The Original Old Farts Club

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HP envy x360
joeb631a said:
I came from 8.1 so i never experienced win 10
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Oh that explains it YEP
1649338894199.png

PIA
 
ness2 said:
Nice picture of the hog. You killed it with a knife. Was that hard to do. I was at a friend's house when he tried to kill a hog and he had such a hard time wasn't a pleasant situation.

Love the white peahen. Do they ever attack people?
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Dad used to kill hawgs with one 22 LR in the sweet spot and have them drop without a squeal.

Hippie420 said:
I ain't kissin' ya, no matter how hard up for a buzz I am.
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How about a hug?

free hugs.jpg
 
Never did anything like that. Jeez... My Witchie-Poo and Hisself were from the 17th century. We are talkin' straight-arrow**

**To be fair, I never saw any weed, never knew anyone who even KNEW anyone who had seen weed. <-- Hard to believe as the Ottoman Empire was still in power the last time the Cubs won the World Series, but both statements are true. So I wuzzn't tempted -- only 'cause I din' know such a thing was even possible.

Oh, deah... my Puritan head rises from the muck upon reading the above. I have to disagree with me, upon later thought: We would never have done the swap smoke thing with anyone else but each other... and of course we din' smoke :eek: in the second place.

But I can see from your response and others (eg: other methods that don't really match what I am doing) it is clear that I din' really lay out the uniqueness of the method (not to mention the lower sepsis odds).

The deal is, ya gotta follow these nec et omnes -- no skipping forward or back. Shitdamnhell I just used fargin Latin. Jeez. Lemme take another hit from my bag.

OK. nec et omnes you could prolly figger out, but it means "one and all".

Crikey. Hadda re-read this to get back on track.

The first step is what I call:

Step One: With stopper cork handy, light your bubbler and take one (1) big hit.

Step Two: Cork the burny thing.

Step Three: UNcork the burny thing and draw out all remaing smoke from the bubbler

Step Four: Exhale into the bag.

Step Five: CHILL, DAMMIT, for about two minutes or so. This ain't a fargin marathon.

Step Six: Repeat Steps 1,2,3,4 EXACTLY.

Step Seven: Grab the bag you see right here on my lap as I type this, and run in -- while you can -- and get on the "this is your world, Unca Waltie" show.

Step Eight: Take a hit every now and then on the bag for the next ten minutes ALWAYS exhaling into the bag.

SUMMARY:

You have efficient, zero cost bubbler availability, with zero loss of smoke in the burner (unique in the industry to my limited knowledge) and zero loss of smoke in the bag.

Sumbody could easily build a kit and copyright/patent it. Why would anyone do that?

I would point you towards Sum-barine Girl's cogent note about how there are (many) folks out there that are short/limited on weed... and here is the maximum hit for the minimum possible cost.

Anybody here who is in the business who wants S-T-R-E-T-C-H-W-E-E-D It's yours.
 
Walt, make a small grow room/closet/buy a cheap tent, get a cheap light, find some seeds (there's tons of 'em free) and grow ONE crop indoors. You'll have enough weed in one grow to keep you in smokables 'til you take the dirt nap.

I had three indoor grows and one outdoor. I've no need to ever grow anything again, but I'm gonna, just for S&G's.
 
TheBlackHydra said:
A knife fight hummmm.............
I heard once the hog saw who he was fighting he just up and died from fright LOL
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[John Wayne ON] "Well, Ah tellya, mon-soor, you might want to [pause for no reason] do a mite of checkin' before you let your [gestures with That Big Hat] Texas-sized mouth overload your Rhode Island gun-hand. Uh-hunh." [/John Wayne /OFF]
You axed for it, you spent the bandwidth:

The Hawgfight At High Noon
© Walt C. Snedeker


And now... for the hawg hunt story that very nearly din' git writ...

This one wuz dang close!

Ole Hatchet-Puss Charlie an' Your Humble Obdn't &tc were up in the Low Country of South Carolina. Low Country is real-estate talk fer swamp. Right near the ocean. Even the creeks have tides, and they are fresh water. TINS.

We were on an ole railroad bed from the Civil War era. There were no tracks or nuthin', but it was a straight-as-a-string berm wide enough for a dirt road that went right through the swamp.

Charlie dropped me off (I had a folding chair and my honkin' huge black powder rifle -- it is .58 cal and shoots 555 grain bullets). Note that a 30.06 shoots 150 grain bullets, folks.

This is a BIG gun. Hawg gun.

So I sits there on my foldin' chair inna 100 degree sunshine (the onliest way to find shade would be to lift yer foot an look under it). Been there about 30 minutes, when I saw a deer about 200 feet away, munching on the grass in the middle of the railroad dirt road thingy. It was NOT deer season.

Bored, I figgered I'd go a-sneakin' to see how close I could get. Now, the funny part is, there ain't no cover on toppa an ole railroad track, as you might imagine. And as far as you could see, there was a big ditch on either side of the berm, full of black, icky water. Can't you just picture the pore bastids a hunnerd and fifty years ago in the blazin' sun, diggin' that by hand? YIKES.

Waal, Pilgrims... Ah got about 75 feet away, and I noticed that on the far side of the deer, there were two big oinks!!

So I keeps on a-sneakin', trying to get a shot (damn' deer wuz inna way). Finally, the deer noticed this haggard-lookin' sweaty thing a-sneakin', takes a good look...

...and bolts away, right over the top of the oinks. Oh dear. The oinks run offa the berm and into the thick swamp. So I sits right down there amongst the chiggers and waits.

For a half-hour. That is all my patience is good for to do anything. I creaks up to a standin' and creakin' position, and turns around to go back to my chair.

AW JEEZ!!

Right there by my chair, is a big, BIG oink! He had circled around me inna jungle, and came up right where I had been a-sittin' and a-sweatin'! He goes all stiff, lookin' at me... and I kin see he is about to do a Jesse Owens. So I brings up my cannon, and cuts loose with a wing shot. Damn' thing knocked me on my *** as usual, but I see Porky go down, squealin'. YAY!

Then he gits up a-runnin'. BOO!

I throw down my gun (black powder, d'ysee, no good fer two shots) and start runnin' after the hawg. It had tumbled down offa the berm, run through the black water, and was climbing (somewhat awkwardly) the slope on the other side.

So, with the knife that The Fabled PC had given me fer Christmas in my hand, I went chargin' after him through the icky. I could see that I'd hit him inna head, but the bullet had bounced off (he turned to look as I fired), traveled under his hide, and broke his front leg. Reached out and grabbed his hind leg.

BAD MOVE!!!!!!!

REALLY bad move. I am serial, here.

That damn' hawg spun totally around in a tenth of a second and charged. He hit me inna chest (remember: I wuz down a steep slope from him). Down goes Unca Waltie, sliding into the stank until my head went under the black water. Drank some. Peeyoo! That sucks, so I heaved my head up, and there was the oink... standing on my chest, one inch from my face, and greatly annoyed!

With my left hand, I grabbed his ear, with my right, I made a slash with my skinnin' knife. Made a six-inch gash across his forehead, and he didn't even bleed. Dang. Tried again, and made him bleed from a five inch cut to his jowl. About this time, he nailed me inna left forearm with his tusk. Twice. Owdang, Ow!!

I could see he wuz gonna do fer me, so I stabbed with the knife right into the bullethole in his head. He squealed and took off... with my knife. I wuz a dead man if'n I lost that sucker, so... I spun my legs around and down, and got up outa the yukky black goo. My expensive varilux glasses were somewhere in the water... screw it -- after Porky!!

(An aside here: Yeah, I know... stoopit. And crazy.)

Chargin' up the slope after piggy with my knife, I caught up with him inna thick brambles (ow oo dang ow oo). He turned and charged. I only have one good leg (my left knee is completely homemade and sets off airport alarms). But I stood on the bad leg and timed my kick with t’other one. Got him right onna knife. We both went down, with my left leg under his neck, my left arm around his head (that's when he nearly took my left hand ring finger off with his razor tusk), and my right leg over his back.

I grabbed my knife outa the skull, and began whackin' everything that looked like Porky. After several minutes, to quote that guy from "Romancing The Stone", he "just died in my arms".

I lay there pantin', well, actually wheezin'... I wuz completely outa pants. I was totally covered in guts and blood -- both mine and Porky's. I had two large holes in my forearm, and my ring finger was sliced half off. Porky, meanwhile had donated at least a fair half-gallon of gore onto me. TINS.

Charlie, who'd heard the ruckus from 200 yards away comes runnin' up... he takes one look and actually says:

"Jesus, Walt!! You look like something from "Apocalypse Now" -- Don't get in my truck!!!"

Ya gotta appreciate a guy like that.

On the good side, he found my glasses.
 
Unca Walt said:
Never did anything like that. Jeez... My Witchie-Poo and Hisself were from the 17th century. We are talkin' straight-arrow**

**To be fair, I never saw any weed, never knew anyone who even KNEW anyone who had seen weed. <-- Hard to believe as the Ottoman Empire was still in power the last time the Cubs won the World Series, but both statements are true. So I wuzzn't tempted -- only 'cause I din' know such a thing was even possible.

Oh, deah... my Puritan head rises from the muck upon reading the above. I have to disagree with me, upon later thought: We would never have done the swap smoke thing with anyone else but each other... and of course we din' smoke :eek: in the second place.

But I can see from your response and others (eg: other methods that don't really match what I am doing) it is clear that I din' really lay out the uniqueness of the method (not to mention the lower sepsis odds).

The deal is, ya gotta follow these nec et omnes -- no skipping forward or back. Shitdamnhell I just used fargin Latin. Jeez. Lemme take another hit from my bag.

OK. nec et omnes you could prolly figger out, but it means "one and all".

Crikey. Hadda re-read this to get back on track.

The first step is what I call:

Step One: With stopper cork handy, light your bubbler and take one (1) big hit.

Step Two: Cork the burny thing.

Step Three: UNcork the burny thing and draw out all remaing smoke from the bubbler

Step Four: Exhale into the bag.

Step Five: CHILL, DAMMIT, for about two minutes or so. This ain't a fargin marathon.

Step Six: Repeat Steps 1,2,3,4 EXACTLY.

Step Seven: Grab the bag you see right here on my lap as I type this, and run in -- while you can -- and get on the "this is your world, Unca Waltie" show.

Step Eight: Take a hit every now and then on the bag for the next ten minutes ALWAYS exhaling into the bag.

SUMMARY:

You have efficient, zero cost bubbler availability, with zero loss of smoke in the burner (unique in the industry to my limited knowledge) and zero loss of smoke in the bag.

Sumbody could easily build a kit and copyright/patent it. Why would anyone do that?

I would point you towards Sum-barine Girl's cogent note about how there are (many) folks out there that are short/limited on weed... and here is the maximum hit for the minimum possible cost.

Anybody here who is in the business who wants S-T-R-E-T-C-H-W-E-E-D It's yours.
Click to expand...
WAIT!! I forgot the mention the silver lining:

Since there is no smoke, there is no odor. Even indoors.
 
Hippie420 said:
Walt, make a small grow room/closet/buy a cheap tent, get a cheap light, find some seeds (there's tons of 'em free) and grow ONE crop indoors. You'll have enough weed in one grow to keep you in smokables 'til you take the dirt nap.

I had three indoor grows and one outdoor. I've no need to ever grow anything again, but I'm gonna, just for S&G's.
Click to expand...
Sounds like an obvious solution. But that is where Herself puts her dainty foot down...

On my throat while she looks at her pencil the way Keanu Reaves would, and then looks at my ear.
 
ness2 said:
Nice picture of the hog. You killed it with a knife. Was that hard to do. I was at a friend's house when he tried to kill a hog and he had such a hard time wasn't a pleasant situation. Love the white peahen. Do they ever attack people?
Click to expand...
Absolutely not. Never. Extremely timid. Even though I have hand fed mine for two decades, if there is somebody near, they won't come near me.

Well, now that I got pushed into my John Wayne mode by our errant guard dawg, and you axed a hawg question... I found another article that explains the scar you can see on my eyebrow. It is most ricky-tick hawg related.

1653327027665.jpeg

Rootin’ With The Hawgs

© Walt C. Snedeker​

The brand-new day broke through the dark. Through the window near my bunkbed, I could see that it was windy out, and chilly, with a hint of rain at the edges. It was the kind of day that makes for ruddy cheeks and green grass. My trouble is that I believe ruddy cheeks are for girls, and green grass is for cows -- and I’m happiest when I’m good and stinking hot.

“Ah, lookit the blustery weather,” Charlie offered from the bunk across the way, “makes you feel good to be alive.”

“When it’s like this, I don’t feel either.” I was starting off cranky. We were in the bunkhouse on Brahma Island, which is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in the United States. We were going wild boar hunting this morning, and I was a little bit in the hole with the thought of mucking about in a cold, evil swamp when I really wanted to muck about in a hot, yummy swamp. Oh, well, here we were, out in the edges of Yeehaw Junction... it had to be more comfortable than being up to my gizzard in that blue snow which caused me such icy wretchedness on Mt. Everest in Colorado. Hawg huntin’ is more temperate than elk huntin’, if for no other reason than that the clever beasties are considerate enough not to climb mountains and live in sub-zero misery.
Charlie and Himself had arrived the day before. The previous day’s exploits could be summed up as a learning experience. We learned that the huge guide, who went by the name “Snake” was crazy. And that while it was a relatively simple matter to shoot a hawg, getting a trophy boar was a different matter entirely.

We had spotted a dozen or more of our quarry, but none of the size and ferociousness we lusted for.

Little did I realize that today was to be The Day.

Delicious smells were coming from the huge bunkhouse kitchen, where Doug- The-Cook was preparing great masses of concentrated cholesterol. Since it is a well-known, proven scientific fact that vacation calories and fats do not ever stick to the human body, I found myself eagerly wolfing down humongous clots of sausage, eggs, grits and white gravy (poured all over the hot muffins). A mere half-gallon of coffee, and I was ready to whip my weight in butterflies.

“Want some more coffee, Walt?” Charlie had the big pot in his clutches, waving it at me.

I declined politely; I had enough caffeine in me to make my hands shake like Marcel Marceau on crack.

“Well then,” rumbled Snake’s freight-train voice, “let’s go git us a big hawg.”

The truck awaited us outside. It was a sort of pickup truck on steroids. It had a big cage in it to hold the dogs, and a bunch of gunracks on the cab roof. The tires were about chest-high, and the bumpers would not have been out of place on an Abrams M-1 Main Battle Tank.

We climbed on.

Well, as an average, we climbed on. Charlie leaped on, and I sort of creaked on. I find it annoying that Charlie is two years older than I am, and he jogs. He’s as fit as a flea. Now, me... I’m 70. That’s not old, if you’re a tree. But I’ve had somewhat rougher mileage -- my bod looks like it was put together on a government contract out of scrap parts. But I’m not old. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am. I don’t want to pick on Charlie just because he’s so healthy. Well, not much, anyway. I always say that if you can’t say something good about someone, sit right down here by me.

The two dogs were yelping for joy at the prospect of going hunting. They raced each other to get into the cage in the truck.

A great lurch, and we were off.

To Be Continued... (*yawn*)
 
It is now time to step aside, so to speak, and explain the concept of wild boar hunting on Brahma Island.

The first thing you should know is that wild boars have no natural enemies. That means that they are not necessarily afraid of you. Keep that in mind.

There are two options: You can ride around, looking far ahead through the brush and trees to spot the critturs. Or, when the vegetation gets really heavy, you can stop the truck, and let the dog run around sniffing through the palmettos. Either scenario generally has the same result -- the dog winds up chasing the boar (which can run amazingly fast) until the boar gets really annoyed, and turns at bay. This is a critical time, for the dog is really stupid. Or brave to the point of recklessness.

The dog will continue to bark, and charge at the boar, distracting it from the approach of the truck. The hunter piles off of the truck, and gets over near enough to the boar for a clear shot before it finally decides to make muttburgers out of its pestering canine tormentor. This is tricky, because the boar may just decide to suddenly ignore the dog and make peopleburgers out of the guy with the rifle.

We had decided by rock-paper-scissors that it was my “up” this day. That meant that Charlie would be my backup, whose job it would be to drop the boar if it began to eat me if I missed my shot.

We rode around uneventfully for a while, and then Snake decided to let the dog check out an isolated patch of palmetto. We all got out of the truck to watch Ole Blue go to work.

Bingo!

A basso profundo grunt came from the palmetto clump just as Ole Blue poked his nose in. With frenetically insane barks, O.B. flushed the monster from its hidey-hole.

Unfortunately, the inconsiderate beast ran directly out of the far side of the clump, and headed at high speed for the deepest jungle on the island with the maniac dog at his heels. Snake, Charlie, and Your Humble Obedient followed around the palmetto clump.

Normally, the only part of me that runs is my nose (or my stockings, when I’m in drag), but this was an emergency. As Snake shouted over his shoulder, “If he gets into that jungle, he may kill the dog before we can get anywhere near him!”

The jungle that Snake was referring to looked like something out of the original King Kong movie. We watched the mismatched pair disappear into it. Snake was nearly out of sight by the time I wheezed up to the edge of the incredibly dense palmetto. It was so thick, I could not see my own feet, and I could just make out parts of Snake, who was standing about ten feet ahead of me.

The dog kept up its frenzied barking.

I could hear a sudden, loud crash-rustle of palmetto fronds, and suddenly the dog gave a high-pitched squeal and went silent.

Snake cussed. We pushed into the palmettos as fast as we could. I couldn’t see a thing, and was now just following the sound made by the big guy ahead of me. I began to think about those huge rattlesnakes that were in all the photos around the bunkhouse.

They lived in this very stuff. Eek. Eek.

The dog started barking again. Relief.

Snake was suddenly there. He grabbed my shoulder and whispered fiercely:

"He’s right up ahead, if you duck down low, you can see him. Go in an git him! Quick! Before he kills Ole Blue!”

There was nothing for it. I believe in the philosophy that no man can be sure of his courage until the day of his death, but I was too much caught up in the hunt to be rational and seriously consider the insanity of just what I was about to do. Besides, the secret to the greatest enjoyment of life is to live dangerously.

The Fabled PC puts it differently. She says that when I am between two evils, I like to try out the one I’ve never done before. And I am not afraid of dying – I just do not want to be there when it happens.

So I offered up a prayer that all rattlesnakes would take a short vacation, and got down on my stomach to begin crawling toward the racket. Charlie helped my state of mind enormously by offering the whispered observation:

“Geez, Walt, I can’t see any part of you at all past your waist.” His foot was touching mine as he spoke. “I can’t give you any backup.”

Oh. Fine.

The din was deafening. When the boar gruntsquealed, the palmettos shook. The crazy dog was barking itself into psychosis. I was shaking like an aspen leaf, and without even aspen their leaf to do it.

Then I saw it.

Well, I saw the ear. The ear was huge. It was about 7 or 8 feet away. Lessee now... the dog’s mayhem was coming from a little to my right... that means the boar was facing it. If I could see an ear, that meant the rest of the boar was... over there.

I brought the rifle up. It rattled a palmetto frond.

And everything changed.

The boar turned on me at full speed. The time it took to travel about 1½ body lengths was about a fifth of a second. My finger squeezed the trigger convulsively.

The boar contacted the end of the rifle barrel just as the rifle went off. I felt a short, bright pain by the bridge of my nose and eye. It was the boar’s razor tusk.

Then Snake was there, and the nutty dog was ripping at the dead boar’s ear in a righteous indignation.

I was bleeding like (you should pardon the expression) a stuck pig. Charlie handed me his handkerchief. He looked at the tableau.

“Wow! That’s as close as you can get! Great shot!”

Little did he know that I never shot intentionally, all I did was sort of spasm at the right split-second. Snake handed me a bottle of ardent spirits from the truck.

I took a shaky much-needed pull, then another. All I could think of to say was, “The reason why I like to drink: when I’m thirsty, to cure it; when I’m not... to prevent it.”

I think next time Charlie and I go out, we’re going to try rhinoceros wrestling -- or maybe bobbing for cobras... you know, something a little tamer
 
Hippie420 said:
That four years of wrestling I took has came in handy throughout the years..... :cool:
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Im a big guy and I had that one smaller friend that would wrap my neck and no matter how hard I try to break and toss him he just rode me like a wild bull.
He choked me out one day and I said no more
 
Unca Walt said:
Well, now that I got pushed into my John Wayne mode by our errant guard dawg, and you axed a hawg question... I found another article that explains the scar you can see on my eyebrow. It is most ricky-tick hawg related.

View attachment 297769
​
Click to expand...
I thought you got that scar when Minnesota Fats cracked yer noggin with his pool cue after claiming you cheated him in a game.:angiesfavorite:
 
joeb631a said:
yes I got a HP envy x360
I was about to comment windows 11 sux!!!!
Click to expand...
I haven’t had a computer in years. Do all my stuff on a iPhone and iPad. Getting a new pad tomorrow. Hope it will let me on MP and y’all remember me when I’m trying to log on 😊. It is suppose to transfer everything over from “the cloud” but last time I lost some stuff. I hope I remember my password.
sorry about mojo. My heart is with you and your wife 💕
 
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