong. I was Mrs. Murray's 6'2", 240 lb bouncing baby boy back in the day and I liked to fight. You were never more alive when you'd be in the mess hall with 300-400 inmates. The noise would be so loud, it felt like two ice picks meeting in the center of your head. And when the wooper went off (in Rahway it sounds like a cop car wooper) the place would get as quite as a tomb if it was someplace else. If it was in the mess hall, it was an instant food fight. Got a twenty foot high ceiling in there with food stains on it. We rolled around one day with an inmate and when it was over you couldn't tell who the inmate was from the cops we were so covered up. That was back in the day when they let them wear there own street clothes. Either way, it was a maximum adrenaline pump. And if anyone ever tells you adrenaline isn't addictive, they're full of it. Unfortunately, age catches up to all old vikings and in later life you end up paying for the privilege of all that free adrenaline fix. Being I started later than most (37, ex-mil) I'm paying a premium on that bill. Don't need an alarm clock anymore. More than 4 hours sleep and the pain does the trick. 5 Hours and I damn near need help to get out of bed. In 363 days, the itty-bitty ol' ma is going to have to slap the smile off my face the day I walk out for the last time.
