patiodog wrote:Goddang ignorant, intolerant, narrow-minded, bigoted, racist, gusophobic, sexist, nationalistic, bear-shagging, mullet-wearing, eh-saying, curling-stone-path-sweeping, Molson-drinking, pasty-bellied, cold-assed Canadians!
watch it with the bear shagging remarks pal.......
Remind me tomorrow, and I'll tell you all a story. It's a true story. It involves a "wound cake".
When ya start slingin' ephithets aroun' ya just never know when an' where yer gonna step in it . . . Be thankful, PeppermintPatioDog, that Squinney has not seen that one . . .
ok bwatham, do the wound cake stowy
we'we waiting
<tap tap tap>
Wonderfully unexpected combination of words, "wound cake".
Sherry, my daughter, is the fairest and most gentle soul in the land. When there's a butterfly fluttering about among the nearbye flowers, she halts her breathing so as not to cause them any trouble. Or perhaps she stops breathing really only because she's stoned, and forgets. But regardless, she's a gentle soul. We're alike that way.
She has a boyfriend named Stef who looks like a huge teddybear and who is also a gentle soul, but who shot himself accidently with a sawed-off shotgun about two years past. This sometimes happens to gentle people.
He's a gun person and kind of like an army person and he hikes steep mountains for the challenge of it and he loves guns and fishing and hiking off into the forest (Bella Coola) or the jungle (Costa Rica) with nothing much to survive with but a knive and his wits. He does this sort of stuff for fun.
Cleaning out his recently deceased grandfather's garage, he found a classic old side by side shotgun. It occured to him that a small over-the-shoulder shotgun would be a handy thing for messing about on his own in grizzly country, so he set to cleaning up the gun and relacing some parts and shortening the barrels. With a drawer full of badges and certificates and permissions from mother and bureaucrats, and with some years in cadets and reserves and hell, maybe the french foreign legion, he knew himself to be a responsible gun guy. So he was very surprised when he blew out part of his right side.
When he had the thing all done and shiny, he reached up and grabbed a couple of shells. He always used dummies, but this was just a quick test, and he'd done it lots of times, so he tossed in a couple of honest to goodness shells. No problem. With the shortened barrels, and with a slightly sticky hinge, the gun was a bit more difficult to close than it would have been otherwise. And he held it out in front of him, gave it a big slam (which seriously altered the alignment of the barrels which had been pointed AWAY from him) and then his ears hurt. In the small garage, it was painfully loud when the shell fired. That was what he noticed first. Then he smelled...bacon. He looked down and his shirt was burned and smoking.
He has a transcript of the call he made to 911. "You better send an ambulance, I've shot myself...but I'm kind of overweight and its just fat...but I need help." The ambulance guys came and rushed up to him sitting on the steps, "Where's the guy who's shot?!" Stef was just sitting there waiting, holding his side, not overly anxious.
The hole in his side was pretty big. I saw the scar this weekend...about the size of half a football...with about a dozen little bumpies ("here, feel this, bern") where some pellets remain just under the skin.
Several days after the event, some friends took a photo of Stef, full size, as he held the bandage away and showed the Fearless Fosdick wound. When his birthday came around about a month or two later, the friends took the photo into Dairy Queen and had them make a cake with the photo on top.
Stef had to pick that cake up himself, for some set of unknown reasons, and when he walked into the Dairy Queen, the staff exclaimed "You're HIM!" Stef claims embarrassment, and I think he's telling the truth because the following year (just weeks ago now) he insisted that the photo be reduced to exclude his face.
My daughter tasted the wound cake, and said it was very good.
Cake, anyone? We can ship.
Wow, luck it was just fat. lol
great story............thanks blatham.
Delicious, blatham.Twisted, but delicious.
Hey, Gus ... I got some luggage I ain't used in a while ... little beat up, mebbe, but serviceable ... if it'd be of service to your travel plans, just lemme know.
This isn't mine; I stumbled across it on the web.
Quote:Dad's Big Bonfire
DAD'S BIG BONFIRE
By L. E. Dickens
It was quite a cold day in January 1946, Mum and I, were in the sitting room of our house at Kingstones Cadley, directly facing the ammunition train sidings. As far as I can remember Dad had just gone back to work from lunch.
Mum called me to look out of the window "come and see Dads big bonfire" she said, he was hedging in the field in front of the house, as I walked towards the window she put her hand back and pushed me with such force that I landed up in the kitchen, at the same moment there was a huge explosion and all the windows were blown in
I wanted to see what had happened and went through to the sitting room, ammunition was exploding everywhere and shells were going over the roof. There was a huge thump on the front door, Mum opened it expecting to see Dad but no, it was Towser our by then terrified terrier dog, followed closely by an equally terrified Dad, who marshalled us back into the kitchen and positioned us behind the chimney piece, he then opened the back door to let the blast through, we were now able to see out into the back yard and watched shrapnel, bullets and shells all going over the house.There was a knock at the door, a painter working at the Kingstones Farm offered to take us to Marlborough, Mum and I ran out of the front door to get into a small car with a canvas hood, I got in first Mum quickly followed but before the driver could get in a second massive explosion blew the car on to it's side, Dad and the driver managed to right the car, Mum and I got out, the driver got in and took off at quite a speed heading towards Marlborough, Dad, Mum and myself went back indoors with ammunition still flying over our heads. I don't remember being frightened at all but I do remember thinking we are probably going to die. Dad was very calm then and Mum who was scared stiff of thunder, appeared calm tooThe explosions went on and then Mr. John Cook, my Dad's employer stopped to pick us up and take us to Marlborough just as another massive explosion occurred, Mum and I went to Marlborough, Dad stayed behind to turn the cattle free into the fields so that if a barn caught fire they would not be trapped. As we got to the top of Postern Hill we saw the residents of Cadley Village being off loaded from Army lorries to the Army camp there. We stayed with family at St. Martins.
When we went home two or three days later the house seemed very cold with no windows, open doors, and a severe lack of slates on the roof. For weeks after the Army patrolled all the fields and set off clumps of ammunition they found in them. Every time his happened Towser our dog and Teddy the farm terrier would shoot under the matted and long coat of Rover the Old English Sheepdog, all three shaking like jellies.The papers reported severed limbs being found in the fields, my Dad said it meant limbs of trees when I asked, it was only in later years I understood.
After a month the War Department came round to ask if we had any claims we wished to make. Dad took them into the pantry and showed them a ham from our own pig, it had three bits of glass showing in the meat, oh no said the Officer you can't eat that, and we were given £3.00 for it, he asked Dad if he would dispose of it. After he had gone Dad took out the carefully placed bits of glass, and we had good thick fat ham rashers for weeks.
Our neighbour said his chair leg had been broken in an upstairs back bedroom, he also got paid. Someone down in the village claimed for an alarm clock which had been broken for years, they too were compensated. Yes, there were some very odd claims but they all got paid.
Even today large pieces of twisted railway track are to be found thrown into hedgerows, a reminder of a day I will always remember living less than a quarter of a mile away from the explosion.
The explosion site is now said to be haunted, my own husband having heard people talking as he worked there on a farm.
Blatham, your story lacks credibility. Where's the cake? If there was any truth to this far-fetched yarn of yours, I'm sure you would have included a picture of the cake.
I suspect that you were the victim, Blatham. You invented this concoction because of the shame you felt when the shell penetrated your side. Curling up on the floor of your garage, writhing in pain, you glanced out a crack in the door and saw your portly future son-in-law amble by. It was then that the seeds of thought were planted -- the great Blatham A2K deception was born.
Well, I see right through you. Cursed Canadian! Fess up!
Show the world that you are a better man.
tushanratzholer
Everything I write lacks credibility. This is axiomatic. Thus, like some ragged dutch whore, the question comes abegging...what has driven YOU to question me now? Here?
There are tales, and there are tails. Your last sentence limps home, Lovborg.
Its good that he found out the design problems of the shotgun before he needed it in the woods. Making a sawed off shotgun is a no no in US.
timber
The good old days when folks would soak the government for only a pig or a chair.
There was a fellow I met from back east who, as a kid, had seen what trains do to a penny, and figured he could make a fine sword out of a big metal rod. He waited. He watched as the train derailed and tore through two houses and a barn - all of which were empty. He was an adult when he told us, and we were the first people to whom he'd told the story. Now, I've felt guilty now and again in my life, but probably not as much as that poor kid.
And I promise no further obscure Ibsen jokes, Gus, you weenie.
I see the red-backed Canadian is again posting some cross- border ballistic lame invective. However Im under orders not to take any retaliatory measures unless he shows evidence that he is using WMDs (writings of mass disportment).
"Red-backed"...from where you stand and aim, I suppose it is the color of my anterior side which is most evident.
"WMD"...the masses can disport themselves, there's enough of them.
gus; a little 'insight';
you can expect 'bad things' when you sit down on a 'softened stool'!
and if your in the mood to unwind a little; perhaps a good place to start is on the cake! .......... you know, the 'wound' cake.
Quote:And I promise no further obscure Ibsen jokes, Gus, you weenie.
I, for one, thank you. And if you could manage to scratch him out of the canon altogether, it would be greatly appreciated. Perhaps he can just exist in obscurity, like some old Greek whose work survives in reputation but not in form and function.
