Doctor Simon’s Remedy

There was a small town somewhere tucked back among the hills. The people there were much the same as everywhere; some beautiful, some ugly, most rather plain. Several would have been lovely if not for noticeable scars, and all got cuts and abrasions once in a while.

One day a traveling doctor rode into town upon a brightly colored wagon. He claimed to have the solution to all their problems of ugliness, pain, and scaring.

“The problem, my good people, is skin! Why is one person beautiful and the other ugly? Nothing but skin! Why are some left with scars from past mistakes while others are not? No fault of their own; it is all because of skin! Why do you suffer from cuts, bruises, and other painful abrasions? Skin, skin, skin! My solution will spare you forever from these ills, and will cost you not a penny. What is my solution, you say? Simplicity itself; remove the skin!

“Think about it; each one of us a squishy, flesh-coated skeleton, walking nightmares. When all are beautiful, no one is, and when all are ugly, ugly is beautiful. No more cuts, no more bruises, no more scars. Have you ever heard of muscle scaring? Or bone? A skinless world is an equal world, where none must suffer and each may face the world with a straight back and unafraid!”

His remedy was met with unexpected enthusiasm. Of course, those who were already beautiful, or who only rarely suffered from bruises and the like thought he was merely a quack, and those who were generally plain thought his idea interesting, but probably not worthwhile. The ugly and the scarred, however, flocked to his wagon. A man with a terrible scar running down his face volunteered to be the first.

Well, the remedy didn’t quite go off as expected. Having one’s face cut off is a rather unpleasant experience, and then of course the doctor had to stop after that because the poor man was bleeding all over the place. But Doctor Simon, as was his name, assured him that this was just a temporary reaction, and that he only need keep replenishing his blood with a supply he, Doctor Simon, would provide until the body accustomed itself to the lack of skin and then they could finish the procedure.

This man, Mr. Portnus, declared himself satisfied and left the tent praising the doctor’s skill while trialing a stand holding a large vial of blood hooked up to his veins. The town was shocked by his new appearance, but he and the Doctor insisted that was just a reaction to what was new; once more people had the procedure, everyone would soon come around.

And more and more people did get the procedure. Mrs. Sodor had the skin of her arm removed, Mr. Prasman had his leg stripped, even the Vicar went and had the skin of his chest removed. The more people who had the procedure, the more were interested in it. They all began speaking of how wonderful it would be when their bleeding stopped and they would be able to finish the procedure, so all the town would be skinless. Mothers had started to bring their children to have it done, and there was talk about training the school teacher to do it in class. It became something of a point of pride to have had part of your skin removed. Those who had been uncertain to begin with had it done just avoid being ostracized, and the beautiful people in town who weren’t interested at all and who still thought the whole thing horrible began to get a lot of nasty looks from their neighbors and to be snubbed by their friends. A few of them gave in and had the procedure done.

So things went on; almost the whole town went wrapped up in bandages and trailing vials of blood, thinking about how very clever they all were and how much better it was now that they didn’t have to worry about bruises and scars, and that the ugly and plain didn’t have to worry about their looks, and how horrible those who hadn’t gone through the procedure really were. So high and mighty, pleased with themselves, vain and snobbish.

True, a few people had bled to death, but that was own fault for not keeping their supply topped off, wasn’t it? And there did seem to be quite a few nasty infections going around, but that had always been the case and people were just more open about it. And, well, one had to pay the good doctor for another supply of blood every day, and there were a fair amount of bandages to be purchased, but that was the fault of the beautiful, wasn’t it? If they paid in, it’d all be cheaper for everyone. Besides, they were the ones going about saying you should stop going to Doctor Simon, that you shouldn’t have had your skin removed in the first place, and on and on, bothering the poor souls until they didn’t know what they were doing. They were morally responsible, really. If only they’d go along with it everyone would be fine and maybe then they’d stop bleeding at last.

Some of the few beautiful people left were saying that the rest of the town really ought to see another doctor and have their skin replaced. As if that were possible! You can’t go back, and anyway putting the skin back, even if you could, would surely result in some very nasty scarring, and the whole point of this procedure was to avoid scarring. They were saying the people should do it for their children, but sure it was much better just to give the children the procedure as soon as possible so they’d have the most time to adjust. That way the next generation would be able to fully enjoy the benefits of a skinless life!

Meanwhile, Doctor Simon had become by far the richest man in town. The few beautiful people left soon learned to keep their heads down and their mouths shut, lest they offend him and his servants. Even those who had had the procedure took care to always speak well of the Doctor. After all, if he took offense, where would they get the bandages and blood transfusions they needed? Even worse, he might not complete the procedure once the bleeding stopped.

And so the whole town took on rather a frightened air. No one would speak ill of the Doctor, and even a failure to praise him was looking on with suspicion. No one dared question the procedure publically, and as more and more people bled to death, or died of infection, everyone just sort of stopped talking about it. Better to focus on the wonderful things the Doctor’s procedure had brought them, rather than moon about what couldn’t be helped.

After all, one couldn’t go back.

A Primer on Gun Suppressors

Here’s a good article in The Federalist arguing why law abiding gun owners might want to own a suppressor and why (as usual) Liberals don’t know what they’re talking about. The best part is when the author quotes a Washington Post piece that claims a YouTube video of a man firing a suppressed .22LR demonstrates that “silencers make high powered rifles have no more sound than a pellet gun,” a sentence that made me think of the words of that great entertainer, Kermit the Frog: “You know, it’s amazing, you are 100% wrong. I mean, nothing you said was right!”

A sample:

To put things into perspective, the sound of firing an unsuppressed AR-15 — the most popular rifle platform in America — is approximately 165 decibels, or dB. A jet engine from 100 feet away is approximately 140dB. The federal Occupational Safety and Health Administration bans employers from exposing employees to 115 decibels for more than 15 minutes per day without providing them sound mitigation or hearing protection measures. 

Physical pain and potentially permanent hearing damage begins to occur at 140dB. Eardrums will begin to rupture at approximately 150dB. If you fire an AR-15 without a suppressor and without any hearing protection, the overpressure generated by the gunshot will blow out your eardrums, as well as of those of anyone else in the near vicinity. If you were forced to defend your home from armed invaders and had to shoot one of them in a small hallway or bedroom, you and your family would suffer permanent hearing damage from the sound of the gunshot alone.

A decent suppressor for an AR-15 (.223/5.56mm) can reduce the sound of that rifle being fired by 30-35 dB. Thus, a quality suppressor can turn what would’ve been a 165 dB, eardrum-bursting gunshot into a mere 135 dB gunshot — roughly the same volume as a jackhammer you might see a construction worker using. Remember that pain and permanent hearing damage begins at 140 dB.

By all means, read the whole thing.

I notice when arguing with Liberal friends and family members that ideas culled from movies and other works of fiction inform a lot of their thinking. This isn’t limited to leftists either; fiction has an extremely powerful, and often unrecognized influence on the mind, which is part of its glory. But you have to be sure when discussing facts that you aren’t basing them on anything you’ve read in novels or seen on film, because facts are a secondary consideration of such things. We should make it a rule to never trust any fact offered in a work of fiction until we’ve verified it.

p22_silencer1

*Pew! Pew!*