These stories are funny, tldr just click back now


I was sodomized by a dyson

My bedroom is a converted roof space accessed by retractable metal ladders.
I fought my brother for this room at the young age of 12, and being the eldest it really was no contest.

You see at this young age I had already foreseen the benefits of being able to pull the ladders up and shut myself away from the world.

Actually, if I may take this chance to say a few things.

My 15, 16, 17 and 18 year old would like to thank my 12 yr self for providing the freedom to masturbate at will.

My 19, 20, 21, and 22-year-old self, thank my 12-year-old self for giving me the freedom to shag girlfriends in a fully occupied house.

My 23 yr old self however is less grateful and would have no qualms about kicking my 12 yr old self in his pre pubescent ballbag.....and I’ll tell you why.

Years of striding down my ladders have resulted in a certain degree of schoolboy arrogance and blatant showboating on my part.
4 steps at a time, no hands, 360 degree turns in mid descent, were some of my more daring moves.
I have managed to navigate these ladders in all states of drunkenness, with a broken foot, carrying cartons of beer; fuck I could have probably juggled while hopping backwards on these ladders, until the fateful day.

On those ladders, gravity was my bitch.

However this particular morning, Gravity it seemed, was in no mood to be taunted, and had conspired with Dyson to teach my sorry disrespectful ass a lesson... quite literally.

It was a Saturday morning. I woke up fluffy haired and blurry eyed following a heavy night out on the piss. I had a footy match in 1 hrs time and was faced with what has now become a weekly task of playing 90 minutes hung-over, I take my football very seriously.
The awakening of my bladder dictated that the toilet would be the first stop of the day and thus urged me towards the ladders for the trusty standard 2-step descent with speed.

I'd made this journey many times, 5 strides and I would be on my hallway.

The first 3 strides were uneventful,

The 4th stride un fucking forgettable,

There was no 5th stride,

For at this point, I was almost raped by a Dyson.

If I needed any further clarification that inserting anything up my ass was not going to be a suitable lifestyle choice then this was it.

The speed that I was traveling coupled with the all too perfect positioning
of the vacuum cleaner meant that the attempted anal entry was fast and brutal. (Seriously, I reconstructed the scene many times after and there was only one position the Dyson could have been sitting at to enter me with the precision it did that morning)

In hindsight, the lack of lubricant, and my heterosexuality saved me.

Any previous tampering with my asshole, KY jelly, Vaseline, or spittle on that handle and that fucking Dyson would have gone so far up my ass I would have been able to wash dishes and vacuum at the same time, if in fact I actually did either.

Such was the ferocity of the assault, man-made materials were no defence for this custom-built ass raping machine masquerading as a household appliance.
The shaft of the dyson tore right through my combats and my homer simpson boxer shorts, finally meeting its resting place in the shape of my tailbone.

The pain was like nothing I've ever experienced.

Let me take this opportunity to tell you what I have learnt about my body's natural defence mechanism to different forms of pain over the years

Punch on the head = Punch the fucker back
Punch in the stomach = Punch the fucker harder
Kick in the nuts = drop to the floor

To this I can now add,

Vacuum cleaner up the ass = run like fuck with minor terets

This was the first type of pain that my body has ever told me to fucking move, and move fast. Not in any particular direction or to any specific location, just to keep running. Kind of like Forest Gump.
The desire to run like fuck was accompanied with the desire to swear, and swear continuously.

So I did.

I sprinted down the stairs and must have ran round my kitchen a good 15 times clutching my ass shouting expletives at the Dyson

"HOLY MOTHER FUCCKKKK!!!, YOU FUCKIN DUST SUCKING BAGLESS BASTARD!"

This was followed by a continual stream of swear words.

As I rounded on what would be my last lap of the kitchen, I found myself slightly impressed with my ability to formulate incoherent sentences purely with swear words.
This brief sense of pride however was quickly overshadowed by the realization of what had just happened to me

I'd just been anally assaulted by my own Dyson Vaccum Cleaner.

My experience undoubtedly has emotionally scarred me.

You will never now see me descend ladders without a thorough initial scan of the area below, accompanied by a tentative outstretched hand feeling around for any object potentially obstructing my landing area.

You also will never see me do any housework.
Everyday is a struggle, but I have to be strong.

What kind of example would I be setting to the rest of the household appliances? That it’s ok to sexually assault the occupant and then carry on as if nothing had happened?

There have been times when I've come close to using the toaster, emptying the dishwasher, or clean up the beer I’d spilt, but you'll be pleased to know these near lapses have only reinforced my determination to never to lift in a finger to help in the house.

I take your applause people.

To Mr. Dyson I say this,

You've managed to pay millions to remove the troublesome bags from Hoovers, and thus prolong the suction, but would it have really have hurt you to go the extra mile and maybe have foam padding on the handles.... Prick?

Surely no other man should have to endure the hell having to watch their mother/partner near collapse lifting a vacuum cleaner up 3 flights of stairs.

To confused teenage boys I say this,

If you think you stare just that little bit too long in the communal changing rooms at your male school mates, go squat on a dyson.
Years of hormonal based confusion answered in a painful/gratifying second. (Delete as appropriate)

Beware the Dyson.

The Ryan's steakhouse incident

Now, I know that there is a lot of embellishment that occurs on this group and I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth. Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me.

A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...

I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.

I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about half-way into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch. What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can.

In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted.

At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only half-way down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down.

Recall that when that event occurred, I was already half-way to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls, like what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly-opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles.

In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.

About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

wat?

If you found neither of those funny you should quit

Cool stories, bro.

Another great story is the one about jacking off to the ghost girl.

classics

Someone posted a screen cap of one where the grandfather shot up the sons car as it was driving up the road(or something like that)

I've read "Ryan's Steakhouse" a couple time. I've never seen the first one, but It didn't disappoint

I'm not reading all that

Read it. It's worth it. "Seeing eye cat" is worth a read too.

Herby curby , And what round for grandpa

Seeing eye cat, from here, http://www.ar15.com/forums/t_1_5/645493_A_compilation_of_the_andamp__34_Seeing_Eye_Catandamp__34__stories.html

I have been a member here for almost 4 years, in that time I have seen / read references to "The Seeing Eye Cat" stories by the in-famous "Piccolo".

Never once have I had a chance to read one of these stories.

So I decided to search the archive and read some of them.

Here are a couple pics and as many links to those threads as I could find.




Not sure how many stories there are all together, if I’ve missed some, please add them here.

**Note: several of these links were compiled by Dr.FriDge in another thread

I was unable to find the original post for this one, I copied this from another thread where it was posted by “GunnyG”


SEC files: the pre-seeing eye cat tale
Story:True. Names changed to keep my ass out of jail. Fortunatly, the idiot has since moved.

Shortly after the little bastard stole my heart, he got sick on me and had to go to a big-city animal clinic for radiation therapy. Best grand I ever spent. This was about 6-7 years ago. He was still pretty much in the feral stage, although I had gotten him settled down a bit.

I was taking him for a walk on his leash regularly, and this * down the street thought it funny to let his collie out to chase kitty up a tree. This, of course, left me stuck holding a leash in one hand and fending off a 75 pound collie with the other. I admit, it was funny the first time.

I bought a can of pepper spray, plan was to give the poor pooch a quick squirt and hose down the owner with the rest of the can.

That night, I had a couple too many beers while watching TV with kitty on my lap. Kitty and I both woke up feeling not really 100% because kitty had been breathing my fumes. You don't want to mess with a hungover cat.

Anyway, we went for our morning walk, and as usual, the * let the collie out, but I was ready. Or thought I was. I unhooked kitty's leash and put him in the tree and got the shock of my life! Kitty jumped out of the tree and charged the collie! It didn't last very long, Kitty tore the collie up--bad. REAL bad. Last I saw of the dog was watching him run while being chased by one pissed off 7 1/2 pound cat.

The dog's owner came flying out of the house raising all sorts of hell, and as he was carrying on, kitty returned and added fuel to the fire by sharpening his claws on the guy's mailbox post. I hooked kitty back on to his leash.

End of round one.

Late that afternoon,the owner came to my door babbling incoherently about having to cough up $400+ at the vet's office. Seems the collie's snout took quite a beating, seeing there wasn't much meat on it. Every slash kitty had made was to the bone and required stitches. In a way, I felt bad for the dog.

Anyway, the idiot babbled something about 'demanding satisfaction'. I knew he meant restitution, but, being a First Class Clown myself, I decided to take him at his word. I told him to show up Saturday AM at 10:30 with a reliable male witness. Nothing like purposly misunderstanding someone. He showed right on time.

I came out of the house with my hair slicked back, wearing a ruffled front tuxedo shirt with mu moustache trimmed to a pencil-thin, ala Errol Flynn. Then I slapped him with a glove and offered him his choice of swords or pistols.

His 'second' whipped out a cell phone. LEOs. MY second got to the cruiser first and assured him no weapons were out. The LEO seemed both amused and aggravated at the same time and told the pair of us to 'take it to West Virginia'.

"Those hillbillies eat that stuff up," he said. "Either that, or take it to the magistrate. If the dog wasn't on a leash, I KNOW what the magistrate's going to say."

I asked the cop if he's referee a fistfight, he agreed with a grin, if both parties insisted. The idiot skulked away. Took off like a shot.

As he was leaving, the LEO told me that my pencil-thin didn't make me look like Errol Flynn. He said it made me look like a pudgy little Italian organ grinder.
end of round 2.

The cowardly bastard waited until I was at work a week or so later and demanded the money from my wife. The wife told him I'd just spent all of our money on dueling swords,'Which he's never gonna use because you chickened out!'

He left.

end of round 3

When I was home from work, I shot in a CMP match. On my way home, I stopped at Rosa's greasy spoon for lunch along with a couple former marines. In walks the *. "You gonna write me a check for that money you owe me," he boomed.
" The only thing I'm writing is the Marine Corps puttin' tha cat in for the Navy Cross, after all, he whipped your 75 pound fleabag!"

Almost everyone in the place bust out laughing, and a former marine said:"That's right, put him in for a Navy Cross because if you put him in for a Silver Star, those chairwarmers in Washington will bump it down to a good conduct medal!" GALES of laughter. The * fled.

The following day I was trying to get out of mowing the lawn. A little kid from across the street came by and asked: Are you weally going to twy get your wittle kitty a medow?"

I decided on the spot, why not, beats mowing. So I went downtown and argued with a major for the paperwork, and it took me a couple of days to get it all completed. I sent it into HQ USMC, and, as I expected, got no official answer.

But about a week later, I found 3 small packages in the mail box with no return addresses, and greater DC postmarks.

2 homemade medals from the hobby shop, and one can of gourmet cat food with a 'Semper Fi' sticker on it.

Kitty doesn't like to wear his medals, but sure ate the gourmet cat food!
The pepper spray got used about 2 months later. I walked into Clancy's and he was likkered up a bit and came at me with threats. I quietly goaded him on and when he tried to grab my shirt, I hosed the bastard down with the entire can. Clancy threw him out, and the next thing I heard of him was a couple years later when someone told me he moved.


The first ”Official” Seeing Eye Cat story (I could not find the original thread for this one)


SEC files: the first “seeing eye cat” tale
Yesterday I was shoveling my truck out, and in the glove box, I found the temporary handicapped parking thingie the doc gave me when I busted my foot. That was a hands-down 'keeper', so I put it back in the glove box.

Last night the wife really started in on me about something dopey. I beat a hasty retreat to the basement; in fact it was so bad that the CAT beat me through the door. We sat there in the easy chair and watched TV (both put there for that purpose) and grew bored.

I decided to sneak out to a movie, but it wasn't fair to the little guy leaving him there.
So I grabbed a 4' white 7/16 dowel and spray painted the end 10" or so red, grabbed my sunglasses, and put the cat in his harness and clipped on a leash. We sneaked out the back door and into the pickup.

We drove off and I decided that it would be cool to see a movie if we could pull it off.
So when we got near the theatre, I put on my shades, pulled the handicapped thingy out and hung it on my mirror. I parked in a handicapped spot, grabbed the lease and the cane and kitty and I started toward the theatre with kitty playing the role of 'seeing eye' cat.

Some guy and his sweetie were getting out of their car, and she'd seen me get out of mine. I asked him, a real doofus, to lead me to the door. He took my arm and led the way.

You should have seen her trying NOT to wet her pants. She was funny. She wasn't stupid.

I was poking things with my cane, got to the ticket counter and bought a ticket and stumbled around until an usher led me into the theatre and seated me. Kitty sat on my lap throughout the movie. (Ghost ship. Save your money.)

After the movie, the usher came running and helped kitty and I leave the theatre.
Kitty on the leash led me to the truck, and I got in and we drove off.
Kitty got an extra treat for his 'Academy Award' performance.

NOBODY---NOT ONE PERSON AT ALL---CHALLENGED ME IN ANY WAY!!!! The people around us are stupid, lazy, or scared.



Deer Hunting with SEC


About 6 or 7 years ago, I decided to go out on Opening Day of deer season. At the last minute, I decided to take the little guy with me. Although there is a law against using dogs to hunt deer in PA, there is no law I knew of against taking a cat with me.

I got everything together the night before, of course, and in the morning I grabbed some cat food and fished a couple of tuna cans out of the trash and washed and dried them.

Every year I go out and I spot at least a couple of legal deer, yet I haven’t shot one in years. I’m the laughingstock of the Sportsman’s club I belong to when it comes to deer hunting. Truth is, I’m too damned lazy to shoot one.

At one meeting, I boasted about actually taking ammunition with me ‘in case one of them tries to trample me’.

The guys chuckled.

“Hey, it’s dangerous out there,” I said in a pouty-like defensive voice. “A guy could get killed.”

More laughter.

Opening day is a special time for me that has little if anything to do with shooting an animal. It’s simply a day when I take a rifle for a long walk in the woods.

The rifle stays in the safe all year and I guess it’s entitled to getting out and being taken for a walk every so often.

I harnessed up Tokie and we hopped into the pickup. I improvised a litter box on the floor by putting some kitty litter in an empty beer case.

It’s a trek to the happy hunting grounds and I generally stop for breakfast along the way. There’s this little place that makes a pretty good breakfast. Of course, I had forgotten that I wouldn’t be able to go in with Tokie. Then again, I figured it might be worth a try.

We pulled into the lot and moseyed on in. There were a bunch of hunters wolfing down all the stuff that their wives raise hell with them for eating.

“Hunting cat?” one of the hunters grinned.

“You got it,” I said. “He’s got better sense than I do.”

Most of the guys there chuckled.

“You can’t bring an animal in here,” said the owner.

“Any off you guys object to the little guy sitting under my chair while I grab something?” I asked aloud.

Most of the guys shook their heads to indicate that they had no problem. Nobody voiced any objections.

“Nah, cats are pretty clean animals,” said one guy.

“Sit in the corner bench and keep him out of sight,” said the owner, looking around like some Mafioso making a drug deal.

I was genuinely surprised. I was pretty sure someone would object until I thought that most of these guys probably have animals at home themselves. Most of their hunting dogs probably sit next to them during dinner.

I fished the tuna cans out of my pocket and put water in one and some food in the other and slid them under the bench. Then I ordered breakfast, and an extra piece of ham.

Tokie ate and jumped up alongside me on the bench, but on the inboard side where he wasn’t too obvious. He curled up and took a quick little nap. Then my breakfast arrived and I cut a piece of ham up, fished up the tuna cans and set them up quietly on the bench.

I really had to do this to keep him from hopping up on the table and getting both of us tossed out. Tokie ate some of the ham and behaved himself. That’s pretty unusual behavior for a cat.

I ate, paid the bill and stuffed Tokie under my coat and sneaked him out because a couple of other people had come in while I was eating. No telling if any of them would start something. I agree that animals probably do not belong where food is being served to the public, and I can see where someone would gripe. I don’t mind this too much.

The thing that pisses me off to no end is the cruel, gutless bastard that really doesn’t mind a situation at all, but simply starts something because he can. This truly frosts my ass.

Had anyone voiced an objection, I’d have taken the little guy out and ordered a ‘to-go’ order with no problem. The ones I’d like to smack are the ones that publicly go along with something than quietly complain to the management. If you have a problem with something, say so. Don’t backstab me.

Anyway, we got to the State Game Lands, and geared up and started off on a long walk down the open swatch by the power lines. I moved slowly because Tokie was being a cat and taking his own sweet time, sniffing everything and exploring the Great Outdoors.
A hawk floated above us lazily, and Tokie made a beeline for a thicket and got under cover. Like most cats, he’s pretty instinctive.

From time to time, we would hear a shot, sometimes two and I knew someone somewhere had harvested venison.

It was around mid morning when the little guy stuck his nose up and headed into the trees. About five yards into the woods, I saw what he was looking for, a gut pile. He sniffed and licked, but I wouldn’t let him eat. I snagged him up and took him away.

About 100 yards away, I took out the tuna cans and fed him again. Another hunter passed and looked and grinned.

“Hunting cat?” he asked with a grin.

“Highly trained,” I answered with a grin.

“Two firsts,” he said. “First time I’ve seen a cat on a leash and first hunting cat I’ve ever seen.” He chuckled a bit.

The look on his face told me he wasn’t fooled.

He reached down and gave Tokie a friendly little pet and continued his hunt.

We went back out into the power line area and moseyed around until lunch and then retreated into the tree line after air support prepped it.

I got out the tuna cans and my lunch, and Tokie being Tokie gave me his look so I peeled off a piece of roast beef and put it on top of his cat food. He ate it in seconds.

Then I reached into my pack for my bayonet, fixed it, jammed the rifle bayonet first into the ground and pulled out a ‘do not disturb’ sign and looped the string through the trigger guard.

Next, I tied Tokie’s leash to my wrist, placed my back against a tree and dozed off for a while.

I woke up about an hour and a half later feeling a claw in my thigh. I woke and saw the little guy looking up at something. It was a pretty good-sized buck.

This happens to me quite often on opening day. I take a nap and when I wake up, I see deer. It’s goofy, but it happens more often than not.

Tokie gave a loud ‘Meow’ and I’ll be damned if the deer didn’t mosey on off somewhere. Seeing we were more that 20 feet from the truck, I really didn’t care.

I loosened the leash and gave him a lot of slack while I refilled the tuna cans with food and water and watched him go off and dig a hole and poop and quickly refill it. Then I watched him eat.

We started back slowly toward the truck and the little guy caught a whiff of something, so we wandered in that direction. Another gut pile. I scooped him up and carried him part way back to the truck.

We arrived at the ‘parking area’ and there was a Game Warden. He was checking tags. He saw the pair of us and the look he gave us was priceless.

I cased my rifle and put my stuff in the back of the pickup.

“You didn’t unload your rifle,” said the Game Warden.

“I never loaded it,” I replied.

“Please check it anyway,” he said.

I opened the back of the shell and picked up my rifle, uncased it and held it up for him.

“The bolt’s out of it,” he said. “And there’s a bayonet in the case. What’s with the bayonet?”

“Bolt’s in my pack. Never put it in,” I replied. “Bayonet is so I can stick it in the mud and use the rifle to hang a ‘do not disturb’ sign when I take a nap. Ain’t nothing worse that being in dreamland and having someone shake you up and ask you if you’re all right.”

He laughed outright. Then he reached down and gave Tokie a little pet.

“I’ve seen hundreds of hunting dogs, and if he was a dog, I’d be carting you off,” he said. “Never seen a hunting cat,” Said the Game Warden.

I opened the pickup, Tokie got in, I followed and we drove home after another adventure together.

I gave him a lot of leash. He took every inch of it, and I enjoyed watching him.




From deep in the SEC files (bookstore)

The SEC and the bookstore.

This is one of the first times I took Tokie out in his role as the Seeing Eye Cat. Many of you guys have read of our earlier adventures, but not this one. I’ve kept two stories hidden, and I’m in the process of trying to find out if the other one can be posted. The other one has only been heard by two Arfcommers, Sgt Hoskins and Offctr.

I’m not worried about the criminal liability of this one because it’s water under the bridge. I very seriously doubt the police are interested in this as of now. I also never posted it because I sort of lost the fight and the victors write history. I didn’t get away with this one cleanly.

Far away and long ago, Tokie and I wandered into a bookstore. On a short leash, I could make it look like the kitty was leading me around.

When we got in the door, I stopped for a moment and said in a clear, loud voice “Is there a service desk nearby?”

A teenager answered, “I’ll come and get you.”

“I heard you. Don’t bother.” I replied.

And Tokie and I went over to the service desk.

I took my cane and gently felt around for feet and asked whomever if I was in line.

“One step to your right,” someone answered.

I stepped to the right.

“One step forward.”

I stepped forward.

“You got it. I’m the guy in front of you, I’ll get you there,” said the voice.

“Thanks, Pal,”

“Nice looking cat you got there. He ain’t no guide animal, is he?”

“Managed Health Care,” I said. “Bastards wouldn’t get me a dog.”

“Oh, my Gawd!” he exclaimed.

“Hey, half a loaf’s better’n none,” I answered.

We made small talk, as we were third and fourth in line. Finally, I worked myself to the head of the line.

The teenager asked me what I wanted.

“Do you have a basic book that teaches Braille?” I asked.

She proved herself to be an imbecile.

“Down that row,” she started.

“He can’t see. Directions are worthless to him. Take him there,” Said the woman behind me. “Let him take your arm. Damned kids.”

“Either that, or she could tell my cat,” I chuckled. “Thank you.”

A few people laughed.

She came around the desk and gave me her arm and carefully led me to the bookshelf.

“Hand me a basic book on learning Braille, please.” She did, and led me over to the top of a low shelf and opened it.

“I’ll be OK,” I told her. “Just need to show the little guy a few things. Someone will be here to pick me up.”

She went back to the desk.

I opened the book to the ABCs part and touched the raised letters as if I were reading them. Then I picked up Tokie. I touched his paw to the raised letters.

“This is ‘A’”, I said. “This is ‘B’…this is ‘C’…”

A few people passed me with a confused look on their face. A couple of the smarter ones snickered. They knew what I was up to.

It wasn’t long before the manager came charging up. She looked like a horrible old harridan with no sense of humor whatsoever.

“What are you doing,” she demanded.

“Seeing if I can teach my Seeing Eye Cat Braille,” I said.

“You gonna buy that book, or what?” she demanded.

“If it works, I’ll buy it. If not, I’m not.” I said simply.

“Baloney. Take your cat and get out of here.”

A big, beefy Irishman interrupted. “The guy’s blind, give him a break.”

Then the big fellow tipped his hand. He smirked at me and then winked. I almost lost it then and there, but somehow managed to hold it together.

“He’s not blind!” said the old bag.

“Then why does he have a Seeing Eye Cat?” the Irishman shot back. His breath smelled like he’d had a couple Jameson’s under his belt, sort of like I’ve had as I write this.

“Take your cat and leave,” she said to me.
I put the little guy back down on the deck and decided then and there that unless the police were called, I was damned well going to brass this one out. Deny it, even if they have pictures.

“Tokie, we’re out of here.” I said to kitty.

Wickedly, I gave the little guy a lot of leash. On a short leash, I could act like he really was a trained guide animal. On a long leash, I was at his mercy, so to speak.

“Keep a soft, civil tongue,” I said to the manager. “My animal doesn’t like fast movements or loud noises.”

“Just leave,” she said, sounding like a real shrew.

The cat, being a cat, took a short cut under a bench. I ran into it, almost went ass over teakettle and followed the leash. I crawled under the bench to follow. I got up on the other side and the little guy cut a corner and I plowed into a bookshelf and almost knocked it over. The old bag was not amused. The big Irishman almost wet his pants.

“Lady, quit scaring my animal.” I almost shouted.

Another ally appeared. A Birkenstock hoofed, braided armpit, liberal do-good Humboldt honey jumped in. Unlike the big Irishman who was feasting on the uproar, this idiot actually thought she had a liberal cause to support. She looked like the kind that got pissed off if you held the door for her. A real mouthy idiot.

There’s one good thing about these idiots, they’ll fight to the death for you if they think that they’re defending something idiotic.

“That’s a guide animal,” the Humboldt honey protested. “You’re scaring him.”

Tokie went under one of those chrome inverted U things with a metal base they put in aisles to advertise specials in. I plowed into it and knocked it down. It got tangled in the leash and I fumbled around with it, set it back up and felt under the crosspiece and followed the leash. I crawled through the hole.

“Lady, you’re scaring the animal,” protested the big Irisher.

A glance told me that he was trying not to wet his pants. He was positively amused. On the other hand, out little Humboldt Honey was ready to go to defend the rights of the blind and their Seeing Eye Cats.

“You’re scaring the poor man’s guide animal,” she shrieked.

That started to draw a crowd. A couple more people showed up.

The old harridan started to freak. “Margaret, call the police,” she shouted.

“Yeah! Call the police,” shouted the Humboldt Honey.

“Call the fuzz,” laughed the Irisher. “This old bag is assaulting a blind man.”

A voice from the desk: “What should I tell them?”

“The man’s not blind,” shouted the old bag.

“Then why does he have a Seeing Eye Cat!” shouted the laughing Irisher and the serious minded Humboldt Honey in unison.

“Tell the police the man’s not blind?” asked the teenager behind the desk.

By this time, the cat was the only one in the whole place that knew the right thing to do.

He made a beeline and led me to the east wall where there was a door and he started scratching it. It was a fire door, alarmed with a panic bar. I mimed feeling the perimeter of the door.

“That’s a fire door,” shouted the old bag.

“Push it! It’ll get you outside!” shouted the Irishman.

I pushed the panic bar, the door opened and as the alarm went off, I shuffled out the door. The Irishman followed, laughing himself silly. “I have to buy you a drink,” he said.

The old bag freaked. She ran to reset the alarm and call the fire department to cancel the call. AND call the police.

But when she went for the phone, she gave me the instant I was looking for. I scooped up kitty and started off.

“This way, I got a van,” said the Irishman. “And I got a bottle!”

We wove through the lot and the three of us ducked into his van. He had a jug of Irish there, but thank God it wasn’t too full. I took a snort.

He fired up the van and parked it in a ringside seat where we could see through the storefront window.

We spent the next 45 minutes in the van peeping out the windows watching the police go into the bookstore, interview people and leave. The Humboldt Honey took the longest. We both knew that she was trying to hang the store manager for abusing a poor blind man.

Finally the poor police officer left. The look on his face was priceless. He looked like he was going to close one eye and fart because he knew he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind!

I never pulled a Seeing Eye Cay foray in that township again.


And I really miss the little guy.

You can't take fire on a plane.

For those looking for the Original Flaming Backpack/Fire on a plane Story:

Originally posted by TREETOP, June, 2001. Reposting slightly sanitized version with "minimal" permission.

------------------------

Time: middle of June, 2001.
Situation: Stopped at inspection in Burbank Airport.


Before I moved my Fiancée out here to Arizona, I was living alone out here preparing our future, and she was still living at the house we shared in California. We wanted to make sure that AZ was going to work out for us, and find a way to transfer her job out here.
We took turns traveling to see each other, every other weekend or so. Usually I would fly out there with no extra complications at all. I packed very light every time, always bringing only a backpack as carry-on, and no checked baggage. I like to be at the airport for as little time as possible, and don't like waiting for luggage. Plus I've had bad experiences before where luggage never shows up.

This particular trip, I had decided to do some work on her car that I'd been neglecting, so I brought out a few tools with me. I was planning on adding an alarm system to her car, and brought mostly electrical tools (at the time I worked with mobile electronics for a living). I just brought the stuff out in my backpack like I always do.

After a good weekend together, the time came for me to fly back to Phoenix. We arrived at the airport a little behind schedule (bad traffic); said our good-byes; and I ran through the hallways hoping to get on the plane, relax, and get home. By the time I got to the gate area, it was getting pretty close to my departure time. I've missed flights before, and I was praying it would all work out this time.

When walking through the gates, I did everything exactly as I always do. I put my backpack on the conveyor belt, emptied my pockets into the little basket, and took off my belt buckle to put in the basket too. My belt buckle always sets off the metal detector for some reason, so I've gotten used to just tossing it in with my pocket stuff.
The attendant made me turn off and on my cell-phones, to show that they were real or whatever (I had 2 at the time, one with my old CA number, and one with my AZ area code).

While I was simultaneously putting my belongings back in my pockets, showing that my phones were real, and trying to keep my pants from falling down since they had no belt buckle, the commotion started.

Three or four security officers were speed-walking to the gate area, and the attendant watching the x-ray monitors started wigging out and pointing at the screens to security and all the other airport employees in the area.
I figured someone had tried to smuggle something through, or there was some questionable objects in someone's bag.
It turns out they were looking at my backpack.
Everyone was serious as could be, and freaking out. At first I was wondering if a rat had crawled into my bag or something, not having a clue what they were freaking out about.
Just then 2 guys corner me, and one of them grabs me by the arm to pull me aside. Anyone who knows me would know not to grab me by the arm and try to tug on me, but these guys didn't know me from Adam, and tried to muscle me out of the path of other people. Bad Idea. My instinct was to pull away from them, and free myself from their grip. I was immediately successful. They were telling me (excitedly) to calm down, and I was telling them to keep their hands OFF of me. I think they understood, because they didn't touch me again after that.

I'm asking them what the heck was going on, because by this time they've got a couple other guys coming over too. The other people coming through the gate area are being held back, and I realize it's just me and a bunch of security guys and airline employees in the vicinity.

The guy who looks like he might be one of the higher-ups starts walking to a counter, holding my backpack out very carefully, like when you take a dirty diaper to the trash. He actually looked frightened. Another guy comes up to me and asks me "Is that your backpack?"
"Yes, what's the problem?"
?Has anyone else had access to it, or held it for you?"
"No and No," I responded.
"What do you have in your backpack?"
"Some clothes, some tools, and some other stuff. What's the problem?"
"Tools, huh?"
"Yes, tools."
"Do you have a hammer in there?"
"A hammer? No. Why?" I couldn?t see where this was going.
"Are you sure you don't have a hammer in there?"
"Yes, quite sure." I couldn?t understand why a hammer would be reason to hold back a plane, or what they saw in my pack that would look like a hammer.

One of the guys rummaging through my backpack then starts walking to the man questioning me, looking like he just happened across the mother-lode. He's holding a brown plastic East-German AK buttstock out at arms length, practically shouting "Look what was in there!! Look what was in there!!"
Everyone starts wigging out at this point.
The man questioning me says "What's this??!!!"
I say "It's a buttstock for a rifle. It's a harmless piece of plastic."
The fat white guy who originally was monitoring the screens stepped in all hero-like and butted in: "I'm not new to this. I've seen those before. It's a survival rifle that comes apart and folds up inside itself!!!" He was as proud as could be, like a guy who single-handedly smashed a drug cartel. Unfortunately for him, he was more mistaken than even Miss Cleo ever could be. He'd mistaken a plastic AK Buttstock for an AR-7(a medium sized .22lr rifle which breaks down and packs neatly inside itself, designed for camping or backpacking-it?s about 3 times the size of the small plastic buttstock I had with me)!

I explained that it's NOT a "survival rifle", or anything remotely close to that. I explained that it was an almost non-functional piece of a rifle, that I was bringing it with me to replace a stock I had at home. It was truly the only gun-related thing I had in the backpack, except for the new issue of Shotgun News that was with my other mail.

The question guy said forcefully ?You can't bring this on the plane."
"WHAT?? It's just a piece of plastic!" I was sure he would understand if I explained it was harmless.
"I'm sorry; you can't bring it on the plane. It's a gun part."
"Why not? It's a harmless six dollar piece of plastic!"
"Well, we don't know if you have the rest of the gun somewhere on the plane already."

This is when I just about lost it the first time.

I tried my best to keep my cool, and asked "So you're accusing me of trying to build a gun on the airplane??"
"Well, not exactly, we just don't know if you are or not."
"If you're accusing me of something, you?d better be sure of what you're talking about. I'm a regular citizen just like everyone else trying to get on this plane, and you're making me out to be a terrorist or something. I'll say it again. IT'S A HARMLESS PIECE OF PLASTIC!!"
"I'm sorry; you can't bring it on the plane. You can check it in your checked baggage if you want."
"I don't have any checked baggage."
His tone got even more serious as he asked "Why not?"
"Man, this is past ridiculous, bring over somebody in charge".
"I'm in charge of this area. I could bring over my boss, but you won't be happy with that."
"Bring him."
He talks on his walkie-talkie for a second, then sneers and says "He's on his way."(giving me that "You'll be sorry" look.)

By this point I'm frustrated as hell. They're holding up my plane and still making everyone else wait. On top of my embarrassment was my irritation. I just wanted to get home.

By now I was thinking more rationally and trying to find an end to the whole thing.

I then asked "Can I just have you throw this thing in the trash and be on my way?"
"You mean you don't want it?"
"Of course I want it, but I'd rather spend the $6.00 for a new one later than deal with this BS now."
"Well, I guess you could do that. You can't bring guns on the plane."

I explained that I've brought similar gun parts on an airplane before, never once having an issue. He didn't believe me.

I figured that maybe I could find a way to keep some of it and asked "Can I take the metal parts off of it and keep them before throwing away the plastic?"
"Yes, can you do that?"
I start looking through my backpack for a small screwdriver to remove the buttplate and sling swivel, and something catches the other security guy's eye in there. I start removing the parts from the buttstock when I realize something.

"Why is it that I can't bring the plastic part on because it's a gun part, but you?re letting me bring the metal parts on the plane when you know that they're gun parts also???"
His reply had nothing to do with my question. "What's that guy holding up?" (pointing to the other guy digging through my backpack AGAIN.)
"That's my soldering iron. I told you I had some tools in there."
"I know that's not a soldering iron. I've seen soldering irons before, and they don't look like that."
"It IS a soldering iron. It's powered by butane rather than electricity."
[The Blue-Point(Snap-On) soldering iron is the one I used when working on cars, because it's a lot more convenient than bringing over my whole soldering station from the workbench.]

"What? Butane? You can't bring that on the plane either!"
"What do you mean?"
"You can't bring anything with compressed fuel in it on the plane."

My phone starts ringing. I grab the wrong one at first, and then answer the right one. It was my Fiancée; I told her I'd better call her back. The guys interrogating me looked at me like I'm a freak for having two phones.
I'd just gotten done removing the metal parts from the buttstock, handed the plastic part to Mr. smartypants, and was about to put the screwdriver away when I started smelling smoke. I looked over, and my backpack had FIRE coming out of it...

Apparently a female employee inspecting the soldering iron had screwed around with it, turning it on before placing it ON TOP OF MY MAIL in my backpack. I start smacking the backpack, trying to get the fire out, and the woman starts SCREAMING. She was yelling "That's FIRE!! You can't bring fire on the plane!!"

I was seriously ready to strangle someone.
I got the fire out, with minimal melting to the backpack. She was still frantic, yelling about how I tried to smuggle "fire" onto the plane.

I was very upset, done thinking clearly, and started yelling back.
"You stupid woman, YOU did this!"
"No I didn't. It just happened by itself!"
"It couldn't have happened by itself. It was turned off, with the adjustment at minimum. It's now on at full blast, where I've never had it before!"
"I didn't do it, YOU did it!!!"
Of all the things I hate, and there are a few, one of the worst is being accused of something I haven?t done. Especially by the person who?s actually at fault. At this point I?m pretty sure I was shouting. "Don't accuse me of things I didn't do! You turned on my soldering iron, and you caught all my stuff on fire!!!!!"

She practically burst into tears, and was escorted away by some other guy, still yelling at me about how I tried to burn down the plane.

By this point there's no fixing the situation, and almost no escaping it. I thought I was going to jail for sure, for disturbing the peace, if nothing else.

I took a moment to catch my breath, and talked directly to the head honcho who'd I guess been witnessing most of this fiasco.
He was at least calm with his words: "I can't let you take the soldering iron on the plane. You'll have to leave it here."
"Can I just check (what's left of) my backpack as luggage, and put it in there?"
"No, you can't even put something in checked baggage if it contains pressurized fuel. Not even a cigarette lighter."

I was so depressed at this point. I wasn?t about to throw out a $95.00 soldering iron that I?d need the next day at work, and I was just hoping that they weren't going to have me carried out by the Police.

I did some quick thinking, and asked if I could have someone come and pick up the soldering iron, and the buttstock, and just mail them to me in AZ. The guy said yes. I called my Fiancée and asked her if she could do that, and she said sure. She'd already been driving towards home for 20 minutes at least, but she turned around to come back.

I was finally allowed on the plane, I was the last one on board since they'd been holding the plane for me, and I had to sit in between 2 more idiots. I was sweating like a whore in church, and I had no cash on me for a drink. I was SO exhausted.

I called my Fiancée when I landed, and she'd gotten my stuff. Problem was the guy who gave me the most trouble was HITTING ON HER! She asked where the counter was that I'd told her to go to, and the guy told her he'd show her for $10.00. Very professional. He was hitting on her some more, and being a total smartass. If he?d known her temper, he wouldn't have done that. She laid into him something fierce, and said that ?if they didn't have such incompetent morons working there, that she wouldn't even have to be wasting her time there?. The guy finally left her alone, she went home, she mailed me my stuff, and there's the end of the backpack story.

Looking back now, there are definitely some things I should?ve done differently. For starters I should?ve been more aware of the laws and restrictions regarding what can be brought in carry-on luggage. I?d never even considered that a soldering iron would be a threat or a danger to anyone. This was before the terrorist attacks on the twin towers, and security was quite a bit more lax back then. I?d hate to see what would happen to someone attempting to board an airplane with those things these days!

SEC is an arf classic.

I forgot there were that many stories

Have you heard the story of the goose in the drawer?

.500 A-Square.

Link to the compilation thread? Thought I had it tagged....

"Fuck that……."

Tag.

Number two post about number two was an epic thread, along with the Wal Mart thread when the OP yelled YOU WILL NOT TOUCH MY GUN!!!

I laughed so hard I farted a few times with that Dyson story.  

I came here for the guns, but SEC made me stay.

My wife laughed so hard she snorted, and now she's mad at me

Nobody has any others?

yeah, go read the entire tinder thread.



 

Not my story, but I found it so funny, I actually saved in my computer...

An archer's story...

Around age 10, my dad got me one of those little badass long bow beginner kits.  Of course, the first month I went around our land sticking arrows in anything that could get stuck by an arrow. Did you know that a 1955, 40 horse Farmall tractor will take 6 rounds before it goes down? Tough SOB.

That got boring, so being the 10 yr. old Dukes of Hazard fan that I was, I quickly advanced to taking strips of cut up T-shirt, doused in chainsaw gas tied around the end, and was sending flaming arrows all over the place.  Keep in mind, this was 99.999% humidity swampland, so there really wasn’t any fire danger.  I’ll put it this way -  a set of post hole diggers and 3 ft. hole and you had yourself a well.

One summer afternoon, I was shooting flaming arrows into a large rotten oak stump in our backyard. I looked over under the carport and see a shiny brand new can of starting fluid (ether).  The light bulb went off.  I grabbed the can set it on the stump.  I thought that it would probably just spray out in a disappointing manner…let’s face it: to a 10 yr. old mouth-breather like myself, ether really doesn’t “sound” flammable.  So, I went back into the house and got a 1 pound can of dad’s muzzleloader pyrodex.  At this point, I set the can of ether on the stump and opened up the can of black powder.  My intentions were to sprinkle a little bit around the ether can, but it all sorta dumped out on me.  No biggie…1 lb. pyrodex and 16 oz. either should make a loud pop, kinda like a firecracker you know?  You know what? Heck with that.  I’m going back in the house for the other can.  Yes, I got a second can of pyrodex and dumped it too.

Now we’re cookin’. I stepped back about 15 ft. and lit the 2 stroke arrow. I drew the nock to my cheek and let fly.  As I released I heard a swish as the arrow launched from my bow.  In a slow motion time frame, I turned to see my dad getting out of the truck…OH CRAP, he just got home from work.  So help me God, it took 10 minutes for that arrow to go from my bow to the can.  My dad was walking towards me in slow motion with a WTF look in his eyes.  I turned back towards my target just in time to see the arrow pierce the starting fluid can right at the bottom, right through the main pile of pyrodex, and into the can. Oh, Hell. When the shock wave hit, it knocked me off my feet. I don’t know if it was the actual compression wave that threw me back, or just reflex jerk back from 235 MF’n decibel of sound.  I caught a half a millisecond glimpse of the violence during the initial explosion, and I will tell you, there was dust, grass, and bugs all hovering 1 ft. above the ground as far as I could see.

It was like a little low to the ground layer of dust fog full of grass hoppers, spiders, and a crawfish or two.  The daylight turned purple.  Let me repeat this…THE DAMN DAYLIGHT TURNED PURPLE…There was a big sweetgum tree out by the gate going into the pasture.  Notice I said “was”. That mother got up and ran off.. So here I am, on the ground, blown completely out of my shoes with my thundercats T-shirt shredded, my dad is on the other side of the carport having what I can only assume is a Vietnam flashback.  ECHO BRAVO CHARLIE YOU BRINGIN’EM IN TOO CLOSE!!  CEASE FIRE GOLL DAMIT CEASE FIRE!!!!!

His hat has blown off, and is 30 ft. behind him in the driveway.  All windows on the north side of the house are blown out, and there is slow rolling mushroom cloud about 2000 ft. over our backyard.  There is a Honda 185s 3 wheeler parked on the other side of the yard, and the fenders are drooped down, and are now touching the tires…I wish I knew what I said to my dad at this moment.  I don’t know – I know I said something.  I couldn’t hear.  I couldn’t hear inside my own head.  I don’t think he heard me either…not that it would really matter.  I don’t remember much from this point on.  I said something, felt a sharp pain, and then woke up later. I felt a sharp pain, blacked out, woke up later….repeat his process for an hour or so and you get the idea.  I remember at one point my mom had to give me CPR so dad could beat me some more.

Bring him back to life so dad can kill him again.  Thanks mom.  One thing is for sure…I never had to mow around that stump again.  Mom had been bitching about that thing for years and dad never did anything about it.  I stepped up to the plate and handled business.  Dad sold his muzzleloaders a week or so later.  And I still have some sort of bone growth abnormality either from the blast or the beating.  Or both.  I guess what I’m trying to say is, get your kids into archery.  Its good discipline and will teach them skills they can use later on in life.

Here's a link to a thread where I compiled some of the funniest things I'd read on here. It includes SEC, Ryan's, Fire on a plane, 500 A-square, etc.

http://www.ar15.com/forums/t_1_5/842828_.html

I still laugh every time I read it, it's not the event, it's the telling of it that makes it epic. Big thanks for posting some funny "shit" in GD, it helps offset the never ending doom and prosecution complex that dominates GD.

 

I'm tired of the end of the world bullshit too,,

Maybe it's time for some of the non drama loving old crew to try and take some of it back

Thanks for posting these for the benefit of us newbies. I'm laughing with tears rolling.

Classic stuff, can't beat it!



Thanks for reposting it, OP!

A good Urban Legend going around - no idea if true

Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that
   sparked my interest. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking
   for a little something extra for my wife, Toni. What I came across was
   a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of the taser were
   suppose to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant,
   allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety.... WAY TOO COOL!  
   Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two
   triple-a batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I
   was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button
   AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get the blue
   arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.   Awesome!!!
     Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Toni what that burn spot
   is on the face of her microwave.   Okay, so I was home alone
   with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that
   bad with only two triple-a batteries,... right?





There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie
   looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions
   and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh
   & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie
   (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such
   a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife
   to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that
   it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?   So, there I sat in
   a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately
   on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, taser in another.





The directions said that a one-second
   burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was
   supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second
   burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like
   a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be
   wasting the batteries.   All the while I'm looking at this little
   device measuring about 5" long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference;
   pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries)
   thinking to myself, "no possible way!"   What happened next
   is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best.....   I'm sitting
   there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as
   to say, "don't do it master," reasoning that a one-second burst
   from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.... I decided
   to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it.





I touched the prongs to my naked
   thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION@!@$$!%
   !@*!!!   I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door,
   picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet,
   over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side
   in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on
   fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my
   body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing
   over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face,
   undoubtedly thinking to herself, "do it again, do it again!"
     Note: If you ever feel compelled to "mug" yourself with
   a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second
   burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until
   it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the
   floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative.   SON-OF-A-
    ... that hurt like hell!!!





A minute or so later (I can't be sure,
   as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what
   little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading
   glasses were on the mantle of the fireplace. How did they get up there???
   My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face
   felt like it had been shot up with Novacaine, and my bottom lip weighed
   88 lbs.  I'm still looking for my testicles. I'm offering a significant
   reward for their safe return.   Still in shock...

View Quote

 

i had forgotten about that one, i think thatwas a dave barry piece originally

Ryan's Steakhouse is so contrived it isn't even funny. Maybe the "lol poop" crowd gets it but ugh.