Storm Area 51? It's A Piece Of Cake!

Let Me Point Out Neither Of These Two Aphorisms Are Connected
If you remember, and you ought to, since your our human memory is better than that of a goldfish, last night Your Humble Scribe was ranting on about Area 51 and what it actually was, as opposed to what the conspiranoid loonwaffles think it is.  
     Essentially it is a research centre, out in the middle of nowhere.  In fact it is so remote it makes the Outer Hebrides feel like Paris at mid-day.   Art?

The area in question

     I mention this because some chump on Facebook created a page and put up a message
stating that his fellow conspiranoid loonwaffles could outrun bullets, and that they were up for storming Area 51 in order to <ahem> find the aliens.
     I don't think so.  The one million fellow swivel-eyed loons who commented that they, too, were going to storm the gates of Nellis AFB have clearly not thought this out.  The event is supposed to take place in September, when the temperatures in Nevada - which is all desert, remember - are up to  27oC.  We'll come back to that.
     Firstly, you can't catch a bus or train to Area 51.  You'll have to drive, and it's a long, long way from anywhere.  Art?

Nevada in yellowy-green at centre-left

     Once you get to the outer perimeter, there are warning signs about how the security people (who are third party security contractors, not part of the US Government nor the USAF and who hence have no qualms about how shooting trespassers might look bad) are entitled to use deadly force.  They drive white SUVs and are colloquially known as "The camo dudes", and presumably have all sense of humour surgically removed.*
     Then, too, that outer perimeter is literally miles and miles from Nellis AFB itself.  It's so far out you cannot see Area 51 from it.  Any attempt to drive in would be roadblocked immediately, so - it's down to walking in.
     In the desert.  With no shade anywhere.  With no water sources.  You can see how this is going to end, can't you?

Hi, guys!

     Especially as the people pledging their undying support are all pasty-white couch potatoes living in their parent's basements, who rarely see the sun and cannot spell "exercise" let alone manage any.
     We shall come back to this, it's far too enjoyable to stop!


Talking Of Cake -
Your Humble Scribe has been busy in the kitchen again, and has baked a Norwegian Pear Cake of the Oh Boy Is It Gluteny variety.  Art?

One of your 5 a day!

     I don't know if it really does count towards that total, but they are proper  genuine pears, since I forgot to get tinned ones yesterday.  Topped, tailed, peeled, cored and sliced and put in a cake.
     It rose pretty well, thanks to the gluten, and because I've adapted the original recipe's instructions about what temperature to bake at for how long, it no longer sports a rim of blackened batter.

You What?
The more observant amongst you (I am told there are some) will have noticed that the Intro has stopped featuring ingenious and hilarious methods of torturing the motley <sighs in fond reminiscence>.  This is not out of choice.  Your Humble Scribe has, in fact, been hit with a cease-and-desist injunction levied by the World Council Of Motleys.

Very possibly that same World Council

     Yes, really.
     It self-destructed within five minutes of receipt, so no photograph, but the words are graven on my memory.  To wit:


FOR THE EXPLICIT ATTENTION OF CONRAD “YOUR HUMBLE SCRIBE” <SURNAME REDACTED> PURVEYOR OF THE BLOG “BOOJUM!”

YOU ARE TO CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY, AND UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, FROM THE PRACTICE OF TORMENTING, ABUSING, TERRIFYING AND OTHERWISE MAKING THE LIFE OF YOUR MOTLEY EMPLOYEES A TRAUMATIC EXPERIENCE.  THE WORLD COUNCIL OF MOTLEYS FULLY INTENDS TO ABROGATE THE RIGHT TO TORMENT, ABUSE AND TERRIFY ALL MOTLEYS EVERYWHERE TO ITSELF IN ISOLATION.

HAVE A NICE DAY.

     Well, I ask you.  Next thing it'll be the toasters taking over.**

"The Last Battle" By Peter Hart
Currently well into the latter part of this work, and one thing I applaud Peter for, even if he didn't do them homself, are the maps here present.  None of that nonsense about two squiggles and a dot that some authors are happy with, O no.  They might have been in colour in the hardback yet are still perfectly legible in monochrome.  I guess that he would have had to underwrite the cost of these, at least partially.

The work in question

     Anyway, that has only a tangential relationship to what I wanted to tackle here, which is one of the quotations from a British soldier, who was happily watching and listening to the Royal Field Artillery and Royal Garrison Artillery making life miserable for the Teutons in opposition.  He described a 60 pounder, one of the variety of guns Perfidious Albion was using, as " - the silent devils, which the Germans hate most of all."
     And that's that.  No further explanation.  The internet proves to be singularly useless in explaining why, and Your Humble Scribe suspects he'll have to dig out Farndale and the relevant Ospreys to see if there's any more technical explanation there - a happy hour or two of chasing up indexes and references.  There are worse ways to spend a weekend.

"Hello!" said Sid The Sixty Pounder.  "Prepare - to be Pounded!"***

     There will now be a short intermission as Your Humble Scribe goes to get some lunch, and also plots a dreadful revenge against the World Council of Motleys ...

Finally -
Let me illustrate the mindset of the conspiranoid loonwaffle, in light of the anniversary of a certain landmark event, which might be better dubbed regolithmark event.  "Regolith" being the name used to describe the surface "soil" of the Moon.  Art?

The evidence

      The swivel-eyed bongbats all go into a frothing frenzy when they see a camera outside the LEM panning up to view the departing module.
     "SEE!  SEE!" they bleat (they are notorious for sounding like goats).  "This means they left a man behind, so either NASA are wicked eeeevil murderers, or they had two LEMs and they are still wicked and eeeevil."  At this point their gesticulations are so manic that their tinfoil hats fall off, and there is a mad scramble to don them again, before the CIA/FBI/BATF mind-control rays take effect -
     The more sane amongst us merely mutter "remote-controlled camera" and, sighing, dig into our lutefisk.

Lovely lovely lutefisk!

*  De rigeur for all government employees, even third party ones.
**  A trademark fear of futurologist Philip K. Dick.
***  I came up with this all by myself.