polyarcturus
Well-Known Member
we need a quote of the day thread, jesus fucking christ unc, i ablout pissed myself when i read this. best post of the day. maybe even the month.
"Gun-free home" signs
- Thread starter lifegoesonbrah
- Start date
UncleBuck
Well-Known Member
we've had a senile dog that would bark at nothing before. reminds me of stormfront red.
st0wandgrow
Well-Known Member
LMAO! That was close, but not quite as cryptic.
Red1966
Well-Known Member
Still ducking the question. Waiting for Obama to tell you what your opinion is?
UncleBuck
Well-Known Member
you're the one ducking my question, stormfront red.
have i ever said a gun was not meant for self defense? ever? even once? even in joking?
Red1966
Well-Known Member
I don't pay that much attention to what you say. The question was "Are you endorsing guns for home defense?" You seem unable to answer yet. Unless you consider your senile dog some how an answer. A simple yes or no is required. Afraid to express an opinion what Obama to tell you what it is?
echelon1k1
New Member
You know dogs can sense shit that we (humans) can't see or identify with... They are also capable of reading your thoughts... Dogs not people....
UncleBuck
Well-Known Member
oh, i know. but this one was just old, senile, and would bark at the door when no one was there and the other dogs weren't alarming.
UncleBuck
Well-Known Member
echelon1k1
New Member
Yeah they start getting it wrong in their old age but I wouldn't have it any other way, especially if your dog has been with you since a pup....
squarepush3r
Well-Known Member
[h=2]Family finds pet tortoise locked in storage room 30 year later --STILL ALIVE[/h]
A family found their missing pet tortoise in a store room more than 30 years after they lost her, it was reported today.
Manuela disappeared from her home in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 1982 and despite a lengthy search was never seen again.
Her owners, the Almeida family, assumed she had run away after builders working on the house left the front door open.
It was only after their father Leonel died earlier this month that the Almeida children began clearing out a second-floor room which he had filled with broken electrical items and always kept locked.
Leonel's son, Leandro, said he was astonished to find Manuela alive inside a box containing an old record player.
He told Brazil's Globo G1 website said: 'I put the box on the pavement for the rubbish men to collect, and a neighbour said, "you're not throwing out the turtle as well are you?"
'I looked and saw her. At that moment, I turned white, I just couldn't believe what I was seeing.'
Daughter Lenita, who had been given the tortoise as a childhood pet, said: 'Everything my father thought he could fix, he picked up and brought home.
'If he found an old television he thought he might be able to use a part of it to fix another one in the future, so he just kept accumulating things. We never dared go inside that room.
'We're all thrilled to have Manuela back.
'But no-one can understand how she managed to survive for 30 years in there, it's just unbelievable.'
Rio de Janeiro vet Jeferson Pires explained that Manuela's red-footed species of tortoise, can go for long periods without eating.
He said: 'They are particularly resilient and can survive for two to three years without food. In the wild they eat fruit, leaves, dead animals, even faeces.'
He said Manuela may have survived by eating termites from the wooden floors.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/arti...hes-alive.html
squarepush3r
Well-Known Member
As a nine year old, I was deemed too young to watch my dad working in the shop where he was a mechanic. Being that he only saw me on every other weekend and Wednesdays when possible (that was the custody agreement), he made sure to bring me to work with him. It was hard for us to just have a 'hangout' weekend when he had to hold down two jobs. The compromise was that I would hang out in his boss's often vacant office - the owner spent most of the day on job locations and traveling, and knew I stayed in his office. He knew my dad's situation, and sympathized, and he saw no problem with me being left alone around his things as I tended to be quiet, respectful, and fairly content with spending the entire day drawing on steno-pads. This arrangement meant that on two days that I would otherwise be unable to see him on due to his work I'd get to ride with him in the morning, eat my lunch with him, occasionally have snacks, and get to go straight to dinner with him so that we could have as much time together as possible. One day, in an unusual mood, I got a bit antsy and just began walking loops of the office. I went about peering at things, but not touching - the picture of the boss's son above his desk, the view of the lot out the window, etc. I had looped the room so many times I had begun to get dizzy. I rounded the corner of one desk too fast and the stapler that was sitting on the edge clattered to the floor. It had sprung into pieces. I began to panic - would I get in trouble? Would my dad get in trouble? What could I do? I calmed myself and decided to fix it - I had tinkered with and repaired a VCR, so it seemed easy enough to put the parts back into a stapler. It was a heavy-duty stapler, meant for fixing thick stacks of paper together, but even so it was a thankfully quick fix. I was awash with relief at how easy it had been as I gripped the top of the stapler to squeeze the stapling mechanism and it's cover together... ...And stapled both my thumbs side-by-side. The pain was so sudden and sharp that I couldn't even process it. It was like my hands had gone numb. I carefully set the stapler down, examined the wound, and gingerly bit down on the staple and pulled it out. My thumbs began bleeding immediately, and the pain became less sharp and more a hot terrible awareness of the soft tissue in both thumb pads. I fled the office: out on the shop floor there was welding going on somewhere, the sound of a pneumatic drill, a grinder, someone cutting sheet metal - would I even be heard? Where was my dad? I cried out, "I'm bleeding!" One of my dad's coworkers, a huge man I had only met once previously in passing, rounded the corner. He was 6'8" and had a huge tangle of red hair that blended seamlessly with a bushy red beard. He was scarred, scraped, and covered in grease: he had a lazy eye, and spoke mostly in grumbles and growls. He had the demeanor and vague appearance of a solid, somewhat confuse and irritable bear. I froze with nervous terror, unsure of him. He reached down gently and took my hands, and in a gruff voice said, "oh, sweety, let's find you some band-aids." He found the first-aid for me, and after carefully and precisely bandaging my thumbs, got me a cold Sprite from the vending machine and told me to press my thumbs up against it. He said he'd be right back. A moment later he returned with my worried father, who was amused to find me too shocked by the whole experience to cry, though my thumbs hurt terribly. He made sure I was alright, and got me laughing. "Just do your best not to let your mom notice that, okay?" She didn't notice when I got home after that weekend, but she did notice the last of a round of fresh bandages a few days later. I lied and told her I hurt my thumbs at school playing with a thumb-tack. She bought it, and just rolled her eyes at me after seeing that they were okay - they had already healed down to tiny, dark pin pricks. I knew she would have blamed my dad for me getting hurt, and I didn't want him to carry the blame for something I had done to myself. I learned three things from the experience: 1) Huge hairy lumberjack-looking guys sometimes have little girls of their own whom they love very much. 2) I could lie to my mother and get away with it. And of course, 3) Staples really hurt.
SirGreenThumb
Well-Known Member
Was a pretty good story, I edited it for a better reading experience. 
Written By: Squarpush3r
As a nine year old, I was deemed too young to watch my dad working in the shop where he was a mechanic. Being that he only saw me on every other weekend and Wednesdays when possible (that was the custody agreement), he made sure to bring me to work with him. It was hard for us to just have a 'hangout' weekend when he had to hold down two jobs. The compromise was that I would hang out in his boss's often vacant office - the owner spent most of the day on job locations and traveling, and knew I stayed in his office. He knew my dad's situation, and sympathized, and he saw no problem with me being left alone around his things as I tended to be quiet, respectful, and fairly content with spending the entire day drawing on steno-pads.
This arrangement meant that on two days that I would otherwise be unable to see him on due to his work I'd get to ride with him in the morning, eat my lunch with him, occasionally have snacks, and get to go straight to dinner with him so that we could have as much time together as possible. One day, in an unusual mood, I got a bit antsy and just began walking loops of the office. I went about peering at things, but not touching - the picture of the boss's son above his desk, the view of the lot out the window, etc. I had looped the room so many times I had begun to get dizzy. I rounded the corner of one desk too fast and the stapler that was sitting on the edge clattered to the floor. It had sprung into pieces.
I began to panic - would I get in trouble? Would my dad get in trouble? What could I do?
I calmed myself and decided to fix it - I had tinkered with and repaired a VCR, so it seemed easy enough to put the parts back into a stapler. It was a heavy-duty stapler, meant for fixing thick stacks of paper together, but even so it was a thankfully quick fix. I was awash with relief at how easy it had been as I gripped the top of the stapler to squeeze the stapling mechanism and it's cover together... ...And stapled both my thumbs side-by-side. The pain was so sudden and sharp that I couldn't even process it. It was like my hands had gone numb. I carefully set the stapler down, examined the wound, and gingerly bit down on the staple and pulled it out. My thumbs began bleeding immediately, and the pain became less sharp and more a hot terrible awareness of the soft tissue in both thumb pads.
I fled the office: out on the shop floor there was welding going on somewhere, the sound of a pneumatic drill, a grinder, someone cutting sheet metal - would I even be heard? Where was my dad? I cried out, "I'm bleeding!" One of my dad's coworkers, a huge man I had only met once previously in passing, rounded the corner. He was 6'8" and had a huge tangle of red hair that blended seamlessly with a bushy red beard. He was scarred, scraped, and covered in grease: he had a lazy eye, and spoke mostly in grumbles and growls.
He had the demeanor and vague appearance of a solid, somewhat confuse and irritable bear. I froze with nervous terror, unsure of him. He reached down gently and took my hands, and in a gruff voice said, "oh, sweety, let's find you some band-aids." He found the first-aid for me, and after carefully and precisely bandaging my thumbs, got me a cold Sprite from the vending machine and told me to press my thumbs up against it. He said he'd be right back.
A moment later he returned with my worried father, who was amused to find me too shocked by the whole experience to cry, though my thumbs hurt terribly. He made sure I was alright, and got me laughing. "Just do your best not to let your mom notice that, okay?" She didn't notice when I got home after that weekend, but she did notice the last of a round of fresh bandages a few days later. I lied and told her I hurt my thumbs at school playing with a thumb-tack. She bought it, and just rolled her eyes at me after seeing that they were okay - they had already healed down to tiny, dark pin pricks. I knew she would have blamed my dad for me getting hurt, and I didn't want him to carry the blame for something I had done to myself.
I learned three things from the experience:
1) Huge hairy lumberjack-looking guys sometimes have little girls of their own whom they love very much.
2) I could lie to my mother and get away with it.
And of course, Staples really hurt.
Written By: Squarpush3r
As a nine year old, I was deemed too young to watch my dad working in the shop where he was a mechanic. Being that he only saw me on every other weekend and Wednesdays when possible (that was the custody agreement), he made sure to bring me to work with him. It was hard for us to just have a 'hangout' weekend when he had to hold down two jobs. The compromise was that I would hang out in his boss's often vacant office - the owner spent most of the day on job locations and traveling, and knew I stayed in his office. He knew my dad's situation, and sympathized, and he saw no problem with me being left alone around his things as I tended to be quiet, respectful, and fairly content with spending the entire day drawing on steno-pads.
This arrangement meant that on two days that I would otherwise be unable to see him on due to his work I'd get to ride with him in the morning, eat my lunch with him, occasionally have snacks, and get to go straight to dinner with him so that we could have as much time together as possible. One day, in an unusual mood, I got a bit antsy and just began walking loops of the office. I went about peering at things, but not touching - the picture of the boss's son above his desk, the view of the lot out the window, etc. I had looped the room so many times I had begun to get dizzy. I rounded the corner of one desk too fast and the stapler that was sitting on the edge clattered to the floor. It had sprung into pieces.
I began to panic - would I get in trouble? Would my dad get in trouble? What could I do?
I calmed myself and decided to fix it - I had tinkered with and repaired a VCR, so it seemed easy enough to put the parts back into a stapler. It was a heavy-duty stapler, meant for fixing thick stacks of paper together, but even so it was a thankfully quick fix. I was awash with relief at how easy it had been as I gripped the top of the stapler to squeeze the stapling mechanism and it's cover together... ...And stapled both my thumbs side-by-side. The pain was so sudden and sharp that I couldn't even process it. It was like my hands had gone numb. I carefully set the stapler down, examined the wound, and gingerly bit down on the staple and pulled it out. My thumbs began bleeding immediately, and the pain became less sharp and more a hot terrible awareness of the soft tissue in both thumb pads.
I fled the office: out on the shop floor there was welding going on somewhere, the sound of a pneumatic drill, a grinder, someone cutting sheet metal - would I even be heard? Where was my dad? I cried out, "I'm bleeding!" One of my dad's coworkers, a huge man I had only met once previously in passing, rounded the corner. He was 6'8" and had a huge tangle of red hair that blended seamlessly with a bushy red beard. He was scarred, scraped, and covered in grease: he had a lazy eye, and spoke mostly in grumbles and growls.
He had the demeanor and vague appearance of a solid, somewhat confuse and irritable bear. I froze with nervous terror, unsure of him. He reached down gently and took my hands, and in a gruff voice said, "oh, sweety, let's find you some band-aids." He found the first-aid for me, and after carefully and precisely bandaging my thumbs, got me a cold Sprite from the vending machine and told me to press my thumbs up against it. He said he'd be right back.
A moment later he returned with my worried father, who was amused to find me too shocked by the whole experience to cry, though my thumbs hurt terribly. He made sure I was alright, and got me laughing. "Just do your best not to let your mom notice that, okay?" She didn't notice when I got home after that weekend, but she did notice the last of a round of fresh bandages a few days later. I lied and told her I hurt my thumbs at school playing with a thumb-tack. She bought it, and just rolled her eyes at me after seeing that they were okay - they had already healed down to tiny, dark pin pricks. I knew she would have blamed my dad for me getting hurt, and I didn't want him to carry the blame for something I had done to myself.
I learned three things from the experience:
1) Huge hairy lumberjack-looking guys sometimes have little girls of their own whom they love very much.
2) I could lie to my mother and get away with it.
And of course, Staples really hurt.
budlover13
King Tut
That is either one hell of a good memory or you are one HELL of a fictional writer. Either way, good story. Not questioning your authenticity because I have a few memories that vivid. Just ayin', if that's not real, you should be writing. If it IS real, you might think about writing.
deprave
New Member
sounds like an episode of 'The Wonder Years'Was a pretty good story, I edited it for a better reading experience.
Written By: Squarpush3r
As a nine year old, I was deemed too young to watch my dad working in the shop where he was a mechanic. Being that he only saw me on every other weekend and Wednesdays when possible (that was the custody agreement), he made sure to bring me to work with him. It was hard for us to just have a 'hangout' weekend when he had to hold down two jobs. The compromise was that I would hang out in his boss's often vacant office - the owner spent most of the day on job locations and traveling, and knew I stayed in his office. He knew my dad's situation, and sympathized, and he saw no problem with me being left alone around his things as I tended to be quiet, respectful, and fairly content with spending the entire day drawing on steno-pads.
This arrangement meant that on two days that I would otherwise be unable to see him on due to his work I'd get to ride with him in the morning, eat my lunch with him, occasionally have snacks, and get to go straight to dinner with him so that we could have as much time together as possible. One day, in an unusual mood, I got a bit antsy and just began walking loops of the office. I went about peering at things, but not touching - the picture of the boss's son above his desk, the view of the lot out the window, etc. I had looped the room so many times I had begun to get dizzy. I rounded the corner of one desk too fast and the stapler that was sitting on the edge clattered to the floor. It had sprung into pieces.
I began to panic - would I get in trouble? Would my dad get in trouble? What could I do?
I calmed myself and decided to fix it - I had tinkered with and repaired a VCR, so it seemed easy enough to put the parts back into a stapler. It was a heavy-duty stapler, meant for fixing thick stacks of paper together, but even so it was a thankfully quick fix. I was awash with relief at how easy it had been as I gripped the top of the stapler to squeeze the stapling mechanism and it's cover together... ...And stapled both my thumbs side-by-side. The pain was so sudden and sharp that I couldn't even process it. It was like my hands had gone numb. I carefully set the stapler down, examined the wound, and gingerly bit down on the staple and pulled it out. My thumbs began bleeding immediately, and the pain became less sharp and more a hot terrible awareness of the soft tissue in both thumb pads.
I fled the office: out on the shop floor there was welding going on somewhere, the sound of a pneumatic drill, a grinder, someone cutting sheet metal - would I even be heard? Where was my dad? I cried out, "I'm bleeding!" One of my dad's coworkers, a huge man I had only met once previously in passing, rounded the corner. He was 6'8" and had a huge tangle of red hair that blended seamlessly with a bushy red beard. He was scarred, scraped, and covered in grease: he had a lazy eye, and spoke mostly in grumbles and growls.
He had the demeanor and vague appearance of a solid, somewhat confuse and irritable bear. I froze with nervous terror, unsure of him. He reached down gently and took my hands, and in a gruff voice said, "oh, sweety, let's find you some band-aids." He found the first-aid for me, and after carefully and precisely bandaging my thumbs, got me a cold Sprite from the vending machine and told me to press my thumbs up against it. He said he'd be right back.
A moment later he returned with my worried father, who was amused to find me too shocked by the whole experience to cry, though my thumbs hurt terribly. He made sure I was alright, and got me laughing. "Just do your best not to let your mom notice that, okay?" She didn't notice when I got home after that weekend, but she did notice the last of a round of fresh bandages a few days later. I lied and told her I hurt my thumbs at school playing with a thumb-tack. She bought it, and just rolled her eyes at me after seeing that they were okay - they had already healed down to tiny, dark pin pricks. I knew she would have blamed my dad for me getting hurt, and I didn't want him to carry the blame for something I had done to myself.
I learned three things from the experience:
1) Huge hairy lumberjack-looking guys sometimes have little girls of their own whom they love very much.
2) I could lie to my mother and get away with it.
And of course, Staples really hurt.
Harrekin
Well-Known Member
Well it's good for you then that facts are easily backed up by links.
Care to indulge us?
Anotherlover
Active Member
LOL,
I live in South Africa.
We have some of the most stringent gun laws on the planet (you would be lucky to get one 2 years after applying).
We also have one of the highest murder rates on the planet.
Coincidence?
I live in South Africa.
We have some of the most stringent gun laws on the planet (you would be lucky to get one 2 years after applying).
We also have one of the highest murder rates on the planet.
Coincidence?
ultraviolet pirate
Well-Known Member
I think its because of apartheid, and the fact that because of racist economic policies that were in place making many of your countrymen live in squalor.
ultraviolet pirate
Well-Known Member
back in the day, when I was wild and methed out and a bona fide piece of shit teen, a "gunfree home" sign could have gotten the homeowner a visit from me, and my illegal .45 that I traded meth for. (no background check and 17 years old, go on and pass more laws America, keep the white bread knee jerk soccer mom thinking, on day bad guys are gonna be like ok, we will do some background checks and I will register this here stolen gun) but I can see how in the right hands a sign like that could reduce crime, if one really had gun in the home. put up the sign, put out a couple of empty boxes from computers, plasmas etc...make it inviting to someone who can be in and out before the cops can get there, load gun, turn off the lights, and wait for it.