Fraud, Waste, Abuse & Misconduct

by Ben Small

You may have noticed the report issued by the BATFE and Eric Holder a year or so ago that most of the assault weapons captured in Mexico during the cartel wars were smuggled in from the United States.

The report was fraudulent. Not only untrue -- very few weapons captured in Mexico are turned over to the United States for tracking -- but now we learn that the Justice Department and BATFE were actively engaged in assisting gun smuggling throughout the Southwest and into Mexico. Even over the strong objections of their own agents.

The BATFE also made a public announcement last year, carried in newspapers, radio and television that they'd arrested and shut down some gun dealers in Texas and Arizona who'd run 2500 or more assault weapons into Mexico. Yes, the same guys who had contacted the ATF, told them they thought these guns were being smuggled, and were told to let them go.

Needless to say, when charges are dismissed, Justice and the BATFE rarely issue press announcements.

The man pictured above is Kenneth Melson, Acting Director of the BATFE. Melson admits he was instructed to supervise Operation Gunrunner's Fast and Furious program, the operation to smuggle these weapons thought a good idea by the Justice Department. Some BATFE agents who complained against the program were threatened or disciplined.

Now Melson says the Justice Department is stonewalling its own Inspector General investigation into Fast and Furious and that of Congress, which has been investigating the program ever since news of it popped after the murder of Border Agent Brian Terry. At least one of those rifles was used in the fusillade Agent Terry faced.

The official explanation for Operation Gunrunner's Fast and Furious program is that the BATFE and Justice wanted to track these firearms into dirty cartel hands. But they installed no transponders into the stocks, no GPS, no tracking device or mechanism whatsoever, and in fact, no tracking occurred... until Agent Terry's death. Ever since, these weapons have been showing up at Southwestern and Mexican crime scenes. Agents complained, and after Agent Terry's murder, some went public.

Suddenly BATFE and DOJ had a media relations problem.

Could there have been a different agenda, a political one, say, to drum up support for new gun ban laws? Consider that both Eric Holder and Barack Obama are adamant gun-banners, who if they had their way would strip our Second Amendment rights entirely. But these two have had a hard time finding support for their programs, especially after over sixty Democratic Congress members -- including Gabriel Giffords, a gun owner herself -- wrote a letter just after Obama was elected saying they fully support Second Amendment rights. But there's another player here, a treaty up for adoption in the Democratically controlled Senate. The U.N. Small Arms Treaty. Adoption of that treaty would mean an easier road for gun control legislation -- a treaty obligation.

There's also the Inter-American Convention Against the Illicit Manufacturing and Trafficking of Firearms, Ammunition, Explosives and Other Related Materials, currently languishing in Congress.

The question naturally arises: Was Operation Gunrunner's Fast and Furious program a political set-up for additional gun control measures? For the life of me, I can't think of any other purpose, given the lack of any tracking at all and the certain knowledge on the part of our leaders, hopefully, that BATFE had no means of tracking them. You don't make decisions knowing they will cost lives without asking about stuff like that.

The fact that the Acting Director of the BATFE, an agency already regarded as the lowest branch of the Justice Department (especially after Ruby Ridge and Waco fiascoes), is pointing his finger at Daddy makes one demand to know who at Justice approved this program. It had a budget of some $25 million. Melson says that number came from DOJ; the money came from DOJ.

Funny thing is, Eric Holder said recently he learned what BATFE was doing on Fast and Furious in March, but he mentioned the program two years ago.

So what is the truth? Who knew about this program and when? These were criminal acts ordered by the BATFE and DOJ, acts that caused how many deaths? Will anyone ever be put under the criminal scope for this? Will anyone be disciplined? Were any MMS officials who forged and submitted false inspection reports on the Horizon oil rig ever criminally punished? They committed fraud and lied to public officials. Look hard; you won't find it. Was anyone even demoted, suspended or fired. Again, you won't find it.

So now, the DOJ, part of the administration that candidate Barack Obama said would be the most transparent ever, is stonewalling any investigation of Operation Gunrunner's Fast and Furious operation.

I went to the Justice Department's Inspector General's website, its hotline especially, where citizens are encouraged to report government waste, fraud, abuse or misconduct either by filling in their form or via email. I tried both relative to Fast and Furious. The form wouldn't let me get past my name and address, and the email address wasn't in service. Don't believe me? You try it.

We need a Special Prosecutor. I doubt anything less will ever answer these questions.

Visitor Season

by Ben Small



Fall marks the start of Visitor Season in Arizona, that lovely time of year when one can actually stand outside during daylight hours without wearing an air conditioned NASA suit. Which means, of course, that anybody who can trace any sort of lineage to an Arizona resident comes to visit. The family tree doesn’t have to be straight; there can be missing or mangled branches, even shoots from other trees. Try tracking oak leaves to specific trees in a forest. Last year, a girl showed up claiming to be my daughter. So what she had a DNA report? Those things can be faked, can’t they? Even the FBI makes mistakes. But Benjamina didn’t stay long. The rubber-snake-in-the-bed trick soon sent her screaming.

Didn’t even leave a forwarding address.

Friends visit, too. I’ve had folks who said they’d last seen me when I hit ‘em with a dodgeball during kindergarten recess stay for a week. Once, a guy I’d sued showed up. Said he wanted clarification of the settlement agreement’s release language. He stayed a month.

But with the pool guy my wife murdered rotting next to my neighbor’s driveway, we have to be a bit careful when visitors come to the premises. We tell ‘em that the yard adjoining ours is full of scorpions ― you know, the man-eating ones. If they’re still curious, either my wife or I will follow, and we’ll be carrying a shovel. Shovelsaurus Rex. A big old spade, heavy, with sharpened edges. When my wife and I talk three-way, the only swinging we’re doing is with Rex. Clubbing, dicing or digging: Shovelsaurus Rex has no peer.

Usually we distract our visitors by taking them somewhere else, like for instance, the Sonoran Desert Museum, Arizona’s second leading tourist attraction. But that’s been a bit on-and-off this year ever since a wild javelina strolled past the bronze ones at the museum’s entrance and bit a paying customer. Worse yet, the customer’s wife saw the javelina coming and fainted. She said later she’d heard Benny Hinn was in town and figured he’d performed a miracle. She’s still kneeling at the entrance. Meanwhile, anxious attendants are searching for the pig. Since the museum uses invisible fencing, it’s near impossible to determine what’s captured and what’s hunting.

Tombstone’s a good distraction, and it’s got special advantages. Lots of OK Corral re-enactments. So if one needs or wants to shoot somebody, there’s covering fire. Just pretend to be part of the act. Slap a few backs, spit some tobaccy, and walk away. I always wear cowboy gear to Tombstone. Boy scout motto: Be prepared.

Same with Old Tucson, just down the road from the Desert Museum. Old Tucson is a movie studio, where Tombstone, 3:10 To Yuma, and hundreds of other movies have been shot. The gun blasts there provide good cover, too, and you may get paid for shooting someone.

Need I say that Shovelsaurus Rex travels with us in the Tahoe? I wanted to strap Rex on as a hood ornament, but the wife vetoed the idea. No sense of humor at all. Instead, Rex rides on top. The Tahoe’s so big, the shovel’s only visible to bridge-jumpers.

Of course Spring is visiting season too, but Spring’s second to Fall for most folks. People from Wisconsin and Minnesota like to come in Spring, because they want to feel their feet again. But most other visitors prefer autumn, perhaps because they want their neighbors to rake their leaves.

Having visitors means a lot of work, or at least my wife says so. But I came up with a plan. We don’t exactly run a B&B; we just charge for use of the restrooms. We use a graduated scale, the more our guests drink, the more we charge for the bathroom.

Sorta Pay As You Go.

Some guys try to cheat ― you can probably guess how ― but I’ve got a fix for that. I set up robo-rattlers outside every door. They’re not snakes at all; rather, they’re little radios that play a rattling sound. I’ve got ‘em hooked into Radio Shack motion sensors. One trip outside at night, and cheaters pay up. During the day, there’s not so much a problem. As you know if you read this blog regularly, my wife wears a machete. Twirling her blade like a baton, her soft words “Not in my yard” seem to carry extra meaning.

So please come visit this Fall. Watered down margaritas are on us.

And be sure to bring dollar bills…

Rattlesnake Hunt

by Ben Small

You’re at the buzzer on Family Feud. The question is, “Things you’ll find in the Arizona desert?”

Push the button.

"Ccactus” or “rattlesnakes?, one or the other.” You choose. You got a 50-50 shot.

So why have I heard so much about Arizona rattlesnakes, yet not actually spotted one? I've lived in Tucson two years, and I've yet to have a snake-event...of any kind. You’d think by now I’d have a snake farm, maybe snatch a grant to research reptilian weapon potential.

Nada. Nope. None. Not a single snake.

Every year more people are killed by rattlesnakes in the Tucson area than anywhere else in the world. The green Mohave is the most deadly. Bad mojo. It’s aggressive, and its venom is especially toxic. A buddy was biking in a wash and stood his Trek on its fender when he saw a Mohave slither out from behind its bushy cover, ready to greet him. He dove off his ride and was stuck for two hours while the snake used his bike as base camp.

Another friend was hiking and came over a hill in the late afternoon sun. Blinded, she covered her eyes and started down the trail. Rattles. All around her.

Hitchcock should be so scary.

The baby rattlers are the worst. The larger ones know they can’t eat you, so they modulate their venom, just give you enough, supposedly, to scare you away. But the young’uns don’t know any better; they’ll load you up. Same venom, just lots more of it. My landscaper’s friend was nailed by a wee one. It stabbed him as he fished in his tool chest for an Allen wrench. He almost didn’t make it.

Yes, we’re told if one makes enough foot-traffic noise, snakes will move away. But my wife found one in our driveway, a western diamondback, and it was in no hurry to leave. All stretched out, the snake seemed to be enjoying itself, not moving at all. But it separated my wife from the mailbox. At first she thought the snake was dead; it didn’t move at all. But she shuffled her feet, and the snake swung its head.

And tongued her.

You don’t do that to my wife. Not unless you’re carrying chocolate, flowers and jewelry.

Normally, my spouse would have practiced her backswing with the machete, and we’d be having sautéed snake-bites for appetizers, but that day she’d been swimming and hadn’t re-Spartanized yet.

So she pelted the snake with rocks, stomped her feet and yelled. She’s good at that, too.

No rattle, no coiling. The snake just slow-slithered away.

So my wife came inside and alerted me, knowing I’m hot to trot to catch me some rattlers. I wanna play some games with my neighbors.

I mall-ninja-ed up, complete with plated click-and-stick Molle-type vest, tacti-cool cargo pants, parachute cord, personal hydration system, safety glasses, high steel-toed boots, tactical gloves, helmet, knee-pads, a taser, pepper spray, and a six-foot long aluminum pole with a steel squeeze-handle on one end and steel spring-loaded jaws on the other. “Snake-Stick” or something like that. American-made, by Aazel Corporation. Good for long distance snake grabs, plus I’ve found it useful on my bicycle. Neighbor-grabbing, if you get my drift.

Dressed for action, I tip-toed out to the far end of the driveway and then into the desert, looking for slither-signs, round corners in the Etch-a-Sketch Sonoran scape.

I wasn’t as quiet as I’d have liked to be. Some clanking, a bit of pinging, the rub of leather, as my pouches, plates, buckles and slings swung with my step.

Sixty pounds of gear. You try being stealthy.

A promising creosote bush caught my eye, and I heard rattling, although in truth it might have been me. Anyway, I got down on my knees and peered through the evergreen blur. Then, I moved forward, crawling. Kept my head down, used my helmet to brush aside branches and green.

Heard what might be a rattle. I stayed stock still. Moved only my eyeballs. Caught some motion underneath my chin, and I panicked, threw up in my mouth and then had to swallow. Sudden movement might trigger a strike. My jugular was exposed. A bite there, and I wouldn’t make it back to the house.

Imagine my fear.

My eyes focused, and I saw sweat dripping off my chin strap. The drops fell on dried mesquite seed pods, which turned and rustled in the desert detritus. The temperature was a hundred-five, I was scared and wearing sixty pounds of mall-ninja gear. Sweat. Who’d’ve thought?

I exhaled, and smelled my lunch. I found my hydration tube and sucked in stale two-year-old water.

That’s when I felt it. Combustion in my legs. A searing heat. Starting at my shins and moving upward. Stinging, like a bee plague. Burning, like my limbs were on fire. The conflagration pulsed forward.

Flame touched my loins, and I was up and running. Knees high, boots pounding, my arms pumping, I must have sounded like a pan vendor jumping rope. But I was oblivious, too busy screaming and slapping at my body as I hurtled down the driveway.

I stormed through the back gate, straight to the pool. I dove in... and almost drowned.

All that gear, you know. Good thing my wife’s a strong swimmer. Better yet, my life insurance premium was overdue.

Fire ants.

When I get out of the hospital, I’m going to Cabela’s for fire ant gear.