Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Where Great Intelligence Goes To Be Insulted

Saturday, 11 February 2017

Oh My Beloved...


Sissies like Uncle Bob, BW and WC and pretty much all the women and civilians may want to skip this one because it's another disgusting Old Fat Guy Gun Porn post. Somebody come up with a proper acronym for that, will ya? Just as all you perverts know what a MILF is - we need a similar label so that non-gun-geeks don't inadvertently click on something gross that might offend them. Like and old fat guy perving out over an old gun! HAR HAR HAR!




Last week was sheer hell for me. My national sales manager is a fat, loud, opinionated and bellicose frenchman that thinks he can treat his people like shit. At the end of his last day in town, the fat sonofabitch told me that we had lost a major client and it was all my fault and that I was incompetent. I can handle customers going off on me - I let them vent, go along to get along until they settle down, and then start working with them to resolve their issues. When my own management goes off like that - well I got flustered. The arrogant fuck walked away from me when I tried to explain

a. It wasn't my client
b. It wasn't my mistake that set the client off
c. That we hadn't actually lost their business, they were just mad at us because of the same gawddamn problems he himself had supposedly solved last year.

But he had lost his shit and I let him walk away before I lost mine.

I got so damned mad about it that I put together an email and sent it to the VP and the owners stating all of the above (with proof). I told them I was okay if their man was having a bad day and venting - but if they figured that I was incompetent and not doing my job - please lay me off. Now.

Ours is a family owned business. I laugh to call the senior management of the company the 'McBain Children'. They're all in their 60's now. Pop, who started the company back in 1978 out of the trunk of his car - is in his 90's. I love them all. The old man is as sharp as a razor and when he has the energy he sometimes calls me up to give me shit and check my work. I always give him smart, business like responses and he always hangs up happy with my work. I love him the most. He has lymphoma in 6 of his organs now - and he is still in the game. As a teen he was a paratrooper dropping in behind the lines on D-Day. He's tough, and mean but fair and square if you do right by him. He must see something in my fwench national sales manager I don't. Whatever. He's a national treasure and he has my loyalty all the way.

In any event I told the family that if it was time to part ways I wanted it handled professionally with no malice or disrespect. Whatever they needed of me - I would give it: need me to stay on to train the new guy? Sure! No? Can I keep the company truck for a couple days? I would like to clean it up and return it sparkling and with a full tank of gas ready to go. I would also ask for a few days to let my customers know I was leaving and make sure their affairs were passed over in a sensible fashion. Hey - I'm 53, my bills are paid, I have money in the bank and though I can't retire - I am not going to have a stroke or an ulcer over my job because some French  fwench cocksucker thinks I should. I can flip burgers, or be a greeter at China Mart and fight with grumpy old customers like Gorges or I can stock shelves. But - I am not going to take shit off stupid people with egos. If they want me to fix the problems with their Aaaaadmontin Branch they will have to make me the manager and PAY me for it! Scratch that - I don't want that job.

I sat down on a park bench this morning with the dawgs and realized that I AM free. I can do anything I want now within reason. I don't think I will get a pink slip next week but if I do - what of it? It hits you like a sledge hammer: all my life I have worked to get here. I wanted my bills paid, some modest savings and some nice toys to pass the time. In the past I always worried and fretted about the management and their idiotic politics and power games... and now I just don't give a shit. I don't have to. They need me more than I need them and if they don't know that so be it.

So anyways, after Captain Sweat Pants had dealt with the eeeeevil Frog Man - I went to the range with my new buffalo gun. Mine isn't like the one in the pic above, mine has rudimentary buckhorn sights. I have the precision verniers on order, so any shooting results are purely preliminary. You won't do precision shooting with sights like this....but:



Using the sight picture I like, this rifle hits two feet low at 100 yards.
That's a 5-1/2" group with chithouse cast lead
bullets and a dollop of IMR3031 gunpowder. Shot with old eyes
by an old stubfart with the crappiest sights made in 150 years?
It doesn't look it - but this rifle is special.
I can feel it already!  :)

So I shot the bottom group off the bags and smiled. Then I got up on my hind feet and went at the top target off hand with a two foot holdover - three shots, in a group as small as the one off the bench. This rifle feels good. Even my M1A match rifle doesn't fit like this! I can't wait to get going with precision cast 525 grain Postell bullets, paper patches and black powder. When you fire and jack the shell out of the chamber - the gun sits and smolders and smokes the same way Evil Roy does with his cigar as he sits at the table, evaluating the cards in his hand, the gun on his hip, and the vicious pole cats he's gambling against! Romance, nostalgia AND fine marksmanship! It doesn't get any better for guys like me.

When ya get to my place in this life with a weapon like this you are ready for your last life's mission: to defend your place of honour on the firing line from other old cheaters, untrustworthy gun club duffers!

Life goes on... and it's good for the most part. ;)

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