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AMMON BUNDY, JON RITZHEIMER, JOSEPH O’SHAUGHNESSY, RYAN PAYNE, RYAN BUNDY, BRIAN CAVALIER, SHAWNA COX, PETER SANTILLI, JASON PATRICK, DUANE LEO EHMER, AND DYLAN ANDERSON.
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5x5 Clothing Sizes for Current Items (All measurements shown in inches, taken with garment lying flat) The Pucker Up Blouse SMALL MEDIUM LARGE Shoulder to Shoulder 16” 16” 17” Bust (armpit to armpit) 17” 19” 21” Centre top to bottom/hem 20” 20” 20.5” Waistband (stretched) 16” 17” 19” The Lolita Short SMALL MEDIUM LARGE Waist 14” 15” 15” Hip 17.5” 18” 19” Waist to crotch 11” 11.5” 11.5” Waist to hem (bottom of each leg) 13.5” 13.5” 13.5” The Peggy Bundy/Vespa Skirt SMALL MEDIUM LARGE Waist 14.5” 15” 16” Hip (widest point) 18.5” 19.5” 20.5” © 5x5 Clothing 2011 Centre waist to bottom/hem 18.5” 18.5” 18.5” 5x5 Clothing Sizes for Current Items (cont'd) The Scarface Jumper SMALL MEDIUM LARGE Shoulder to shoulder 15.5” 16” 16.5” Bust (armpit to armpit) 17.5” 18.5” 19.5” Centre top to waist 18” 18.5” 19” Centre top to crotch 30” 30.5” 31” Waistband (stretched) 17” 19.5” 20.5” SMALL MEDIUM LARGE Shoulder to shoulder 16.5” 17” 18.5” Bust (armpit to armpit) 15.5” 16.5” 17.5” Centre top to bottom 31” 31” 31” Waistband (stretched) 19.5” 20.5” 21” The Misfit Dress © 5x5 Clothing 2011
STRONG OX Aluminium Tubular Fencing Design Guide FLAT TOP LOOP TOP PICKET HI-LO PICKET COOKTOWN AYR ROCKY EUMUNDI DAINTREE MT ISA MALENY LONGREACH INNISFAIL CLERMONT CHARLEVILLE NOOSA BUNDY MACKAY RICHMOND WEIPA NORMANTON PROSPERPINE KILARNEY LOOP &
the roots what they do dj revolution the backbone lmno grin and bear it skrewball heat is on dynasty outlaw no more (rmx) dead prez behind enemy lines(rmx) dilated peoples the platform azad leben souls of mischief meditation finsta bundy boogie spirit dj mass/ royal flush pop the cluch blue warta blue warta marley marl symphony akrobatik the ep el tha sensei frontline k otix take a breather mood aiming to blow gang starr dwyck skizzofreniks cmon dude the essence the essence sage what that sound rakim its been a long time
Case 3:14-cv-00256-MMD-WGC Document 5 Filed 10/01/14 Page 1 of 2 1 2 3 4 5 UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT 6 DISTRICT OF NEVADA 7 *** 8 CLIVEN BUNDY, DAVID ROTHROCK, Case No.
The Toybox Killer The BTK Killer Female Serial Killers Unsolved Serial Killers Spree Killers Black Serial Killers Bundy Serial Killers of WWII .John Wayne Gacy Richard Ramirez Gary Ridgway Dahmer Australian Serial Killers Ted Kaczynski Andrei Chikatilo Manson Fred and Rosemary West The Boston Strangler Ed Kemper Serial Killers of the American Frontier Ed Gein Henry Lee Lucas H.H.
with Holliday (The Jane Master!) -Relaxing at Charlie's Cafe with M-man and Bundy -Sharing 'El Presidente"
KIDS IN SATAN’S SERVICE Justin Wheatley In Which We’re in the House of God It was on a Sunday morning, in the second row pew of the Church of God, when I knew I wanted to go to Hell. I feel no God in my bones, but I know if He were to exist, he would have to answer committing the mortal sin of forcing young children into his myriad houses of worship. Thirteen years later and I can still feel the fits of heavylidded yawns prying open my jaw every thirty seconds, and I can still see the backward glances at the clock at the back of the sanctuary, just high enough on the wall to (I swear) discourage small children such as myself from paying it too much sinful attention. This was casino psychology. I’m now convinced that it was a form of hypnotic trance that I would fall under. The syrupthick doldrums, the standing still of time. It was a cruel ritual, fit not for any child with the promise of a weekend noontime kicking and pricking in their unscraped, OshKosh B’Goshed legs. There’s the natural buildup that comes before Sunday servicethe inertia of not wanting to go dear God mom please. It was the opposite of suspense. And then after that the Dress Up, in which you decide to rebel and wear your tiny scuffed Chuck Taylors and hope dear God mom please don’t notice. Then she notices and you have to change into your nice church shoes right this second, Justin. We didn’t have money, but I can imagine our church clothes cost us at least three Sundays’ worth of collection plates. My tie was a clipon, but let me tell you, it was a nice clipon. After the Dress Up is the Drive There. The Drive There is mercifully short, as the church is only a couple blocks away. Then there’s the Greeting in the front parking lot of the church. Here you meet with the other Sunday school kids, already anxious, pulling at your clipon tie as if its imaginary grip is too tight around your collar. You kick some gravel around, maybe throw it at the side of the church when no one is looking, because hey man, screw this. You gather into the sanctuary with the other churchgoers. They’re an elderly bunch, save for that attractive young couple sticking out like two spicy thumbs. Then you wait thirty minutes until Sunday School is called into attendance. Such is the Dance of the Dutiful. Rinse and repeat. Reaffirming my deepseated belief that Tom Petty is some sort of mellowedout pop prophet, the waiting was the hardest part of Sunday service. I’m not going to say that I approach the notion of Sunday school as some sort of oasis in the beige desert of organized religion. It’s not often that I agree with the commonly held notion that children are an awful race of persons, because they aren’t. But even at that young age, my peers in youth did nothing for me. I say this not with pride, but with sad bafflement. Was it the glassy stares the Massy brothers would develop when one tried to talk to them? Was it the whitish flecks of dead skin that salted Kevin Dodd’s shoulders, pants, and any tabletop in front of him? Was it the revolving cast of fat women that “taught” the class, on average named Linda, all seemingly doomed to wear the same Dillards floral print dress? I could go on, and each time the answer would be a resounding, bitter ‘yes’. However, to say that Sunday church services in the sanctuary was the most unbearably dull situation that I’ve ever experienced would be a cosmic understatement. While Sunday school was a test of tolerance, services in the sanctuary were a test of character, determination, and the human will.There’s no describing the mental anguish the lack of stimuli during a Church of God service brought upon my young soul. My mother’s side, my browner half, they were all Catholic. Why couldn’t I be Catholic? They had better parties, and better food. Their communions were more fun, even if their grape juice tasted awful. And during Mass, you were never left to your own devices. There were recitations, there was lots of kneeling, there was call and response like some sort of divine stage banter at a really quiet jazz show. In the Church of God you may find a page of a coloring book stuffed into the hymnal slot of the pew in front of you, creased and ripped and scribbled upon, leftovers from the previous Sunday’s young occupant like halfeaten rations mercifully left behind in a foxhole. But this never happened. And even when it did, you’d be no doubt left with a truly awful Lisa Frank page, all jumping ponies and flying unicorns, ready to be ravaged with Tickle Me Pinks and Atomic Tangerines. (The “nontoxic” guarantee on a box of Crayolas never seemed like such a smirking taunt until you’re left in church with bad coloring books and worst colors.) I recall my grandmother being the sole provider of diversions as she gave in to my nonverbal pleas and handed me handfuls of TicTacs, Altoids, and/or sticks of Big Red chewing gum. This respite was, of course, fleeting, just as dust in the wind, or flavor in a stick of her occasional Big Red. They say those in the most desperate times of need will turn to the Bible and find solace in its pages. This couldn’t have been any truer. In my times of need, without any other stimulus to cajole my eyes into staying open, I turned to the Good Book and found sanctuary. Like all good books, it’s the first chapter and the last chapter that deliver the most important information. So I started at the Beginning, and then skipped to the End. The gist was: In the Beginning there was suffering, in the End there will be even more suffering. Made sense. Despite some minor glitches and discrepancies, it was nice of God to direct the Bible’s various authors, editors, and interpreters into chronologically ordering that musty King James edition sunk weighty into my hands. The Bible could’ve easily confused its readership and gone for a more arthouse approach, maybe bookending the inbetweens with two parallel accounts of the apocalyptic showdown, thus signifying the fundamentally circular nature of the eternity concept, or something. Real Joycean shit. But such is not the case. We get Genesis, with God breathing life into the Universe, and we get Revelation, with God annihilating the Earth with fire, dragons, and a horn section (presumably called The Funk of Ages). Here, at Revelation, is where my childhood fascinations landed. Is this boring? Here’s a digression. I once had an idea for a short story. The main character is a young boy in a wheelchair. He goes to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, he hears strange, resonant clops outside the door. He peeks under. Pacing right outside the door are a pair of deepreddish hooves. They are cloven, and they stomp with anger and purpose. They are the Devil’s. For the boy, the story is: Now what? Oh, and somehow the wheelchair played a part in the story. See, I can’t help it, but I’ve always had a lot of affection for, and fascination with, the Satan character. He’s so much more interesting than that pissy Yahweh, or his touchyfeely son, Jesus. We understand Satan, we sympathize with Satan. I know that even the most hardcore evangelical Christian has stopped, looked down at the space between their feet, and thought a nasty, vile thought that only that Infernal Boiler Keeper would understand. I almost pity those who grew up without a Satan figure in their non/religious upbringing. He’s the only fun character in an otherwise selfimportant, overbloated swordandsandals epic. He’s the ultimate bad guy, and the sad part is that the only reason he’s condemned to that role is because he experiences those human emotions that we’ve since had forgiven. It’s not as if he’s Snidely Whiplashing young Bathshebas to the train tracks. He’s simply succumbing to the temptations that his Creator provided him. Free will is a bitch. Why can’t God cut the guy a break? What grudge needs so much keeping that it manages to create a diametrically opposing supervillain for the superdeity grudgee? It’s Pride, which is, as we all know, what sent Satan tumbling down through those Ptolemaic chambers in the first place. I never ended up writing that story. But really, don’t you think Satan was probably relieved to leave the Kingdom of God? How vanilla can things get before you need a little Rocky Road to put some kick into your life? Speaking metaphysically, of course. I don’t like to perpetuate cliches, but here’s one: All the most interesting people throughout history probably made it down to Hell. In Heaven, everything is too fine. I’m not saying that I would want to make company with Hitler or Ted Bundy, but I am secretly thinking it. Really, I’m not so spiritually bankrupt as to admire those monsters from the past. I despise mass murderers, bank collectors, and daytime TV producers as much as the next caucasian male. But let’s all take a deep, honest breath here and consider just how boring Heaven would be. Who wants to drink lukewarm drip coffee with Billy Graham while the late members of Stryper wail painful power ballads over that fluffy white PA system? Pardon my English, but shiiiit. And since we’re being honest, let me clarifyboredom is not the primary reason I’d take Hell over Heaven. The real reason is that I would like to make smalltalk with the evil bastards of the past. I would like to pick Attila the Hun’s brain, or comb through Nietzsche's moustache. But all the same, I don’t want to spend eternity bored out of my mind. Satan, once subservient, once the brightest star, he only wanted to rule Heaven, a desire presumably brought about by the sheerest of boredom. And I knew his pain. Encased in buttons and cornstarch, standing for seven, eight, nine minutes to mouth the words to the same dozen hymns with the same four melodies, keeping my eyes closed for the opening prayer, the halftime prayer, the closing prayer, keeping my eyes open for the recycled sermon and the phonedin open mic testimonies from the slowest and quietest and most elderly members of the congregationI knew Heaven, and it was Hell. And sitting in the second row pew in that Church of God, I would pull out my copy of the Bible, stiff from disuse, and I would read and reread Revelation. Even the Bible’s more adventurous excursionsJob with his Leviathan, Ezekiel with his wheels within wheelshad nothing on Revelation’s bad trip apocalypse. Suffering through the laws of the Old Testament and the parables of the New Testament was worth it, if only for the terrifying wrath of the sevenheaded dragon, or the shimmering pangs of protolust that stabbed in my belly when I read about the (heehee) Whore of Babylon. The psychedelic fire and brimstone had no choice but to enthrall budding senses of story and fiction. As I read through that epic document of Hell and Heaven on Earth, of Satan’s futile struggle to regain control of the world for which he had, and forever will, serve as supreme antagonist, I knew whose side I was on. I knew I had no control over my attendance of the Church of God, at least not until I was old enough to explain to my parents why exactly I had trouble with the discrepant injustices in our religious beliefs. I knew that I would have to endure many more sweaty Oklahoma summers in the basement of the church, trying not to spill my undersugared cherry KoolAid as I made my way through dozens of farty senior citizens in hopes of catching the potluck buffet before the plate of deviled eggs was vultured clean by their papery, blueveined talons. And I knew, above all else, that writing “Hail Satan” in Sharpie on the stall wall of the upstairs mens room was as necessary as it was hilarious.
accused of wielding assault weapons against federal agents in a 2014 standoff near the Nevada ranch of anti-government figure Cliven Bundy.