My nose/ear trimmer is powered by a panhead with a suicide shifter...
We desperately need a manly thread.
- Thread starter 4Js
- Start date
Bob R
US Veteran
Ummmm, how to say this, ummmmm, you do know that the little warriors are already taking a dirtnap, right? Well, actually a treetop nap, they are going to have little streamers on them to keep them in the trees. The last time they tried this, the little (dead) warriors didn't have streamers and went straight to the ground. I guess it would have worked, had they been after the brown ground snake.
bob
Bob R
US Veteran
Well, here is petunia before her big event.....and why, oh why, did they slice off her eyelids?
After marinating for 4 days, she was introduced to the cajun microwave.
After about 5 hours of slow cooking, she was flipped to crisp up the skin.
Then we ate her.
How's that for manly?!?!
bob
After marinating for 4 days, she was introduced to the cajun microwave.
After about 5 hours of slow cooking, she was flipped to crisp up the skin.
Then we ate her.
How's that for manly?!?!
bob
Cocked & Locked
Member
Now that is manly. Here's another one for you to cook...still has eyelids too.
Bob R
US Veteran
Now that is manly. Here's another one for you to cook...still has eyelids too.
I think that will go over our 60 pound limit in the microwave!! Petunia came in right at 60 lbs (dressed for the party) and filled up the cooker. I guess we could go a little bigger if we chop em off at the knees.
bob
How about a thread when playing by Marquess of Queensberry Rules whilst being a gentleman and that other fellow is hopping about and acting odd, suddenly you realize he's fighting MMA and you are going to be sucking food through a straw. Drat the luck!!!
True Grit. The Duke and the Dude. My hero as a kid and one of my heroes now.
Who's the guy drinking Half & Half out of the carton?
Now that's MANLY, the opposite of skim milk !
reddogge
Member
NO manly discussion should take place without the addition of this guy. A manly man among men.
lonejacklarry
US Veteran
See this site for a little more information on the mission and three other heroes you never heard of.
http://240thahc.50megs.com/LZ/tribute.html
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Wyatt Burp
Member
You know how manly I am? I cook bacon naked!
This cannot be helped, we are easily distracted and fascinated by suction.
That's what Swiss Army knives are for.
I trim my nails with my Rock Chucker.
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A manly story from a time out of mind...True? Who really knows.
There was a hot dry wind blowing dust and tumbleweeds down the main (and only) street of the little Texas town on the Mexican border. There was a layer of dust on everything making the glass on all the windows facing the street translucent but not really transparent.
Even so, every one of those windows was crowded with the faces of the young and old eagerly waiting to see what was going to happen out side in the street. Tension filled the air. Nervous faces held their breath because they all knew that something was about to happen. It had apparently been building for some time and now it seemed there was no way to avoid the inevitable.
A half an hour before, a tall slender cowboy with a Walker Colt tied down on his right leg stood at the bar in the saloon. He thoughtfully studied the shot of whiskey that sat on the bar in front of him. He made no effort to reach for the drink he just gazed at the reflection in the big mirror behind the bar of him standing there his drink unattended.
It was only noon and the saloon was mostly empty. There was one table with a lackluster card game going on but no one else stood at the bar. There was no piano player and there were no hostesses in the place. Then the bat-wing doors flew open and the sheriff stepped inside out of the sun. Sweat ran down the side of his face as he looked at the stranger at the bar.
"Jackson?" asked the sheriff. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the cowboy put his eyes on the reflection of the sheriff in the big mirror. After a moment he gave a very brief very slight nod of his head. The two men locked eyes in the mirrors dusty reflection. The moments passed by. Then, "Outside, now!" said the sheriff with a firm voice. He quietly hoped that no one heard the slight tremble under the surface of his deep baritone voice. With out another word or action he turned and walked back out into the street.
The cowboy's gaze in the mirror returned to his own reflection. Holding his own gaze in the mirror he reached out and picked up his whiskey. He knocked it back in one shot. He reached into his back pocket and pulled a big blue bandana, removed his sweat- stained hat and wiped his forehead and face. Place his hat back on and squared it on his head and put the bandana back in his pocket.
The expression on his face never changed as he slowly but purposefully crossed the saloon floor and pushed his way through the bat-wing doors. The sheriff was wearing a Navy Colt in a cross-draw holster as he stood in the middle of the street. The sun glinted off the badge on his chest. The sweat pouring down his face and staining his shirt belied his cool demeanor. He stood perfectly still as the cowboy walked out into the street and turned to face his opponent.
The two men stood facing each other for an interminable amount of time, neither blinking, neither moving a muscle. It looked for all the world like a moment frozen in time that would never end. Then two hands slapped leather. Two Colts roared almost simultaneously.
The sheriff took a slug in the right side low in his ribcage that shatter a rib and passed on through. The Cowboy was hit in the throat and fell backward. He squirmed and gurgled for a brief moment and then lay still. The sheriff walked over to the cowboy's body and took the gun from his hand and stuck it into his own gun belt.
He turned and walked into the saloon. He walked behind the bar, ignoring the bartender and poured himself a drink and drank it still holding the bottle in his hand. He then poured another drink and set the bottle on the bar. He pulled his hand away from his wound and looked at the tremendous amount of blood and tossed back his drink.
The bartender asked the sheriff, Who was that guy?" The sheriff ignored the bartender and headed for the door. But just as he reached the bat-wing doors he put his hands out to push them aside the sheriff turned to the bartender and said, "No one important. At least not any more..." He pushed on through the doors and was gone.
There was a hot dry wind blowing dust and tumbleweeds down the main (and only) street of the little Texas town on the Mexican border. There was a layer of dust on everything making the glass on all the windows facing the street translucent but not really transparent.
Even so, every one of those windows was crowded with the faces of the young and old eagerly waiting to see what was going to happen out side in the street. Tension filled the air. Nervous faces held their breath because they all knew that something was about to happen. It had apparently been building for some time and now it seemed there was no way to avoid the inevitable.
A half an hour before, a tall slender cowboy with a Walker Colt tied down on his right leg stood at the bar in the saloon. He thoughtfully studied the shot of whiskey that sat on the bar in front of him. He made no effort to reach for the drink he just gazed at the reflection in the big mirror behind the bar of him standing there his drink unattended.
It was only noon and the saloon was mostly empty. There was one table with a lackluster card game going on but no one else stood at the bar. There was no piano player and there were no hostesses in the place. Then the bat-wing doors flew open and the sheriff stepped inside out of the sun. Sweat ran down the side of his face as he looked at the stranger at the bar.
"Jackson?" asked the sheriff. Nothing happened for a moment. Then the cowboy put his eyes on the reflection of the sheriff in the big mirror. After a moment he gave a very brief very slight nod of his head. The two men locked eyes in the mirrors dusty reflection. The moments passed by. Then, "Outside, now!" said the sheriff with a firm voice. He quietly hoped that no one heard the slight tremble under the surface of his deep baritone voice. With out another word or action he turned and walked back out into the street.
The cowboy's gaze in the mirror returned to his own reflection. Holding his own gaze in the mirror he reached out and picked up his whiskey. He knocked it back in one shot. He reached into his back pocket and pulled a big blue bandana, removed his sweat- stained hat and wiped his forehead and face. Place his hat back on and squared it on his head and put the bandana back in his pocket.
The expression on his face never changed as he slowly but purposefully crossed the saloon floor and pushed his way through the bat-wing doors. The sheriff was wearing a Navy Colt in a cross-draw holster as he stood in the middle of the street. The sun glinted off the badge on his chest. The sweat pouring down his face and staining his shirt belied his cool demeanor. He stood perfectly still as the cowboy walked out into the street and turned to face his opponent.
The two men stood facing each other for an interminable amount of time, neither blinking, neither moving a muscle. It looked for all the world like a moment frozen in time that would never end. Then two hands slapped leather. Two Colts roared almost simultaneously.
The sheriff took a slug in the right side low in his ribcage that shatter a rib and passed on through. The Cowboy was hit in the throat and fell backward. He squirmed and gurgled for a brief moment and then lay still. The sheriff walked over to the cowboy's body and took the gun from his hand and stuck it into his own gun belt.
He turned and walked into the saloon. He walked behind the bar, ignoring the bartender and poured himself a drink and drank it still holding the bottle in his hand. He then poured another drink and set the bottle on the bar. He pulled his hand away from his wound and looked at the tremendous amount of blood and tossed back his drink.
The bartender asked the sheriff, Who was that guy?" The sheriff ignored the bartender and headed for the door. But just as he reached the bat-wing doors he put his hands out to push them aside the sheriff turned to the bartender and said, "No one important. At least not any more..." He pushed on through the doors and was gone.
I shot a crow in the head with a 22 last week. It died. I then picked it up and threw it into the trash. The crows are out of control here. Our city council has authorized us (city police) to shoot the blasted things - using birdshot of course and watching our backstops. So far I've taken out thirty-two crows. Is that manly enough?
ogilvyspecial
Member
I'm hoping it is since I had probably shot that many crows by the time I was 12.
I learned a lot, about the interaction between crows, hawks & owls while
crow hunting. Those three types of birds don't get along.
BCDWYO
Member
Best
Thread
Ever
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Ever
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dewey
Member
I'm going up to 120 feet on this man-lift. Seemed manly at the time.
(just don't look down often and keep working...)
Dan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
(just don't look down often and keep working...)
Dan
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wyatt Burp
Member
C'mon, AR. Are you putting me on? If not, here's a hint. They are both Rooster Cogburn.
Alnamvet68
US Veteran
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2012
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I believe I'm in the right place....can anyone recommend a foot cream that will give me pretty feet? 
