Medicine for Msjinkzd
- Thread starter Redneck Woman
- Start date
I apologize now if this offends anyone. It is all meant in fun. Feel free to post all the red head jokes you want.:grinyes:
A blonde was driving home after a game, and got caught in a really bad hailstorm. Her car was covered with dents, so the next day she took it to a repair shop. The shop owner saw that she was a blonde, so he decided to have some fun. He told her to go home and blow into the tail pipe really hard, and all the dents would pop out.
So the blonde went home, got down on her hands and knees, and started blowing into her tailpipe. Nothing happened. So she blew a little harder, and still nothing happened. Her blonde roommate saw her, and asked, 'What are you doing?' The first blonde told her how the repairman had instructed her to blow into the tail pipe in order to get all the dents to pop out.
The roommate rolled her eyes and said,
'Uh, like hello! You need to roll up the windows first.'
A blonde was driving home after a game, and got caught in a really bad hailstorm. Her car was covered with dents, so the next day she took it to a repair shop. The shop owner saw that she was a blonde, so he decided to have some fun. He told her to go home and blow into the tail pipe really hard, and all the dents would pop out.
So the blonde went home, got down on her hands and knees, and started blowing into her tailpipe. Nothing happened. So she blew a little harder, and still nothing happened. Her blonde roommate saw her, and asked, 'What are you doing?' The first blonde told her how the repairman had instructed her to blow into the tail pipe in order to get all the dents to pop out.
The roommate rolled her eyes and said,
'Uh, like hello! You need to roll up the windows first.'
How many forum members does it take to change a light bulb?
1 to change the light bulb and to post that the light bulb has been changed
14 to share similar experiences of changing light bulbs and how the light bulb could have been changed differently
7 to caution about the dangers of changing light bulbs
6 to argue over whether it's "lightbulb" or "light bulb"...another 6 to condemn those 6 as stupid
2 industry professionals to inform the group that the proper term is "lamp"
15 know-it-alls who claim they were in the industry, and that "light bulb" is perfectly correct
19 to post that this forum is not about light bulbs and to please take this discussion to a light bulb forum
11 to defend the posting to this forum saying that we all use light bulbs and therefore the posts are relevant to this forum
36 to debate which method of changing light bulbs is superior, where to
buy the best light bulbs, what brand of light bulbs work best for this technique and what brands are faulty
5 People to post pics of their own light bulbs
15 People to post "I can't see S$%^!" and their own light bulbs
7 to post URL's where one can see examples of different light bulbs
4 to post that the URL's were posted incorrectly and then post the corrected URL's
13 to link all posts to date, quote them in their entirety including all headers and signatures, and add "Me too"
5 to post to the group that they will no longer post because they cannot handle the light bulb controversy
4 to say "didn't we go through this already a short time ago?"
13 to say "do a search on light bulbs before posting questions about light bulbs"
1 moderator to lock the light bulb thread.
1 forum lurker to respond to the original post 6 months from now and
start it all over again
1 to change the light bulb and to post that the light bulb has been changed
14 to share similar experiences of changing light bulbs and how the light bulb could have been changed differently
7 to caution about the dangers of changing light bulbs
6 to argue over whether it's "lightbulb" or "light bulb"...another 6 to condemn those 6 as stupid
2 industry professionals to inform the group that the proper term is "lamp"
15 know-it-alls who claim they were in the industry, and that "light bulb" is perfectly correct
19 to post that this forum is not about light bulbs and to please take this discussion to a light bulb forum
11 to defend the posting to this forum saying that we all use light bulbs and therefore the posts are relevant to this forum
36 to debate which method of changing light bulbs is superior, where to
buy the best light bulbs, what brand of light bulbs work best for this technique and what brands are faulty
5 People to post pics of their own light bulbs
15 People to post "I can't see S$%^!" and their own light bulbs
7 to post URL's where one can see examples of different light bulbs
4 to post that the URL's were posted incorrectly and then post the corrected URL's
13 to link all posts to date, quote them in their entirety including all headers and signatures, and add "Me too"
5 to post to the group that they will no longer post because they cannot handle the light bulb controversy
4 to say "didn't we go through this already a short time ago?"
13 to say "do a search on light bulbs before posting questions about light bulbs"
1 moderator to lock the light bulb thread.
1 forum lurker to respond to the original post 6 months from now and
start it all over again
OgreMkV
Father of Earth's Next Emperor
Here's a few real life stories to keep you entertained.
How NOT to fry a turkey
or… My in-laws did what?
I love my wife dearly. She is a paragon of dedication, powerhouse management, and ethics. She is amazing… I think she was adopted.
Our normal yearly routine is to spend Thanksgiving with her family in the Austin area, while spending Christmas with my family here in Port Arthur. Remind me to tell you about the dangers of Christmas at my place. Anyway, we generally have a standing invitation at my wife’s grandmother’s (mainly because we are quiet). So we stayed there on that fateful Thanksgiving holiday.
Thanksgiving dinner was scheduled for 12:30 on Thanksgiving day. However, in mother-in-law time that means we would be eating about 3:30 on Friday. The year before she had only taken the turkey out for defrosting on Wednesday… sigh. With that in mind, there was no rush to get there.
BTW: If you’re going to drive in the crash-up-derby-disguised-as-a-modern-city of Austin, I highly recommend Thanksgiving morning about 11ish. I don’t think we even saw another car.
We arrive to pandemonium. Everything was fine, that’s just the natural state of affairs at the in-law’s place. They rent an approximately 7500 square foot house, but can’t afford a TV or a couch. I won’t discuss their ‘new’ car. [OK, I will discuss it. It's a 1989 Mercury Cougar. It's the NEW car. Wow.]
Myself and the other husband…
Let me digress and describe my wife’s family. She is the second oldest of seven. One of which is male. The youngest was five when I married into the family… she’s driving now (sigh). The first two children are happily married with families. The next two (including the male) are divorced from… ummm… interesting spouses. The next two have some serious boyfriends and may or may not be happy, but they seem to be relatively organized about their life (unlike the middle two). The final child is in her own category because she BETTER NOT be seriously involved yet! I have guns and I know how to use them… get the picture, Cat?
Resume story… - the ‘other husband’ and I do our customary sit back with big grins and observe the festivities. Get involved? Are you insane? This is way too much fun.
My Mother-in-Law attempts to convince everyone that she knows what’s going on and is in complete control. Everyone else, of course, doesn’t believe her and is attempting to install some sense of order into the… planned event. The two oldest have homes (and children now) and actually do have some idea how to perform various kitchen related functions. However, getting your parents to do something is kind of like trying to protect the Titanic with a hair-dryer. The ice-berg will melt, but I predict the heat death of the universe before it does. [Extra points for anyone who understands what 'heat death of the universe' means.]
We’re sitting, making snide comments, and discussing PCs, when we hear something frightening. I turn to him and I see the same questioning/fearful look in his eyes. “Did she say ‘Fry the turkey’?” We both immediately have the same reaction. We pull out our insurance cards and verify that they are A) up to date and B) our wives are on them.
Then we run to the bar and peak over, into the kitchen. My mother-in-law has about a 60 pound turkey hanging over what appears to be a 5 quart sauce pan on her gas stove. The oil fills about 3/4 of the pot and appears to be quite warm. I scan the counter… it’s what I feared. Vegetable oil. Not only are we about to die… it won’t even be quick.
She begins lowering the gargantuan bird into the oil. Once the first half inch of the animal is in, the oil is at the lip of the pot. Fortunately, she has realized that there appears to be an issue and pauses her lowering action. My father-in-law begins to berate her. My wife is scrambling for a fire extinguisher. I’m seriously considering Taco Bell.
My mother-in-law says, “it fit when I tried it yesterday”, at which point everyone (including the two year old) shouts, “There wasn’t oil in the pot yesterday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Well, I looked for the bigger pot, but it wasn’t in the garage.” I look at my counterpart, “What the hell?” our expressions say.
Our father-in-law shouts something about the pot being in the oven. Again with the “What the hell?” look.
The youngest (at this point, a teenager or so close it makes no difference) lunges between mother’s legs and opens the oven to look for the mythical “Bigger Pot of Turkmanistan”. [I don't know why, but the name 'Turkmanistan' always sounded funny to me.] There’s a 300 pound turkey (the bottom inch of which is beginning to char) hanging over 4 quarts of vegetable oil that is quite obviously at the smoke point all within 12 inches of the cutest little teenager since Gidgette (more extra points folks… don’t say I never gave you a chance).
It amazes me to this day that no one went to the hospital.
I’ll be honest and say that I have no recollection of what we ate for Thanksgiving dinner, but I highly suspect that it wasn’t turkey.
BTW: I have left out the names, even though the story would flow better. It’s not that I fear them… I have access to way more firepower than they do (even if they call in the psychopathic, national guard, ex-husband). However, they are family and they’re my family.
Oh Save us from the Pine Cones
Here, we have another escapade at the Diamond MC Ranch.
I decided to not use any names in this, as most everyone in it is still alive and many of them have many, many guns… and my address. Not the least of which is my only living grandmother who, when well into her 70s, punched the heart out of a man shaped target at 15 yards with a 2 inch .357. If you don’t know much about guns, go hang out at your local gun shop (NOT Academy, they generally don’t know that much about guns).
If you don’t feel like going out, then stay close and I’ll help you out along the way. It’s truly amazing that, in spite of the many gun stories contained within these pages, no one has been killed, maimed, capped, or otherwise injured by sporadic gunfire.
No names. Those persons mentioned in this tome know who you are (and that I’m generally armed). It isn’t necessary for you to know mainly because you might be FBI… or ATF… or some other acronym that might have an unhealthy (for us) interest in the exploits that follow. Remember, it’s not paranoia if they really are after you.
The Diamond MC Ranch was near Fred, Texas. If you don’t know where Fred is, then don’t feel bad, no one else does either. In case you check a map of Texas, it’s near Spurger… I’m sure that clears up all the questions you have.
Dad and Gran each had their reasons for purchasing the land. My grandfather wanted nothing less than to be a cowboy. At one point we had three horses (no cows thank God). He would ride through his land, six gun by his side. Ten gallon hat firmly on his head. His weathered face stern, but loving as he helped his only grandchild explore the wilds of this strange land.
My dad on the other hand wanted to blow stuff up. We would travel ‘up the country’ (that’s what we called it), Gran would bring grain and sugar cubes for the horses. He would cook for us on an open fire. Dad would bring 37 guns and two hundred twelve pounds of ammunition and protect us from viscous, man-eating pine-cones. Until I was seven, I really thought pine-cones were dangerous. Considering that area of Texas is called the Piney Woods, it was not a good time for me.
Occasionally, other family members would go with us. Dad’s cousin, Sandy[1], and his wife and kids (who were my best friends for a very long time) went often. Fortunately, Sandy was as big a gun nut as my father, so we were very safe from pine cones. Snakes, however, were another story.
There are some four major species (and several sub-species) of poisonous snake in the United States. ALL OF THEM live in Texas. ALL OF THEM live in the Piney Woods. ALL OF THEM lived on our land. Depending on how long ago our last visit was, many of them could be found in our well house.
Keep in mind that this was wild country. We might go up there once a month. During the summer we went much more, but that first trip in the spring could be a little exciting. All the cute fox kits running around, baby birds chirping for their supper, the occasional beaver venturing out from his lodge… and hungry snakes are looking to eat all of them.
Many of the following stories are snake stories. If you like snakes, then you might not want to read further. If you loathe snakes and wish them all sent to one of the deeper parts of hell, then read on. Many of the these stories begin with a snake and end with a ruthless application of firepower that makes Desert Storm look like a kicking match between six-year olds.
In spite of the fact that my dad can (and did) repair motorcycles from three different continents, built several sea worthy (and not so seaworthy) boats, could repair any car built before 1987, and had more than one job where he publicly embarrassed a certified engineer… he wasn’t too bright sometimes. Case in point…
Sandy’s oldest child, Jennifer[2], was down by the crick. [That’s redneck talk for creak… a small stream]. For sake of truthfulness, it wasn’t much of a creak. It was a big low place between two high points. It had a lot of sand and occasionally water ran through it. We enjoyed playing in the ‘quicksand’ mainly because it was all of twelve inches deep.
We heard her scream, “SNAKE!!!!!” Yes, she screamed in all capital letters.. Now, Jennifer was not a screamer, she was not a little pansy girl with her Barbies. Jen was a sophisticated high school student and smarter than anyone has a right to be. When she screamed snake, the men folk rushed into action.
We had all been getting ready for lunch. Sandy, the troubled father, Dad, the staunch cousin, uncle and defender, and Gran, the cowboy all took up arms against the coming threat. There was a mad dash for the crick. Three bravos armed for bear (literally) followed by everyone else looking to see what was about to get all blowed up.
We see Jen running toward us and she points behind her, where a LARGE black snake is heading into a hole in the ground. Everyone stops to consider this turn of events. The snake appears to be no threat. Jen is safe and sound, though she may have a few nightmares considering the size of the thing. In fact, none of the poisonous snakes in Texas are totally black like this thing was. A collective sigh of relief comes from the womenfolk. The mad dash to her rescue slows to a trot, then to a halt as we stand around trying to figure out what to do.
All, except for dad. I may never understand what possessed him, but he yelled something incoherent and dove on the snake just as its tail disappeared into the hole. Sticking his hand into the hole, he grabs the tail of the snake and begins what has to be the weirdest tug of war in history.
Now my dad is no five foot wiener, he’s always been a pretty buff guy (and later a pretty big guy). However, a snake is all muscle. From the back of its head to its tail is muscle and support for the muscle. This snake was big and it was in its hole. The tug of war was much like a pit bull hanging onto a rope for dear life.
Dad would get it a few inches out, then the snake would (apparently) get some fresh traction in the dirt and wriggle back in a few inches. We stood dumb-founded as this epic struggle occurred.
Finally, dad managed to make it to his knees and almost a foot of the tail of this giant black snake was out of the hole. Then, man’s superior knowledge and skills come into play. Animals are, after all, 90% instinct, while most humans have no instinct at all (witness my dad trying to pull a snake out of the ground). No mere animal can stand against the mind of man… or in this case a revolver with 6 .45 Long Colt shells in it.
There is a joke amongst gun aficionados that “God made man, Sam Colt made them equal.” In this case, a relatively powerful revolver made man superior to the snake… at least in terms of ability to do damage. The snake wasn’t looking to pull dad out of the ranch house now was he?
Dad positioned the barrel of his pistol on the snake's body and pulled the trigger… BOOOOOOOM. Man-made thunder rolled through the countryside. I don’t know if the snake was in pain, realized that it was now in serious trouble, or was already dying, but its struggle redoubled. But man had his technology working for him now. Dad pulled another foot or so of snake out of the hole. BOOOOOOOOM… went the gun. The snake was doomed, but it was determined to go out fighting. Dad pulled another foot or so of the snake out… again the thunderous roar echoed through the pine trees. Again and again and again. The final shot was very near the beast’s head and was the straw that broke the camel’s back… on second thought I think it was the half ounce of lead traveling at 800 feet per second that broke it’s back, but you get the drift.
Finally he held up his prize… slightly worse for wear. The snake was at least six foot long. I say at least, because we never found the head end of it. The part that we had was a little over six feet long and about as big around as your upper arm. I think at that point everyone just shook their heads and trudged back to the house.
That was the biggest snake we’d seen, but not by much and it sure as dad’s shooting wasn’t the meanest.
[1] Sandy is out of the country and, I think, planning on remaining there. I have little to fear from him.
[2] I fear no reprisals from her. However, given the younger, male child’s affinity for computers and accessing things he really shouldn’t, I’ll refer to him only as ‘The Unihacker’.
The almighty squirrels of Houston
My wife and I went to Houston on a Saturday to take our teacher certification tests. While there, we stopped at the Natural Science Museum, to meet some friends and see the exhibits. That was the “Lord of the Rings’ movie exhibit for those taking notes.
We sat on a park bench and read for a bit, waiting. The missus commented on the size of the squirrels. Half joking, I said, “here squirrel” and made cute squirrel-like sounds. Four little fuzzy heads oriented on us like mammal missile launchers.
The leader of the pack… pride… doom of squirrels, a rather robust individual who was more obviously male than most dogs I’ve seen, approached. He sat and looked cute, waving his paws in the air. Oh boy, was it a trap.
I went to the car and found something for them to eat. I wouldn’t call it healthy, even for humans, but these squirrels were obviously on the fast track to clogged arteries. Fortunately, they live across the street from the largest hospital complex in Houston. The mind boggles at the idea of a 2nd year intern trying to perform a triple bypass on a four- pound squirrel… anyway.
The treat that I found was an old bag of cheese Ritz Bits ™. I said, “Well, I’ll show him.” and held one of the delectable and stale sandwiches in my outstretched fingers. I continued to make cutesy little noises. The squirrel approached me with the bravado of John Wayne making an example of a few hundred Mexican soldiers at the Alamo.
I got an excellent view of the special feature of order Rodentia as he delicately reached out and grabbed the morsel… from my now shaking fingers. You see, rodents specialize in teeth. Teeth that grow continuously, unless sharpened and honed to a razor edge by sharp foods like acorns and human fingers. Unfortunately, this leader of the ‘rat pack’ hadn’t eaten anything tougher than Wonder Bread and bologna for far too long. His incisors were a wonderful length for picking a painfully small Ritz cracker from my fingers.
Emboldened, the remainder of the mob approached. I quickly handed out sandwiches and observed these obese squirrels chewing on them like fat little four year olds. The smallest squirrel, ironically having the longest and bushiest tail (having bright eyes would be too obvious a joke here), was assaulted by a pair of grackles, thinking him an easy target for their murderous beaks (get it? Murder of crows… nevermind). Obviously, no animal smaller than a great dane would attack the leader of this squirrel herd. That little, small squirrel, holding onto his morsel like Lance Armstrong holding the lead at the Tour de France, made slashing motions with his claws. Grackles fled the scene, embarrassed at their inept theft attempt. This leader had trained his squad mates well. No mere bird was going to cash in on their cuteness factor.
Finally, after each squirrel of the pod… gaggle… whatever, extorted a handful of treats from us, I came to a painful realization… the Ritz Bits were gone. That’s when things turned ugly. I had lost sight of tactical reality and found myself surrounded by a pride of agile rodents who meant to get their treats. I faked left and dove for the car to find another bag of anything. My wife was left to appease the flock.
She began getting nervous when the runt, He of the Longest Tail, started making eyes at her ponytail and approaching (on the picnic table) with amorous intent. I returned with nothing more than a half full glass of water and some squeezed lemons. The leader was NOT HAPPY with this development. I sensed our relationship had taken a turn for the worse.
We decided that the restrooms and cool, air-conditioned, rodent free confines of the Museum offered a way out.
Thus endeth the tail, not with astounding victory or bitter defeat, but all the world looking like we had been chased out of the park by four squirrels. Look damnit, they were huge squirrels!
How NOT to fry a turkey
or… My in-laws did what?
I love my wife dearly. She is a paragon of dedication, powerhouse management, and ethics. She is amazing… I think she was adopted.
Our normal yearly routine is to spend Thanksgiving with her family in the Austin area, while spending Christmas with my family here in Port Arthur. Remind me to tell you about the dangers of Christmas at my place. Anyway, we generally have a standing invitation at my wife’s grandmother’s (mainly because we are quiet). So we stayed there on that fateful Thanksgiving holiday.
Thanksgiving dinner was scheduled for 12:30 on Thanksgiving day. However, in mother-in-law time that means we would be eating about 3:30 on Friday. The year before she had only taken the turkey out for defrosting on Wednesday… sigh. With that in mind, there was no rush to get there.
BTW: If you’re going to drive in the crash-up-derby-disguised-as-a-modern-city of Austin, I highly recommend Thanksgiving morning about 11ish. I don’t think we even saw another car.
We arrive to pandemonium. Everything was fine, that’s just the natural state of affairs at the in-law’s place. They rent an approximately 7500 square foot house, but can’t afford a TV or a couch. I won’t discuss their ‘new’ car. [OK, I will discuss it. It's a 1989 Mercury Cougar. It's the NEW car. Wow.]
Myself and the other husband…
Let me digress and describe my wife’s family. She is the second oldest of seven. One of which is male. The youngest was five when I married into the family… she’s driving now (sigh). The first two children are happily married with families. The next two (including the male) are divorced from… ummm… interesting spouses. The next two have some serious boyfriends and may or may not be happy, but they seem to be relatively organized about their life (unlike the middle two). The final child is in her own category because she BETTER NOT be seriously involved yet! I have guns and I know how to use them… get the picture, Cat?
Resume story… - the ‘other husband’ and I do our customary sit back with big grins and observe the festivities. Get involved? Are you insane? This is way too much fun.
My Mother-in-Law attempts to convince everyone that she knows what’s going on and is in complete control. Everyone else, of course, doesn’t believe her and is attempting to install some sense of order into the… planned event. The two oldest have homes (and children now) and actually do have some idea how to perform various kitchen related functions. However, getting your parents to do something is kind of like trying to protect the Titanic with a hair-dryer. The ice-berg will melt, but I predict the heat death of the universe before it does. [Extra points for anyone who understands what 'heat death of the universe' means.]
We’re sitting, making snide comments, and discussing PCs, when we hear something frightening. I turn to him and I see the same questioning/fearful look in his eyes. “Did she say ‘Fry the turkey’?” We both immediately have the same reaction. We pull out our insurance cards and verify that they are A) up to date and B) our wives are on them.
Then we run to the bar and peak over, into the kitchen. My mother-in-law has about a 60 pound turkey hanging over what appears to be a 5 quart sauce pan on her gas stove. The oil fills about 3/4 of the pot and appears to be quite warm. I scan the counter… it’s what I feared. Vegetable oil. Not only are we about to die… it won’t even be quick.
She begins lowering the gargantuan bird into the oil. Once the first half inch of the animal is in, the oil is at the lip of the pot. Fortunately, she has realized that there appears to be an issue and pauses her lowering action. My father-in-law begins to berate her. My wife is scrambling for a fire extinguisher. I’m seriously considering Taco Bell.
My mother-in-law says, “it fit when I tried it yesterday”, at which point everyone (including the two year old) shouts, “There wasn’t oil in the pot yesterday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“Well, I looked for the bigger pot, but it wasn’t in the garage.” I look at my counterpart, “What the hell?” our expressions say.
Our father-in-law shouts something about the pot being in the oven. Again with the “What the hell?” look.
The youngest (at this point, a teenager or so close it makes no difference) lunges between mother’s legs and opens the oven to look for the mythical “Bigger Pot of Turkmanistan”. [I don't know why, but the name 'Turkmanistan' always sounded funny to me.] There’s a 300 pound turkey (the bottom inch of which is beginning to char) hanging over 4 quarts of vegetable oil that is quite obviously at the smoke point all within 12 inches of the cutest little teenager since Gidgette (more extra points folks… don’t say I never gave you a chance).
It amazes me to this day that no one went to the hospital.
I’ll be honest and say that I have no recollection of what we ate for Thanksgiving dinner, but I highly suspect that it wasn’t turkey.
BTW: I have left out the names, even though the story would flow better. It’s not that I fear them… I have access to way more firepower than they do (even if they call in the psychopathic, national guard, ex-husband). However, they are family and they’re my family.
Oh Save us from the Pine Cones
Here, we have another escapade at the Diamond MC Ranch.
I decided to not use any names in this, as most everyone in it is still alive and many of them have many, many guns… and my address. Not the least of which is my only living grandmother who, when well into her 70s, punched the heart out of a man shaped target at 15 yards with a 2 inch .357. If you don’t know much about guns, go hang out at your local gun shop (NOT Academy, they generally don’t know that much about guns).
If you don’t feel like going out, then stay close and I’ll help you out along the way. It’s truly amazing that, in spite of the many gun stories contained within these pages, no one has been killed, maimed, capped, or otherwise injured by sporadic gunfire.
No names. Those persons mentioned in this tome know who you are (and that I’m generally armed). It isn’t necessary for you to know mainly because you might be FBI… or ATF… or some other acronym that might have an unhealthy (for us) interest in the exploits that follow. Remember, it’s not paranoia if they really are after you.
The Diamond MC Ranch was near Fred, Texas. If you don’t know where Fred is, then don’t feel bad, no one else does either. In case you check a map of Texas, it’s near Spurger… I’m sure that clears up all the questions you have.
Dad and Gran each had their reasons for purchasing the land. My grandfather wanted nothing less than to be a cowboy. At one point we had three horses (no cows thank God). He would ride through his land, six gun by his side. Ten gallon hat firmly on his head. His weathered face stern, but loving as he helped his only grandchild explore the wilds of this strange land.
My dad on the other hand wanted to blow stuff up. We would travel ‘up the country’ (that’s what we called it), Gran would bring grain and sugar cubes for the horses. He would cook for us on an open fire. Dad would bring 37 guns and two hundred twelve pounds of ammunition and protect us from viscous, man-eating pine-cones. Until I was seven, I really thought pine-cones were dangerous. Considering that area of Texas is called the Piney Woods, it was not a good time for me.
Occasionally, other family members would go with us. Dad’s cousin, Sandy[1], and his wife and kids (who were my best friends for a very long time) went often. Fortunately, Sandy was as big a gun nut as my father, so we were very safe from pine cones. Snakes, however, were another story.
There are some four major species (and several sub-species) of poisonous snake in the United States. ALL OF THEM live in Texas. ALL OF THEM live in the Piney Woods. ALL OF THEM lived on our land. Depending on how long ago our last visit was, many of them could be found in our well house.
Keep in mind that this was wild country. We might go up there once a month. During the summer we went much more, but that first trip in the spring could be a little exciting. All the cute fox kits running around, baby birds chirping for their supper, the occasional beaver venturing out from his lodge… and hungry snakes are looking to eat all of them.
Many of the following stories are snake stories. If you like snakes, then you might not want to read further. If you loathe snakes and wish them all sent to one of the deeper parts of hell, then read on. Many of the these stories begin with a snake and end with a ruthless application of firepower that makes Desert Storm look like a kicking match between six-year olds.
In spite of the fact that my dad can (and did) repair motorcycles from three different continents, built several sea worthy (and not so seaworthy) boats, could repair any car built before 1987, and had more than one job where he publicly embarrassed a certified engineer… he wasn’t too bright sometimes. Case in point…
Sandy’s oldest child, Jennifer[2], was down by the crick. [That’s redneck talk for creak… a small stream]. For sake of truthfulness, it wasn’t much of a creak. It was a big low place between two high points. It had a lot of sand and occasionally water ran through it. We enjoyed playing in the ‘quicksand’ mainly because it was all of twelve inches deep.
We heard her scream, “SNAKE!!!!!” Yes, she screamed in all capital letters.. Now, Jennifer was not a screamer, she was not a little pansy girl with her Barbies. Jen was a sophisticated high school student and smarter than anyone has a right to be. When she screamed snake, the men folk rushed into action.
We had all been getting ready for lunch. Sandy, the troubled father, Dad, the staunch cousin, uncle and defender, and Gran, the cowboy all took up arms against the coming threat. There was a mad dash for the crick. Three bravos armed for bear (literally) followed by everyone else looking to see what was about to get all blowed up.
We see Jen running toward us and she points behind her, where a LARGE black snake is heading into a hole in the ground. Everyone stops to consider this turn of events. The snake appears to be no threat. Jen is safe and sound, though she may have a few nightmares considering the size of the thing. In fact, none of the poisonous snakes in Texas are totally black like this thing was. A collective sigh of relief comes from the womenfolk. The mad dash to her rescue slows to a trot, then to a halt as we stand around trying to figure out what to do.
All, except for dad. I may never understand what possessed him, but he yelled something incoherent and dove on the snake just as its tail disappeared into the hole. Sticking his hand into the hole, he grabs the tail of the snake and begins what has to be the weirdest tug of war in history.
Now my dad is no five foot wiener, he’s always been a pretty buff guy (and later a pretty big guy). However, a snake is all muscle. From the back of its head to its tail is muscle and support for the muscle. This snake was big and it was in its hole. The tug of war was much like a pit bull hanging onto a rope for dear life.
Dad would get it a few inches out, then the snake would (apparently) get some fresh traction in the dirt and wriggle back in a few inches. We stood dumb-founded as this epic struggle occurred.
Finally, dad managed to make it to his knees and almost a foot of the tail of this giant black snake was out of the hole. Then, man’s superior knowledge and skills come into play. Animals are, after all, 90% instinct, while most humans have no instinct at all (witness my dad trying to pull a snake out of the ground). No mere animal can stand against the mind of man… or in this case a revolver with 6 .45 Long Colt shells in it.
There is a joke amongst gun aficionados that “God made man, Sam Colt made them equal.” In this case, a relatively powerful revolver made man superior to the snake… at least in terms of ability to do damage. The snake wasn’t looking to pull dad out of the ranch house now was he?
Dad positioned the barrel of his pistol on the snake's body and pulled the trigger… BOOOOOOOM. Man-made thunder rolled through the countryside. I don’t know if the snake was in pain, realized that it was now in serious trouble, or was already dying, but its struggle redoubled. But man had his technology working for him now. Dad pulled another foot or so of snake out of the hole. BOOOOOOOOM… went the gun. The snake was doomed, but it was determined to go out fighting. Dad pulled another foot or so of the snake out… again the thunderous roar echoed through the pine trees. Again and again and again. The final shot was very near the beast’s head and was the straw that broke the camel’s back… on second thought I think it was the half ounce of lead traveling at 800 feet per second that broke it’s back, but you get the drift.
Finally he held up his prize… slightly worse for wear. The snake was at least six foot long. I say at least, because we never found the head end of it. The part that we had was a little over six feet long and about as big around as your upper arm. I think at that point everyone just shook their heads and trudged back to the house.
That was the biggest snake we’d seen, but not by much and it sure as dad’s shooting wasn’t the meanest.
[1] Sandy is out of the country and, I think, planning on remaining there. I have little to fear from him.
[2] I fear no reprisals from her. However, given the younger, male child’s affinity for computers and accessing things he really shouldn’t, I’ll refer to him only as ‘The Unihacker’.
The almighty squirrels of Houston
My wife and I went to Houston on a Saturday to take our teacher certification tests. While there, we stopped at the Natural Science Museum, to meet some friends and see the exhibits. That was the “Lord of the Rings’ movie exhibit for those taking notes.
We sat on a park bench and read for a bit, waiting. The missus commented on the size of the squirrels. Half joking, I said, “here squirrel” and made cute squirrel-like sounds. Four little fuzzy heads oriented on us like mammal missile launchers.
The leader of the pack… pride… doom of squirrels, a rather robust individual who was more obviously male than most dogs I’ve seen, approached. He sat and looked cute, waving his paws in the air. Oh boy, was it a trap.
I went to the car and found something for them to eat. I wouldn’t call it healthy, even for humans, but these squirrels were obviously on the fast track to clogged arteries. Fortunately, they live across the street from the largest hospital complex in Houston. The mind boggles at the idea of a 2nd year intern trying to perform a triple bypass on a four- pound squirrel… anyway.
The treat that I found was an old bag of cheese Ritz Bits ™. I said, “Well, I’ll show him.” and held one of the delectable and stale sandwiches in my outstretched fingers. I continued to make cutesy little noises. The squirrel approached me with the bravado of John Wayne making an example of a few hundred Mexican soldiers at the Alamo.
I got an excellent view of the special feature of order Rodentia as he delicately reached out and grabbed the morsel… from my now shaking fingers. You see, rodents specialize in teeth. Teeth that grow continuously, unless sharpened and honed to a razor edge by sharp foods like acorns and human fingers. Unfortunately, this leader of the ‘rat pack’ hadn’t eaten anything tougher than Wonder Bread and bologna for far too long. His incisors were a wonderful length for picking a painfully small Ritz cracker from my fingers.
Emboldened, the remainder of the mob approached. I quickly handed out sandwiches and observed these obese squirrels chewing on them like fat little four year olds. The smallest squirrel, ironically having the longest and bushiest tail (having bright eyes would be too obvious a joke here), was assaulted by a pair of grackles, thinking him an easy target for their murderous beaks (get it? Murder of crows… nevermind). Obviously, no animal smaller than a great dane would attack the leader of this squirrel herd. That little, small squirrel, holding onto his morsel like Lance Armstrong holding the lead at the Tour de France, made slashing motions with his claws. Grackles fled the scene, embarrassed at their inept theft attempt. This leader had trained his squad mates well. No mere bird was going to cash in on their cuteness factor.
Finally, after each squirrel of the pod… gaggle… whatever, extorted a handful of treats from us, I came to a painful realization… the Ritz Bits were gone. That’s when things turned ugly. I had lost sight of tactical reality and found myself surrounded by a pride of agile rodents who meant to get their treats. I faked left and dove for the car to find another bag of anything. My wife was left to appease the flock.
She began getting nervous when the runt, He of the Longest Tail, started making eyes at her ponytail and approaching (on the picnic table) with amorous intent. I returned with nothing more than a half full glass of water and some squeezed lemons. The leader was NOT HAPPY with this development. I sensed our relationship had taken a turn for the worse.
We decided that the restrooms and cool, air-conditioned, rodent free confines of the Museum offered a way out.
Thus endeth the tail, not with astounding victory or bitter defeat, but all the world looking like we had been chased out of the park by four squirrels. Look damnit, they were huge squirrels!
so the blonde is so tired of people making fun of her for her hair color and she wants to make a complete break from her city life so she goes an gets a make over complete with a nice hair color change
she then proceeds to sell all that she owns buys a brand new sports car an heads out on the open road without looking back
as she is driving down the country road she sees a flock of sheep and a farmer tending to them crossing the road she immediately falls in love with the little lamb she spies and stops the farmer and compliments him on his flock
she then asks the farmer if ican tell you how many sheep you have can i have one of the lambs to which the farmer say sure good luck
she quickly looks an says you have 145 the farmer is amazed an says sure take your pick young lady so she picks her lamb an puts it in the car beside her
the farmer then says miss if i guess your correct hair color can i have my dog back
she then proceeds to sell all that she owns buys a brand new sports car an heads out on the open road without looking back
as she is driving down the country road she sees a flock of sheep and a farmer tending to them crossing the road she immediately falls in love with the little lamb she spies and stops the farmer and compliments him on his flock
she then asks the farmer if ican tell you how many sheep you have can i have one of the lambs to which the farmer say sure good luck
she quickly looks an says you have 145 the farmer is amazed an says sure take your pick young lady so she picks her lamb an puts it in the car beside her
the farmer then says miss if i guess your correct hair color can i have my dog back
Hair Removal -
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal -
The Epilady, scissors, razors, Nair and now...the wax. Have the Kleenex ready and maybe the Depends, you'll laugh that hard....
Read on......
My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, play with the kids.
I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours:
"Maybe should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet."
So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom. It was one of those "cold wax" kits.
No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off.
No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be?
I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out. (YA THINK!?!)
So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other stuck together.
Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. ("Cold wax," yeah...right!) I lay the strip across my thigh.
Hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works!
OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this!
Hair removal no longer eludes me!
I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With my next wax strip I move north.
After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship.
I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet.
Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-ha and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (it was a long strip)
I inhale deeply and brace myself....RRRRRRIIIIPPP!!!!
I'm blind!!!
Blinded from pain!!!!....
OH MY GAWD!!!!!!!!!
Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. *!
Another deep breath and RIPP! Everything is spinning and spotted.
I think I may pass out...must stay conscious...must stay conscious.
Do I hear crashing drums???
Breathe, breathe............
OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy -
a wax-covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it.
I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair.
I hold up the strip!
There's no hair on it.
Where is the hair???
WHERE IS THE WAX???
Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet.
I see the hair.
The hair that should be on the strip...it's not!
I touch.
I am touching wax.
I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair.
Then I make the next BIG mistake...remember my foot is still propped upon the toilet?
I know I need to do something.
So I put my foot down.
Sealed shut!
My butt is sealed shut.
Sealed shut!
I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself
"Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!"
What can I do to melt the wax?
Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!!
I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should
melt and I can gently wipe it off, right???
*WRONG!!!!!!!*
I get in the tub -
The water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment - I sit.
Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together,
is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub...in scalding hot water.
Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.
So, now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cemented myself to the porcelain!!
God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!!
I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone.
It's a very good conversation starter "So, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!"
There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me.
She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or hole or hoo-ha?"
She's laughing out loud by now...I can hear her.
I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box.
YEAH!!!!! Right!!
I should be the joke of someone else's night.
While we go through various solutions. I resort to trying to s*e the wax off with a razor .
Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!!
By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace....the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax.
What do I really have to lose at this point?
I rub some on and OH MY STARS!!!!!!!
The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend.
It's sooo painful, but I really don't care.
"IT WORKS!!
It works !!" I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up.
I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair....
THE HAIR IS STILL THERE........ALL OF IT!
So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts.
I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week I'm going to try hair color.......
Now if that wasn't enough fun, click this link for a true story
http://artisticdelights.org/Cuffman.html
All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal -
The Epilady, scissors, razors, Nair and now...the wax. Have the Kleenex ready and maybe the Depends, you'll laugh that hard....
Read on......
My night began as any other normal weeknight. Come home, fix dinner, play with the kids.
I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours:
"Maybe should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet."
So I headed to the site of my demise: the bathroom. It was one of those "cold wax" kits.
No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off.
No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be?
I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out. (YA THINK!?!)
So I pull one of the thin strips out. Its two strips facing each other stuck together.
Instead of rubbing them together, my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. ("Cold wax," yeah...right!) I lay the strip across my thigh.
Hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works!
OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this!
Hair removal no longer eludes me!
I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.
With my next wax strip I move north.
After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship.
I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet.
Using the same procedure, I apply the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-ha and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (it was a long strip)
I inhale deeply and brace myself....RRRRRRIIIIPPP!!!!
I'm blind!!!
Blinded from pain!!!!....
OH MY GAWD!!!!!!!!!
Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. *!
Another deep breath and RIPP! Everything is spinning and spotted.
I think I may pass out...must stay conscious...must stay conscious.
Do I hear crashing drums???
Breathe, breathe............
OK, back to normal.
I want to see my trophy -
a wax-covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it.
I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair.
I hold up the strip!
There's no hair on it.
Where is the hair???
WHERE IS THE WAX???
Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet.
I see the hair.
The hair that should be on the strip...it's not!
I touch.
I am touching wax.
I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair.
Then I make the next BIG mistake...remember my foot is still propped upon the toilet?
I know I need to do something.
So I put my foot down.
Sealed shut!
My butt is sealed shut.
Sealed shut!
I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself
"Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!"
What can I do to melt the wax?
Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!!
I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should
melt and I can gently wipe it off, right???
*WRONG!!!!!!!*
I get in the tub -
The water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment - I sit.
Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together,
is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub...in scalding hot water.
Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax.
So, now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cemented myself to the porcelain!!
God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!!
I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone.
It's a very good conversation starter "So, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!"
There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me.
She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or hole or hoo-ha?"
She's laughing out loud by now...I can hear her.
I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box.
YEAH!!!!! Right!!
I should be the joke of someone else's night.
While we go through various solutions. I resort to trying to s*e the wax off with a razor .
Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!!
By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.
My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace....the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax.
What do I really have to lose at this point?
I rub some on and OH MY STARS!!!!!!!
The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend.
It's sooo painful, but I really don't care.
"IT WORKS!!
It works !!" I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up.
I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair....
THE HAIR IS STILL THERE........ALL OF IT!
So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts.
I could have amputated my own leg at this point.
Next week I'm going to try hair color.......
Now if that wasn't enough fun, click this link for a true story
http://artisticdelights.org/Cuffman.html
OgreMkV
Father of Earth's Next Emperor
