Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

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

Monday, 29 February 2016

Dead Men Walking

Get out your visa card boys! Mikey's gonna learn ya everything ya need to know to be a REAL man! An Alpha Male! It's all in his book called 'The Gorilla Mindset'. Once you're done reading it, please leave it in the outhouse. Somebody used the last roll of triple ply toilet paper and didn't replace it! I'm lookin' at YOU, Rat!

I love how he sets the hook. We've all seen that mouse of a man with the fat, domineering slag of a wife. We've all seen him do that 'whipped dog' look too. Most of us have given our mothers, our wives or even our daughters that look too. Sometimes us guys just get beat up by our women because they're having a bad day. What of it? Uncle Bob and I and the rest of his minions have had heated debates over the concept of the Alpha and Beta Male - and the lesser men described by Greek letters. About the only thing we could agree on is that if there is any validity to the Hierarchy Of Manliness - Bob bottoms out as a Zeta and I go right off the scale because I'm special. HAR HAR HAR! You could say I yam touched by an anvil...HAR HAR HAR!

Bob got a cool shirt and all I got was a boot in the arse...

My father in law wasn't always a beta male. When men die on their feet they don't do it all at once. They die a little each day. Their soul leaves in dribs and drabs.

Doug got his first job within the credit/loans industry when he was 18. He had just successfully finished high school in a time when most men dropped out unless they were from wealthy families and headed on to university. His first child was on the way within the first year that he was married - so he went to work in an loan/investigations office as a mail boy. He was too smart to dead end in a job like that, and back in those days most companies still promoted from within. Soon he was doing sales and managerial work, and another child was on the way. More promotions followed. More responsibility. More pressure. More stress. More long hours.

Then his third child was born - a star crossed son that got both ends of a real shitty stick. He was born with heart problems and was hyperactive. Doug started to drink. His father was an alcoholic and so it looked like he would be too. More promotions came - but they required that he relocate. He and his wife left their families behind to move across the country to Alberta. The economics and timing of that move couldn't have been worse. In the Maritimes he sold a fairly nice house in a depressed market - and had to buy an old natty one in Alberta's booming oil economy of the 1970's. His wife couldn't work - she had to care for their stricken son. Life got a bit better for his wife when his oldest daughter could help Mom out with her younger brothers...but it was still a strain. His wife noticed the boozing and knew all about the stresses and pressures of his job. Without meaning too, she added to his burden with her nagging and bitching to stop drinking. He started keeping a bottle in his desk at work. But Doug was a branch manager now, and a rising star in the company. The best day of his life was when he and a bunch of the boys went on an impromptu weekend fishing trip down Alberta's Forest Trunk road. In those days it was all gravel and parts were impassable at times. The boys made camp, started a fire - and drank themselves blind. They played catch with the baseball until they got too drunk to throw. Then they cozied up to the fire and drank whisky right from the bottle. They were free! No work, no pressure - no wives and family! This was living. 

This is how a man dies on his feet.

Fast forward a couple years. His daughter met a boy he did not approve of.  His older son was as close to being a juvenile delinquent as he could be without actually being one. He was a suspected firebug and shoplifter. His youngest son became more and more ill with each passing day. On impulse he broke his budget one day to buy the boy one of those new-fangled BMX bicycles all the boys were going crazy with at the time...and his son was even able to ride it once or twice before going into the hospital for the last time. When the boy passed, Doug held his wife and kids as they cried but he shed not a single tear himself. A very large chunk of his soul died with his son.

A year later his daughter was pregnant. It was like a broken record going round: the economics and timing couldn't be worse. Alberta's oil boom had gone bust, jobs disappeared and young people got hit the hardest. His new son in law was useless, he couldn't find meaningful full time work and had to settle for part time jobs. His own job was going like a bucket of the brown stuff. In hindsight, he should have walked away a dozen times...but he stayed. The recession deepened. The company he worked for was sold, and the new owners demoted him to a junior sales position in hopes that he would quit and they wouldn't have to pay him out. Still - he hung in there. By now, his wife was recovering from the loss of her son. His son in law and daughter were living in the basement while he went back to school, his wife had filled the void left by the loss of their son with their new granddaughter...and things at work continued to worsen. The company had hired some vibrant and diverse femcnut to run the Edmonton office and shortly after - this new age empowered female executive gave him his pink slip. After 31 years with the company, he packed his shit up in a box and was escorted to the door. Of his soul and pride...only crumbs remained after that.

After that much time with the company he didn't even know how to write a decent resume. In the lolling economy he couldn't find a decent job and worked a series of part time jobs the same way his no-good son in law had. Speaking of whom - he had begun to fight with on a regular basis. He didn't like the way his son in law was raising his granddaughter and often said so - and the resulting fights became bitter and heated.

But all was not doom and gloom. 31 years with his company had left him with a sizeable nest egg. He could retire or semi-retire if he wanted and he was restless. The house was full of memories of their departed son, his kids really didn't need him anymore (and his son in law made sure he knew it) - and he and his wife needed a change. They sold the house, moved out to BC and lived on their own to blow some dust off their brains and come to terms with life. Doug was not proud - he took odd jobs and part time work as a mall cop and a building custodian. Slowly - so slowly he must not have noticed it...he started to let go. His wife began to make all the decisions, some good. and quite a few not so good. But he didn't care - he could let go now - somebody else could do the thinking. He didn't have to worry about mortgages, or kids or grandkids. He made friends at work. He got interested in home brewing and even distilling - and even made some ghastly lighter fluid that he drank with gusto. He read magazines like Harrowsmith and dreamed of living off the grid. A small patch of land, perhaps a wood heated cottage, with maybe some backyard chickens scratching and pecking in the yard. And a greenhouse...

His wife would have none of it. When she was ready to retire, she wanted to move back to Edmonton and live in the city to be with her kids. And - she didn't want just any old house - she wanted a new one that was bigger and grander so that she could have friends and family over! Hardwood floors! Three car garage! Central vac and heating...!!! Etc!!! Upgrades!!!!!!

I started to see that 'look' on my father in law all the time after that. He worked part time but in his off hours, instead of going home he started coming over to our house to get away from his wife. He would find odd jobs to do and then sometimes - maybe when the old lady was ragging on him especially hard - he would take a run at my liquor cabinet. Once or twice he would take down a quart of the good stuff like Highland Park or Lagavulin ...and apologize later. Then he would replace the bottle with some dog shit like Liquid Plumber or some gasoline he siphoned out of BW's motorcycle. He would always make a show of filling my glass and once when I coughed and sputtered - he was incensed! This was a man that could drink Teachers, Bells or Famous Grouse - and enjoy it! His bargain bin rot gut was as good as my faggy single malts - so there! Once in awhile you could still see the man in my father in law...and I would raise my glass to him and drink his lighter fluid and all was well between us. Until his wife found out where he was hiding in his off hours...and then she began coming over too...and then I started to die inside and give my bitchy old mother in law that 'look' too. I think she liked it.

Men like Mike think that being a man that lives at his potential means freeing yourself of the company of morons. If only it were that simple! What if the people involved aren't really morons? What if they are just acting like morons? What if it was extenuating circumstances that led them to act like morons? To me this is what manhood means - at what point do you go from 'freeing yourself of the company of morons' to shirking responsibility to your family?  That is a line many men walk in today's age of broken homes, rampant divorce, feminism and homosexuality. My father in law ran into his biggest woes when he went along with all that and let morons, liberals and feminists define manhood for him.

As a man it is my intention not to be defined and/or limited by women, wealth or social standing - I will be defined by my purpose.

All I gotta do now is figure out what that purpose is - and I'm off to the races!

Sunday, 28 February 2016

My First Encounter With Crazy Women

After a stressful day of inventory BS that included anal retention, neurosis and psychosis, I like to come home, pour a drink - and see what the real people are doing.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... I see PP is facing poultrygiests  again. Mental note: if he goes dark or offline, we'll send BW out on the motorcycle to scout the situation and report back to the Thunder Box. If any wet work and/or recovery is required we'll send in The Back Yard Beardo and the black rifle boys to restore order! Rest assured I will be keeping close tabs on The Smallhold!

I grew up on a small hobby farm/acreage and I remember the delight Pop took in the animals and livestock that figured they were the property owners and the humans were their servants. He sounded a lot like PP does today.

I had few problems growing up the way I did. They revolved around my hobbies and trying to escape from Pop and his endless chores that he had for me. It wasn't so bad, I usually could escape in the early afternoon but before that - Dad kept me busy.

One afternoon I noticed the ground in the chicken pen was hard as a rock. A couple years of sun-baked chicken shit, straw and weather had given the soil a consistency of bullet proof glass. You could tell the birds didn't like it - they love to scratch and peck at the ground and this stuff would give them nose bleeds if they went at it.

I went in the garage and thieved a spade and began breaking it up and turning it over...and the birds went nuts! Underneath that bullet proof barrier a civilization of underground bugs and worms flourished...and the birds moved in to chow down! A week later I had the soil groomed to the consistency of fine loam...the birds would go out to peck and scratch in it and sink up to their knees in the fine, spongy soil. They loved it.

A few weekends later Gramma noticed the soil and then SHE went nuts! Gramma wasn't a mere gardener - she was a full blown botanist! (To this day I hate plants and gardening largely because of Gramma. I was constantly lectured about plants when she was around and it drove me nuts!) In any event, the old bird figured that this chicken shit soil could be mixed with potting soil to produce first rate flower soil or some damned thing. I just shook my head and watched her show up weekend after weekend, often with her gardening friends...and they would go ga-ga over the chicken shit too! They would go in that pen, get down on their knees and run their hands through it like it was gold coins or something! They thought nothing of the fact that their could be fresh wads of chicken shit mixed in with it! GAH!

It was gross. It was hilarious. I was 12 or 13 when I developed the scholarly hypothesis that chickens and women have similar brain construction and thought processes which would explain this odd symbiotic relationship Gramma and her biddies had with them. To this day I still hold to that theory and I challenge my fellow intellectuals and academics to prove me wrong, too!

One day my Aunt Ruth came out with Gramma. She was in her 90's and could barely walk. I had only met her once as a small child but she was a family legend. She lived in a small, neat cottage on Cooking Lake and was capable of independence and self reliance that would shame even PP! Once, in her 80's...she fell in her back yard and couldn't get up. She lived alone and she was in a rather dangerous pickle. At that age, the backyard goes from being a place of solace to being a place that can kill you. The old bird examined her options and noticed a tree about 200 paces down the sloping hill. She couldn't get up, but she could roll - and so she did, all the way down that hill until she hit the tree and used it to scrabble and pull herself back to her feet! You or I might pack it in and move to an old folks home in circumstances like that...but not this lady! Life was all about challenges and meeting them and she planned to do just that until she died. She was a wonderful woman with neighbours much like PP who thought nothing of a quick trip up and down her driveway with the tractor to clear snow, or help out with heavier chores.
In any event, Gramma beckoned me over, she got on one side of Aunt Ruth, I got on the other...and we helped her out to the chicken pen to scoop up a few bags of chicken shit laced soil! We helped her kneel down in it and she cooed and clucked with delight at the texture and quality just like all the other old biddies did. It took us an eon and a half to get her soil, and help her back to the patio. She collapsed into a lawn chair and gasped "I did it! Now I have such wonderful manure to add to the soil in the roses...!" I told her that next time all she had to do was ask ME to do it and she could have all the guano she wanted - but the regal old gal thanked me and Gramma dismissed me. What the hell? None of this made sense to a 13 year old boy. Why would an old woman almost kill herself...for a bag of chicken shit? As I took my leave I noticed Mom...and her face was black with fury! What in hell was this now? I fled to the garage. If Gramma, Aunt Ruth and the old biddies were nuts...Mom was a fuggin psycho in comparison and when she went on the warpath - it was time to get out of Dodge. They were already beginning to bicker when my Honda XL 100 caught - and I was outta there. Later that afternoon Gramma took Aunt Ruth home and then came back for supper with us. She and Mom barely exchanged a half dozen words. After supper when Gramma was headed home I caught her and asked if she could explain a few things to me. She and my Mom were furious with each other and I had no idea what was going on.
The story was that Ruth was getting old. Being old means getting frail and Ruth was going to battle that process all the way to the grave. It was important to her to get her own bird shit rather than have me do it. Getting a few spade-fulls of chicken shit to her would be like a young man successfully climbing Mount Everest. Gramma was all for that battle and completely on Ruth's side right till the bitter end. Mom - she felt that Ruth should be in an old folks home, properly cared for and looked after. It was Ruth's intention to die in her cottage at home and Gramma fully intended to see to it. Mom was so mad the two women weren't talking - they just glared at each other as the banged and clashed the dishes as they washed up after supper. Mom didn't even come out to say goodbye...and Gramma packed up and drove off in her pristine 1974 Volare. I will forever remember standing on that driveway that beautiful summer night trying to get my head round all that. As a young teen trying to make sense of this adult stuff was like trying to take a sip from a fire hose.
I found Pop hiding behind the barn with the horses, sitting on a hay bale and smoking and thinking. "Dad - the women: who's right in all that...?" I asked. He sighed and looked at his cigarette, and paused. "They all are, kid."
What kind of answer was that? "So what are they gonna do?"
"Well, they'll figure it out, I guess."
A couple months later the leaves all turned colour and Ruth solved the problem for everyone by passing away in her sleep, alone in her small cottage by the lake. I was never close to her having only met her twice in my life and to this day I figure Pop was the only one who was right about anything in that flap. Sure, Ruth passed in her sleep and that's great and all...but she could have fallen down some stairs, or slipped outside in the could have gone the other way too and her death could have been much more miserable. Mom had a point too. But then again, who's to say that dying in a hospital with tubes up all your orifices is any better?
Do we figure things out...or do they work out? Or both? Yannow...if I could do anything in the world right now I would go over to CM's with a shovel and start turning over the soil in the chicken run. Or maybe I would hide behind the barn and talk to the horses and start smoking again.  ;)

Thursday, 25 February 2016

Friday Kareoke: BYOS (Bring Your Own Soap)

Yannow, I was going to be a sport and make a point of drinking BW's finest scotch this fine Friday... and rendering a formal scholarly evaluation...but...I have inventory tomorrow - on a friggin Saturday! There's no escaping it - they even sent out a corporate ram rod from head office with specific instructions: truants and deserters on inventory day will be hunted down and shot...and then dismissed!

Goddamnshiteatingassrapingpudwhackingcumguzzlinggutterskank!!!! Turd from a whore!!!!

Classy, Filthie!
Why, language like this is fit for the Thunderbox and that's about it! Even a Green Bean Fuggin Marine like the Backyard Beardo would be doing push ups for the next 3 weeks talking like that!
Innocent civilians, women and children are advised to pass on this one. Think I saw Wirecutter on that vid...along with Justin Beiber and Justin Turdo! Don't cheap out on the ammo WC!
I would rather go to a gay pride parade with these turd brains rather than do inventory...!
No Friday blow out, no Saturday morning cartoons - I get to count nuts and bolts. Then I'm off to Fort McMud for next week...there is no rest for the wretched...Sing along! And if ya see CM coming with a bar of soap in her hand - run for it!


Oh, ALRIGHT, already!!! it is done right! Now if you'll excuse me...I gotta get up early tomorrow...%$#@^^&

Perhaps this is a more tasteful selection for the poor slob facing inventory Armageddon...

More Monkeys With Machine Guns

How long before this guy is sporting ballistic armour, shoulder missiles and miniguns off his elbows?
In the post below some Africans are laying about the guerilla camp and one of 'em gives a chimp an AK47 - comedy ensues when the chimp shoots up the camp and the jokers have to run for their lives.

And now the hairless monkeys at Boston Dynamics are playing with weapons that make the potential of an AK47 in the wrong hands laughable. To answer my own question - how soon before these things are packing heat? You can bet the prototypes already are.

Being something of a robotics/motion control buff I watched a byte 15 years ago where some Pentagon brass hat was reaming out a roomful of eggheads from DARPA or The Skunkworks. He was having a kiniption because the new algorithms he wanted for the autonomous cruise missile could only evaluate targets with a 65% accuracy. That was 15 years ago - an eon in high tech evolution. The Pentagon wanted to be able to fire a cruise missile carrying cluster bombs and forget about it. They wanted the thing to fly over the countryside evaluating and attacking potential targets for itself. And of course, being ignorant and stupid, most people fear such developments because they don't understand - the chances of the machine making a mistake resulting in a friendly fire incident - are far less than if a human had his finger on the trigger. Or at least - they soon will be, if not already.

Unca Bob and I have disagreed on artificial intelligence. He says it will never happen but I say it's already here. What's the difference between a machine deciding whether or not to attack a target  - and Uncle Bob doing it? The only difference I see is that Uncle Bob is far more likely to make a mistake as his senses are much more limited and things like stress and adrenaline in a combat situation can have an adverse effect on him. What happens on the day when the robot asks why his creator has a soul and he doesn't? We had better have an answer because I think something like that is no more than 20 years away. As for today's drones? They are picking and choosing their own targets all the time now. All they need is a green light to fire from a human overseer - and off goes Abu Al Fuknuk Al to pick his 72 raisins!

In the next 5 years - sooner if Donald Trump becomes president...crazed stories will start to appear in the tabloid press about a squad of black robots murdering a town full of innocent civilians in Dirkadirkastan. And some smirking snivel servant might quip 'it wasn't us...but for the record, it was a terrorist compound and not a village...' and some other smirking squaddie will neither confirm nor deny the existence of automated bipedal robots in combat roles.

What are we but a collection of algorithms and programs?

The Cylons are coming. Glen Filthie and Uncle Bob are
NOT afraid.

Warning: Politics - I Think We'll Just 'Colour Ya Stupid', Clarissa...

Clarissa moves and 'reasons' by forces not understood by modern man or science. Why do I stop in there, you might ask? Because Clarissa's blog is like a bowl of chocolates! Stupid women are double edged - one second they're capering and gibbering about like clowns - and in the next, they are like monkeys with machine guns!

It is my opinion that the only thing worse than a monkey with a machine gun is a liberal with a pen. I strongly suspect these boys would vote much the same way Clarissa would.

Who woulda seen that one coming? Liberal twats think Donald Trump is eeeeeeeevil because - wait for it....RACISSSSSS!!!!!

The other day I heard some liberal Yank political wank saying Cruz can't be president because he's Canadian. This pic? From the NYT. Totally NOT photoshopped by the way...
Clarissa is one of those rare women that seems to be able to carry an air of intellectual mediocrity while in reality - is a staggeringly stupid woman. My mother is the same way. She gets her opinions from day time TV and actually figures that the old harridans and spinsters on The View are qualified to speak about the issues they address. Along with Orca Winfrey, Dr. Phil and any number of Hollywood ass hats.
You would think it would be intuitively obvious: Hollywood and Noo Yawk Focken City are famous for producing celebs that are emotional, intellectual and moral cripples. Who better to comment on the social and political issues of the day, right? HAR HAR HAR!
Of course, we all know that the media can no longer be trusted farther than you can throw it. They've tried to undermine and trip Trump a dozen times and he just pushes them down the stairs for their troubles. Many media outlets are in trouble because of crap just like this that has been going on for years... and can't sell a newspaper anymore for love or money. Awhile back some fag at The Glob & Pail was actually asking for a media 'bail out' package from the gubbermint because even dummies like Clarissa won't subscribe to that shit rag.
Remember these racists taunting the Buckwheat Administration? These supposedly racist Tea Partiers later turned out to be liberal protestors against the Iraq War. Uncle Bob and Fred Reed were probably loose in that crowd too! Sorry Clarissa - only idiots trust the media these days.
I am Canadian and probably shouldn't comment...but I like Trump. If for no other reason than that he's forcing people to think about issues and political hot potatoes that none of the other twits will touch with a ten foot pole. Bernie and Hillary? In better times they would have been hung for treason, and guys like Obama would be shining shoes. That last isn't racist, it's realism. That idiot got his job based on the colour of his skin and not the content of his character and now America has the economy to show for it. For my two cents the other repubs are great guys but...they aren't leaders and everyone but the repubs know it.
Good luck, Mr. Trump. If ya win - could you do Canada a favour and drop an H-Bomb on Parliament Hill? Do that, and help us out with the Keystone pipeline...and we will cut you a sweet deal on some Alberta crude! Oh, we might have to shut the valves east for a bit - but it would do those liberal idiots good to sit and freeze in the dark.
In loving memory of King Ralph - seen here politely acknowledging the protests of an environmentalist. We need more men like this in our leadership...not less.


Wednesday, 24 February 2016

Red Hawk Blues

For the last little while I have been STINKING out the gun ranges of Alberta with this little masterpiece:

This little gun is a masterpiece right out of the box...
It used to be my scholarly opinion that the King Of Calibers for the wheelgun was the .41 Magnum. But man, oh man - if you aren't familiar with the .45 Long Colt - you gotta jump on it and fix that. This caliber is EASILY on par with the .41 magnum. Put it in a DA revolver like this Redhawk here...and you have something special. This thing is handy as any auto and more than some - and best of all: you don't have to chase your brass over hell's half acre to retrieve it! That is a big deal for guys like me that reload and make their own ammunition!

I got in a heated battle with one of God's Gifts To The Shooting Sports over on Canadian Gunnutz. I love Ruger wheelguns - but I fuggin HATE their triggers. I am speaking of the singe action mode here only - some of the DA guys say Ruger triggers are just fine in DA mode and I will take their word for it...but for SA shooting (which is 95% of what I do) - that trigger is a bear to work through on the target range! I'm a slow fire bullseye guy...and that heavy trigger has slowed me down even more! I managed to put an honest 75% of my rounds in the black which is almost on par for what I can do with my beloved autos. I'm gonna need to do some tweaking here and I don't look forward to it. In the States good gunsmiths are a dime a dozen. Here in Canada? A good revolver smith is worth his weight in gold.

Not to start another dog fight with the scholarly Gunnutz...but I maintain that Ruger triggers can be slicked up and honed to meet and even beat those on a Smith & Wesson...and because these Redhawks are built like tanks they can handle a steady diet of heavier loads too. I love S&W, all the ones I've ever borrowed were great...but my own guns are Rugers.

Soooo - in an effort at getting that stench coming from my place on the firing line...we are placing an order with our fine firearm friends at Wolff Springs! This should be your first stop for any new Ruger owner. Springs are a snap to replace and just lightening up that horrid trigger should help a bit. There is still some creep in the trigger...but it's not bad. That IS a job for a gunsmith and I won't dick with it.

I turned into a bit of an ammo glutton on the range today because I was doing so well. Usually I do 20 or 30 rounds at a pop but today I did 40 and the little gun ran like a champ. God - I love not having to pick up brass!  :)

In other gun nooz - I finally ran out of Winchester Wildcats today. Back in 1993 my wife and I decided that if I was to ever get ahead in life - I would need to go back to school. That meant shooting would be something I would need to I stocked up on .22! I bought 3 cases - cases, not bricks - 15,000 rounds...of .22 ammunition!

My bulk buy worked out to about $1.65/box...which I considered highway robbery at the time...
I just fired off my last box of it today. 23 years that ammo has knocked around closets and basements...I might buy another couple cases to get me through to retirement. My problem is I lose interest in the .22 for years...then periodically re-discover it and enjoy just shooting these zippy little rounds and punching paper, cans or gophers just for the hell of it! Think I might go with Federal this time round, though.
See ya on the range - and be sure to bow and scrape before my ballistic authority - or be prepared for a cut-throat shooting and pissing match! Gun club stub-farts and pikers alike are warned in advance that no quarter will be given and none asked for!!!

Twitter's Just Gonna Twit...

I like the big Monster Hunter. I think everyone is getting bloody sick of it. If a guy tells a rude joke about blondes and some red head bint overhears it and gets mad - it's treated like a sexual assault. It's only us harmless old white guys that can do it too. If some pink haired lesbian she-flink hops up on the soapbox and says all men suck - nobody says a word lest they offend somebody who is basically a sexual degenerate.

The Road Home

My clock radio is set to CKUA - I think they are an independent station run by old hippies and urban cliff dwelling homosexuals. At 5:00 am Bob Chelmick comes on, sounding like he's overdosed on Valium and cheap malt liquor - and reads poetry and plays music from 'local artists'.

Ordinarily I have no time for such morons. But Bob's "schtick" is that he lives in a rural cabin in the woods by a lake called Nakumun - where he supposedly lives off the land, off the grid and by his hands and hard work. He describes it as life 'in the wilderness' when the reality of it is that he is smack dab in the middle of yuppie cottage country. Supposedly he knows more about livestock than CM, and is more independent than PP over at the Small Hold. And of course, amidst this solar powered solitude of the Boreal Forest by a lake called Nakamun - Bob has nothing but time for visiting pretentious poet laureates, or a willing ear for obscure songwriters and part-time cocktail waitresses and other struggling 'artists'.

It's hilarious. And - it beats the hell out of the competition on the radio dial where you can wake up to bantering idiots that think that they are so silly and stupid that they're entertaining. Dunno about you - but I only find the shock jocks annoying. Although Bob doesn't intend to - he makes me laugh as he goes 'elk hunting' on horseback amidst his yuppie neighbours when the season closed 4 months ago... Kill 'em all, Bob! Don't forget your gun! HAR HAR HAR!

Bullshit Bob - probably back from an elk hunting trip on the neighbour's acreage and a tub of Valium...

There's good in everyone and even in bloated gas bags like Bob. I woke up one morning and Bob had just come on the radio, having fed the chickens, he had done some morning yoga, and was preparing to 'count his blessings...' I hurriedly turned him off - guys that do yoga can't have much to say worth listening to, and I had to get on with my day. Later in that day I was up to my ears in snapping alligators in the middle of a shit show of comic proportions...when Bob's words came back to me - right out of the blue.

"Count your blessings..."

No, not that. I am trying to forget Bob Chelmick ever talking about that! GAH! Say...isn't that Uncle Bob? Ew.

My family life is a schmoz that I have recounted here before. Long story short, my daughter is an estranged, under-achiever 31 year old gay hipster that isn't growing up. My in-laws are hateful, intrusive seniors hell bent on destroying my daughter by 'protecting' her - and that meant undermining me as a father and my wife as a mother. When they weren't interfering in our relationship with our daughter - they were chiselling at our marriage and trying to undermine that too. Last fall I put an end to it once and for all and our family imploded. Like any of you I thought of it as a small tragedy, all too common in modern families these days.

But...there is good in all that too. Looking at it objectively - my in laws were going to spend their retirement entertaining themselves by trying to ruin mine. I had never really realized it before and it struck like a bolt of lightening. No matter what I did, no matter how nice I was or what concessions I made - that stupid old woman was going to use me for a door mat and her husband was going to use me for a punching bag. I realized that I did not want them in my family the parting of ways is actually good for everyone! I had been mourning the break up of my family...but it was actually a good deal. I wish my in laws well...and hope they find whatever it is they lack in their final years. As for my daughter... a lot of people think queers are just nice people that want to be left alone to live their lives...but my daughter and her circle aren't like that at all! They thrive on making others unhappy and consistently go out of their way to do it. She needs to grow up and if she ever does maybe we can find common ground. As it is, I am thankful to be free of a bunch of angry homosexual social justice warriors trying to stuff me in the closet they came out of for the sin of being a white male. I am blessed to no longer be a part of their melodramas. It never occurred to me to think of any of this as a blessing - I thought it was all a failure. My daughter will find her way - eventually. Just as I found mine.

I have two hoople headed dogs that think I am a god because I take them out and walk with them. My basement is full of gunpowder, rifles and ammunition and enough food and supplies to safeguard a family for a month or two. A new motorcycle is hibernating out in Filthie's Playhouse waiting for spring. Improbable flying machines wait to take to the skies on my workbench.

It's like living in the dungeon and then being freed out into the light - the bright light and freedom scalds the soul at first - as you examine a painful tragedy only to find it's actually a relief. I'll be damned...but I think I have life pretty darned good, now that I think about it. In fact, life couldn't get much better for a foolish man like myself. So it is that I count only a few of my blessings...hell, I forgot my wife! Most men would kill for a woman like mine but in concentrating on life's ills...I have started to take her for granted! Holy mackaral! Perhaps an impromptu trip to the flower shop is in order... And...HFS! I have an anniversary coming up! It's in the mid-30's now! I need to plan something - fast!

In spite of himself, Bob Chelmick hit a homer. Count your blessings - they may not be where you expect to find them.

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

How To Disgust Women And Get Rid Of Them

This thing delights children and old farts but will completely disgust a woman.
Go figure.
Last year I was hanging out at the RC airfield when Flapz and his latest girlfriend popped by. She temporarily joined us for a quick introduction but soon got bored with us and sat down at a picnic table to text and yak on her phone while we all made nuisances of ourselves. I think today they call it male-bonding or some such rot.
We were about to break and go for our planes when Scotty The Retard showed up. Everyone likes Scotty. While he isn't exactly a retard in the 'Emissary From Heaven' way...he is close enough to it for the nickname to stick. And - because he doesn't care one whit about what a bunch of stupid old farts think about him - we get along famously! In any event he had cobbled together some green army soldiers with parachutes - and needed us to find a way to get them aloft.
It's harder than it sounds. The skydivers run a serious risk of fouling the props so you need to get them up and then dump them without having them bring down your $400.00 (or more) RC airplane. We hemmed and hawed about it when Rick The Dick came up with a solution. Next thing ya know, the plane is in the air with a cup rubber banded to one wing, and the skydiver inside. When he got up to altitude he rolled the plane over, the skydiver fell out - and we all cheered with gusto at the success of our mission. The wind then caught the skydiver and sent him toward the golf course a mile away from our field - with Scotty The Retard and half the old farts in hot pursuit!
With the fun over, I joined Flapz and his girlfriend at the club picnic table where Flapz and I did the high five. Then his girlfriend goes "I don't believe you guys. You're playing with parachute toys..."
There was an awkward pause and then all I could do was bellow out laughing! HAR HAR HAR! HAR HAR HAR! Looking over at Flapz, though...he had a dark expression on his face. Never saw that girl again. Did Flapz give her the punt? Did she give him the punt? Did they mutually break it off like mature adults, or did Flapz put on a goalie mask, fire up a chainsaw and cut her up into little itty-bitty pieces???
I dunno - but she was never heard from or seen again.
At one time I had this thing looking like a miniature blacked out stealth Death Drone, looking like it was ready to go and send Osama and his rag heads to their virgins and monkey god wholesale! For some unknown reason the thing seemed to just offend people who actually thought it was a serious surveillance machine and not a toy for a stupid old guy. One day they were selling those goofy yellow guys at Rotten Ronald's. I had seen them before flying RC jets worth upward of $20k and figured they would be just right for my Crapcopter. So I had my wife buy one. The next week they had another one so she had to buy a Kids Meal to get it too. Then they came up with a third one so she had to buy another kids meal to get that one too. She cheated on her diet, then came home and I got the toys! It was a win for everyone! Now these three yellow goobers delight pretty much any that see them. Surprisingly - they have no impact on the machine's performance at all.
I'm beginning to think that Scotty isn't the only retard at our RC club.

Saturday, 20 February 2016

Your Sunday Morning Sphincter


What in hell is this thing? It's in Flapz' s truck so I probably don't want to know...

One of the heart breaking processes of getting to be a creepy old that you begin to hang out with other creepy old men because they are the only ones that will tolerate your company! We loaded the drones into Flapz's truck to do some flying today and I noticed this thing in the cab ...and it was aimed right at my face! The last time I saw a gaping maw like that was when I fell asleep on the floor once - and woke up with Mort The Dog's bunghole right in my face - he had snuggled into me while I slept. I still wake up screaming in the night and have bad dreams about it!

For the record, I think that is his hair all over my pants. Either that, or I have been wearing them too long and my own hair is starting to grow through them, HAR HAR HAR!!! HAR HAR HAR!!!

I suppose I shouldn't laugh. A nurse we know once had to look after some homeless beardo bum that ended up in emergency...and he had been wearing the same long underwear for so long that the hair on his legs had started to grow through them. GAH! Nurses must have nerves of steel to do what they do.

Anyways I asked Flapz what that thing was and he just gave me a creepy smile. If anyone can identify this thing they will win a tense, fun free trip with Flapz to an empty field of their choice with 25 cents spending money!

Hope your weekends going better than mine...

Friday, 19 February 2016

Saturday Morning Cartoons

This weekend we have one for CM - who has a thing for sweaty lumberjacks.

This weekend's cartoons are short and sweet, dedicated to the responsible adults that police this blog and others were the children are likely to hurt themselves. A friend of mine in the logging industry told me that years ago, a D9 cat was out in the back country muskeg building a logging road where it became mired in the 'skeg. At the time the D9 was the biggest earthmoving monster ever to tread the planet.

Of course now this machine is a flyweight compared to the bigger bruisers....

The boys weren't worried - if you don't get stuck out in muskeg country - you ain't doin' it right! Another D9 was ordered in to retrieve the first...and it got bogged down too! Now the boys were worried! After much handwringing and sobbing and wailing...a third D9 was brought in to rescue the second...and of course it got sunk in the schmag. At that point everyone threw their arms up in despair, and decided to wipe and call it a chit! According to legend, those three D9's are still out there, slowly rusting and returning to the earth their metals were mined from.

In other good news The Mohave Rat is back. Awhile back he fell off the net and we were about to send BW out on his motorcycle to investigate... but all is well! He's back up on the side bar with the other Extraordinary Steamers where he belongs! It's all good, especially as BW tends to get tetchy and pissy when we send him out on the motorcycle in the middle of winter! The Rat Came Back! Which inspires this timely cartoon:

Oh sorry - this isn't about the Rat that came back - it's about the CAT that came back! I need to get new batteries on the hearing aids...

I love cats. Years ago we had two of the smelly bastids. One was a semi-retarded farm cat that I captured in Pop's haystack. (I still have some of the scars). The other was one my daughter brought home and he was smarter than most humans. One day he disappeared without a trace like the Rat did...and everyone was heartbroken. Day after day passed and finally I sat down with my young daughter and explained that her kitty probably wasn't coming back. Death of a loved one is a difficult thing for little kids and I may have shed a tear or two too. It was time to declare him MIA and try to get on with life. The little chit turned up a couple days later. Apparently he was in a neighbours garage (probably looking for something to steal, or a tool box to shit in) - and the neighbour closed up his garage and went on vacation. How did the cat survive in there? There was no water, and he must have been in there for about a week! In any event, the neighbour got home, opened the garage door...and Smokey Joe came out of there at 100 MPH and headed for home at top speed. It is my contention that there is so a God, and that He loves fools, cowards and little girls. Ol' Joe has been gone an awful long time now...but there are times when I feel like I should just be able to go over to his favourite chair and pick him up and start petting him.

Maybe this weekend, we should spare a thought for our departed friends this sunny weekend. I refuse to think they're gone permanently and they might appreciate the thought! :)

Friday Fireside Culture Post: Poetry Corner

As the campfire burns low, I would like to thank Wirecutter for his wonderful rendition of 'Here I Sit Broken Hearted'. Poetry like that makes one question the wisdom of coin operated crappers.

Poetry serves many functions culture - from raising political awareness, to inspiring the soul, to feeding the spirit. Now it is my turn to take the lecturn, in an attempt to feed and inspire your souls too. Ladies and gentlemen, please re-fill your glasses, make yourselves comfortable, and grant me your undivided attention whilst I recite a harrowing poem from the homeland of my Scottish ancestors.

Big Stevie has the shits again
I cannae use the cludgie
He's perched upon the toilet seat,
Half man, half giant budgie
Ah told ya, Stevie,
Ya shouldnae huv
the lukewarm Tandoori mince!
Now finish before
I kark mah breeks
And give the toilet bowl
A rinse.
Disclaimer: this poetry comes from an obscure Scottish comedian who I think was Jimmy McNulty. He had a website years ago filled with humorous doggerel, but I can't find it for love or money. If anyone else can find a link I shall post it and accredit the inspired author accordingly.

The Rebellion Begins

PP hunkers down and prepares for the onslaught. I don't care how many Orcs, zombies, and godless heathen scum sucking commie bastards swarm the Small Hold - I have his six. And by Godfrey, when the survivors find my corpse - they will find it amidst a pile of spent shell casings, my guns with the mags dropped and the bolts locked back - with my knife buried in the gizzard of one of my assailants close by.

It's time to admit what's obvious to everyone. No, the sexes are not equal. They're different. Anything that hurts one gender will ultimately hurt the other. It's also time to admit the 'racists', the 'sexists', the 'homophobes' and other liberal victim groups (didjya see what I did there?) - it's time to admit they were right about a few things.

Poland is not having any of Europe's multi-culti rot about third world migrants. This politically incorrect magazine cover has incensed the Usual Suspects.

The biggest mistake women and ethnic vibrants make is insisting that we lower the performance bar so they can get over it. When I was a kid women were breaking down the doors on prestigious, exclusive institutions that had previously only allowed men in their hallowed halls. Thirty years later those institutions are no longer prestigious or exclusive - and are often mediocre at best. But women and vibrants can go there - so there!!!

As a white straight males we are expected to own our mistakes and wrong-doing...not only ours, but those of our ancestors as well. I think it's time that women, vibrants did the same. If I see something, and it isn't right, goddammitalltohell I am going to say something and if some leftist idiot is offended - so be it.

Things can't go on like this.

Wednesday, 17 February 2016

No Fat Chicks

Looks like all those asshole Alfalfa Males of the Manosphere are obsessed with slim athletic women again.

The Captain is at a loss to explain this woman's popularity.

I actually like the Captain when he's not being a douche. He makes some valid points. No, fat ugly shrews aren't going to tell men what to like and dislike in women.

My favourite liberty loving blood letting barbariess weighs in on the issue too:

No doubt about it, today's woman is heavier than ever before in history. But what is the message here?
I say all this as a low slung, wide bodied fat boy. Years ago I went on a fitness binge and at 5'8" the lowest I got was 191 lbs. I will never look like a beanpole or a skinny - I look remarkably fit at that weight. Today I'm a fat old bald bastard crowding 250. I have no skin in the dating game because I have a beautiful wife that loves me in spite of my dimensions, odour and feeding habits. I am not hurt when people call me Homer Simpson, lard ass, Fat Boy, etc etc. - because I don't have self esteem problems and know what I'm worth.
Let's all back up and understand a few things. Men are not the only ones obsessed with female fitness and good looks.
See any fatties? This is a woman's magazine, why no scolding here?
Why, where are all the chubsters...?
I guess if those stupid men don't read it, there's no need for lipstick on pigs! HAR HAR HAR!
Shall we go on, ladies? Don't lecture us fellas about being obsessed with looks. That is your problem far more so than ours. As long as we're being honest around here - it is women that are driving most of their own self esteem problems too - not men.
If the message on that SI swimsuit cover is 'Women should not be harassed, derided or mocked for being fat' ... I might accept it. It's not a message I particularly need; it is not my habit to go round mocking and laughing at women for being fat. Most men I know won't do it either. If the message is 'This woman is as pretty as any other fashion model' social engineers can shove that one up your ass sideways. She's not. Those models work out, diet, spend hours preparing for a photo shoot and no way is any fat slag going to look as good as they do. Nor is this BS anything new.
Most Americans don't know it but Canada is a hopelessly liberal nation for the most part. A hundred years ago on CBC they had an ad on Thinking About The Perfect Woman Correctly. It started out with the camera panning up along a shapely pair of legs as the female narrator described the perfect woman. 'The perfect woman was 5'6" tall...' The camera hovered on the woman's butt as the narrator continued in an erotic contralto, '...the perfect woman is blonde, and has a a 36-24-36 figure...' the camera hurried past a dismal rack, but lingered on the womans back. Then the camera zoomed out to reveal an extremely athletic but incredibly homely, goat faced black woman. 'And the perfect ASS,' she declaimed, 'is the man that believes all that!' HAR HAR HAR! HAR HAR HAR!!! The ad didn't last long, most women laughed at it too. One can see why the CBC ratings often fall into the single digits.
Being obese is unhealthy physically and mentally. It's not good for you, and no, you fatties and chubsters are not as good looking as any other woman who works out, diets, and goes to great lengths to make herself pretty and attractive to men. That's just the way it is. The Captain isn't buying that pant load, I'm not and no man I know will either.
As a goofy farm kid in school with shit for brains and less for looks guys like me were invisible behind alfalfa males like Captain Capitalism and the football jocks and the cool kids. A bombshell woman like those on the cover's of the women's magazine wouldn't have given me a second glance. They strutted and preened for the alpha male types, and it was a fact of life that I would never get a chance at a top tier woman that the boys of the Manosphere would consider a 'Perfect 10'. Me and anyone that knew me thought I would be a life long bachelor because of my ornery disposition and lack of sophistication. I was about a 4 or a 5 on The Scale looks are measured by...and quite frankly I was not impressed with the young women that scored out like I did.
Back in high school I got dragged out on a double date with a girl who was a solid 6 or 7 on The Scale. She was much like me - awkward and shy, but warm and intelligent. The girls like her literally had their pick of the boys in school and I saw the same thing later in life. They can wrap men around their little fingers in ways that drive feminists nuts with envy. Men that fall for domineering aggressive women pretty much all end up regretting it as do men that defer to them as a means of going along to get along. (Don't ask me how I know this). Men want women that are loving and affectionate... healthy qualities that feminism is tearing out of our girls and young women by the roots.
Young women SHOULD take care of themselves and try to be attractive as they can for their men. That is healthy and wholesome. Young men SHOULD look beyond mere looks in women they are interested in, and get out of the feminist-driven 'hook up culture' - and consider their social encounters with women with an eye towards marriage potential. Much merriment and mileage is made about the 'fragile male ego' and no effort is spared in setting it on fire, drawing and quartering it, and then stomping on its remains with dirty shoes! Most of us guys are not snowflakes and we can take it - and take pride in putting up with shit and abuse! But women? Their egos are far more fragile than ours and this is why all this 'fat acceptance' bullshit is going on when it should be laughed off as a bad joke.
I dunno what the answer is either - to step on their egos the way they step on ours will only hurt them. Going along with 'fat acceptance' only feeds and enables behaviours as self destructive as anorexia and bulimia. We scold and admonish our boys and girls about smoking and the adverse health effects. Why in hell would we tell our girls that it is perfectly acceptable to be a fat slag - and tell our boys to 'appreciate and celebrate' it?
As a public service to the public citizenry I don't go round 'letting it all hang out' and demanding women to tolerate my lard ass - and maybe you shouldn't either ladies. I don't think it's having the effect you want it to.
Would you take this seriously, ladies?


Sunday, 14 February 2016

Happy Valentine's Day

At least my wife didn't forget...
How many of you boys have wives that make Valentines Day cards for you? My wife probably would have bought candies and chocolates but I prefer the booze! Hic! We're drinking spiced rum today because Wirecutter, Unca Bob and BW guzzled all my scotch yesterday and this crap was all that was left in the liquor cabinet! Ya snooze, ya lose I guess! Being a rugged stoic and a real Canadian Man - I will drink whatever is in the jerry can and like it! I'm alright! I'll get by!
That card my wife made is nothing. She has embossing stamps and can make freehand cards that are so elaborate and well done that they go well beyond anything you can buy in the store. Us guys probably wouldn't notice stuff like that, but on Birthdays the women go ape chit over her stuff. Scratch that - some of the guys do too. My father likes her cards too.
It's been a great day. It was plus 5 or 6 today, and while skipping out on my wife's church I still managed to have an insightful epiphany on the rifle range that left me in deep thought for much of the day. I shot fairly well at 200m with the M14, and then went offhand on the gong at 100m and put on a stellar show. It's funny how insight can settle nerves and reflexes - I shall speak more on this tomorrow after I've had a chance to chew on it a bit.
After the shoot I dumped all the brass in the tumbler and did my first run of .45 Long Colt ammo.  These are patty-cake target loads because all I can lay my grubbers on for gunpowder is HP38. But - that's all ya need to punch paper! Maybe I will bark up some experimental rip snorting fire breathing earth shakers - if I can ever lay hands on the right gunpowder! Sheesh! The reason we are having powder shortages up here in Canada is because the Yanks are arming up against their gubbermint down south! Obama and his Donks have pretty much half the country angry and scared and I suspect Turdo La Doo will do the same in Canada in short order. Stupid leaders make for stupid times, I guess. A word to the wise: Stock up on components when ya can , boys.
When I got home from the range the ol' chronic back pain was down around a blissful 1.5 out of 10. Usually it's up around I went for some real long walks with my hoople-headed good for nothing dogs. Macey rolled and rolled in the snow like a retard, and fuggin Mort went into the hunch in the middle of a busy intersection. I had to drag him across the street as turd tumbled from his arse - and people that would ordinarily run you down at the cross walk rather than look at you - well, they stopped and laughed like loons. Everyone seemed to be having a good day today.
It's past 5 o'clock and we still have daylight. The dogs are slowly drying out in their crates and eating their cookies, and I am coming up on half past pished on spiced rum and coke.
Life is good.

Saturday, 13 February 2016

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Well another Saturday is upon us, and that means - SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS!!!!

Where's CM? She was supposed to babysit us guys and keep us out of trouble...hmpffff! Oh - here's a note on the phone:

Good Morning Boys,

In case of gunshot wounds, call 911 and ask for the trauma unit. They know the address and I told them to expect one of you. Don't say I never did anything for ya.

Get stuffed,


PS - Bourbon and Froot Loops in the cupboard, milk in the fridge

My gosh - that sainted woman is a hit with children, isn't she? Well, we got 911 on speed dial, provisions for a Saturday morning blow out... let's get at it!

This is what BW and I do for a summer job on the Bow River in Cowtown in the summer. Now our secret is out: guys as fleet of foot as us are natural chick magnets.

Little black flies? They're pussies in Ontario. A couple years back I was up at CNRL Horizon north of Fort McMurray and the black flies were HUGE and bit like chainsaws! A local told me that Fort Mac was the asshole of the world - and at CNRL Horizon...I was 75km up it...

Few people know that the III Percent Society actually has it's roots up in Canada. If Wirecutter had been around in those days, the Republic Of Manitoba would be a formidable nation today - with sensible gun laws and taxation.

The first time we saw this I looked over and Pop was blinking away tears and laughing at the same time. This was his era as a child and the locale might have been different...but the culture was exactly the same. My father's shame and humiliation became complete when I became a Habs fan on the spot after watching this. The poor man had one son who actually liked the Loafs and another that was a friggin Habs fan. To this day he hasn't forgiven either of us.

Well...that's enough cartoons for one day! Have yourselves a great weekend and thanks for stopping by.

Friday, 12 February 2016

An Interesting Acquisition

Japanese scotch? I've always wanted to try it but haven't had the chance to buy a bottle - until now.

Jesus H. Christ. After a day shooting this badly I need a BIG would probably settle my nerves AND improve my marksmanship! The true Scotch enthusiast drinks on special occasions. I drink on dismal ones. I would slam the bottle and blow my brains out...but would probably miss! HAR HAR HAR!
The best whisky drunk scotch authority in the world is Jim Murray. I have his book - 'The Complete Book Of Whisky' and I can't find anything in there about this spirit. A web search reveals the following blurbage:
Nikka, Pure Malt 'Black' 8-Year-Old (Japan)
After Suntory, Nikka is Japan?s second largest distilling company, and is now owned by the brewer Asahi. Nikka was set up by Masataka Taketsuru, who built Yoichi distillery in 1934, having previously developed Yamazaki distillery for Suntory. A number of Nikka malt whiskies are now available in the UK, and tend to be quite peaty and traditionally Scottish in style. ?Black? is nutty and malty on the nose, with developing peat and a hint of ginger. In the mouth this is initially fresh and fruity ? Spangles sweets, followed by subtle peat, toffee and spicy oak. The finish is lingering, sappy, peaty, and with pleasing fragrant notes. All in all, a beautifully crafted whisky. 43.0% ABV, 50cl, ?20.99, specialist whisky merchants.
I usually like to hoard my booze but I think I am going to open this one tonight and if it isn't good I will clean my guns with it and give what's left over to Uncle Bob. 

Echos Of Childhood

I was born lucky although you would never know it to hear me bitch and gripe. I grew up on a small acreage and then we moved to a small hobby farm. I had backyard chickens, horses, dogs, cats and loved them all. When I drop into the chicken coop it's like stepping back in time to better days with better people. Watching the birds strolling around looking for mischief and fun takes me back to a similar rural setting hundreds of light years away. Make no mistake - chickens have all the character, intelligence and potential for friendship that parrots do. Urban people are often shocked to discover how personable domestic livestock is...and then become morose when they look at what's on their dinner plate.

When I am not making a nuisance of myself at the Chicken Coop I like to trespass on the Small Hold. I can almost hear my father as poor PP barely survives a determined assault by his formerly fine feathered friends.

My Dad's idea of a perfect weekend was two days hard work, with a beer and a flop on the couch for a snooze afterward. Dad was a builder and worked with his hands - and a ruthless perfectionist. His cars, his property, and his machines were always in top notch condition. His shop was neat as a pin. My parents didn't have time to visit and their property in the country was a huge novelty for our urban friends. Since we had no time to visit them - they had to come out to see us. Mom would clean house and chatter and any of her visitors would have to put on the coffee and get out the cookies - and Pop's friends would have to pick up a hammer or a shovel and the men would talk as they worked. It was actually a good arrangement for all - relatives and friends were always coming in and going out, and got to take part in the running of our little farm.

One day Pop and Mr. O were taking a break and sitting on a plywood sheet resting across some saw horses. Wayne O. was a big, lanky former farm kid that loved our little acreage and the hustle and bustle and was always a willing set of extra hands and brains when Pop was undertaking new projects. As they talked, one of the chickens had hopped up on the sheet to visit and see if there was any mischief in the offing. Chickens are actually intensely curious birds which is why they have a highly developed panic reflex. Birds that become pets will eventually lose that panic reflex too.

The bird ambled up and between the two men who paid no attention...and looked at the coffee in their cups...then started pecking at a pack of cigarettes. When Pop took those away, the hen turned to Wayne - who finally took notice of the bird. "Hello little one," he said amicably - and playfully poked the hen with a comical 'Boop!' Insulted, the bird pecked his hand and the big man roared with laughter - which only pissed the hen off. Again, he poked the bird with a playful Boop! - and this time she pecked harder and gave the skin of his hand a painful twist. That hurts a bit - do not ask me how I know this. But Mr. O could not leave well enough alone - again he poked the bird and the hen lost her shit. Feathers flew as she attacked and flapped and squawked - and chased Wayne half way down the driveway in a clucking rage.

"I almost got killed....! By a friggin chicken...." Wayne gasped - and everyone dissolved into laughter. All too soon the fun was over and we were back at work and on with the day. Hours dissolve in seconds on the farm and pretty soon the day was shot. You can't have people come over and work and let them go home hungry - so the BBQ was sparked up. I was in the house rummaging for a pre-supper snack...and I couldn't see Mr. O, but I could hear him... "Why - hello, little one.....Boop!"

I actually saw Mr. O and his wife about 2 years back - they were visiting my parents when I dropped past on a quick errand - and some mad scientist had turned Wayne into an old man! He had had a hip replacement and had the aches and pains of a man that worked hard all his life.
He still laughed and smiled like he always did and I know that even with the hip and the bum knee and the cane...if that psychotic hen were alive today he would give her a playful poke just as he did all those years ago.
Some people never change and with a lot of them - that's something to be thankful for.