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Have some silliness

(Thu 16th Apr 2009, 10:58, More)

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» Stuff I've found

Not me, but my dad
Around 20 years ago, when I were but a little Scary, we lived on a farm down near Southampton.

One night my Dad was shutting up the barns when something small, black and furry moved near his foot.
Investigting, my Dad discovered a tiny 2-week old kitten, bedraggled and mewing; it's tiny eyes all glued shut with gak.
No sooner had he picked the wee bugger up when he noticed another one deeper into the bushes by the barn.
He picked that one up too, and popped both mewing bundles into his coat pocket (he's a big softy, my Dad).
Then he noticed a cardboard box deeper into the bush, from which more mewing was coming.

The box contained another 2 kittens, meaning that that evening my Dad brough back 4 ickle bundles of black fluff which the entire family instantly adopted.

We suspect that they were the offspring of a pedigree Persian (all of them being fluffier than a fluffed-up fluffy-thing) and a non-pedigree (which is an instant loss of Pedigree status if the kittens had been declared), so had been cruelly dumped on our land. Luckily Dad found them, and we raised them all to be happy fluffy farm cats, the most long-lived of them managed to live for 18 years and all of them will always have a place in our hearts.

Top find Dad.
(Thu 6th Nov 2008, 14:37, More)

» Accidental animal cruelty

Everyone else is submitting phesant stories, so here's mine
My parents own a farm. One field we leave to grow grass which, when long enough, is turned into hay and sold to horsey-people.
To cut this grass, you need a big mower.

My dad uses a 6-metre wide mower that attaches to the back of a tractor, has 4 metre-wide cutting discs and howls like banshee.

Any right-minded creature, when confronted with this whirling death machine, legs it.
Not a dotty lady-phesant who'd made her nest in the field. She decided to sit there (she was sat on her nest, I'll let her off).
One headless phesant.

Dad felt really guilty, and brought all her eggs home, which we then hatched in our incubator.
Only one of the 8or so eggs actually hatched, and I ended up with my very own pet lady-phesant.

She was ace, she sat on my shoulder like a parot, ate out of my hand and had the brainpower of a stunned amoeba.

She couldn't get her head around the concept of windows, and spent hours leaping from my shoulder, swooping across the lounge and slamming into the patio door at high-speeds, only to shake her head, fly back to my shoulder and repeat the move a few minutes later.

She used to fight the cat, but neither of them put any real menace into it.

Eventually I released her back into the wild.
I was worried she'd die after being raised in captivity, but the next year she turned up in our garden, along with a chuffed-looking cock phesant and loads lil baby phesants.
She's came back every spring since then, until she stopped coming one year.
But we still have a clan of phesants who frequent our garden, all decended from my nameless pet.

Length, etc.
(Fri 7th Dec 2007, 11:35, More)

» Pointless Experiments

Home made shotgun ammo
Living on a farm I grew up around guns, mainly shotguns and rifles. From an early age I was taught the dos and don'ts of gun safety and hunting, and was a very sensible young'un.

Until I was actually old enough to be trusted with a shotgun unsupervised (14), at which point all responsible thought went out the window.

Various things were used as targets; the barns, hedgerows, rocks, old toys, etc.
Pretty much everything except actual animals!

Eventually I decided that there was one thing I should try; home made solid-shot.
Now shotguns, as you may or may not know, usually fire a load of fine-grain buckshot; little lead pellets. In America and other countries you can also get 'hunting' round which are basically solid bullets the calibre of the shotgun.
Not able to get such baslistic treats in Blighty, I decided to make my own.

We already had a device for making our own shells, a sort of press-like arrangement into which you poured the shot, powder, wadding and casing and pulled a lever to pop out a new shell.
I made a shell as normal, but this time poured a measure of melted wax in with the wadding and pellets. The theory being that, when fired, the wad would exit the barrel in one large mass.

I headed off with two of these home-made solid-slugs in search of a target which I soon located in a pile of fly-tipped rubbish at the limits of our land; a fridge!

I lined up on the fridge, backed up a bit on second thought, and fired barrel 1.
The noise was incredible. MUCH louder than normal. The recoil felt, wrong.
The fridge? It had a HUGE hole straight through both sides. BOTH sides! The shell had penetrated an inch of fridge, passed through the centre, through another inch of fridge and exploded into shards of wax and lead on the other side.

I looked at the shotgun and discovered that my home-made slug had left long streaks of burned wax all the way along the inside of the barrel.

Now I was crapping myself; this shotgun cost a few hundred quid and my dad would kill me if he found out what I'd done.

Home I ran, the other unfired solid slug in my pocket, to spend the next 3 hours furiously cleaning the shotgun before dad got home.
The time it took to clean, effort involved and general panic dad would somehow KNOW what I'd done ultimately made it really not worth it.

I managed it, and to this day he never found out.

Length? Straight through a fridge!
(Thu 24th Jul 2008, 16:25, More)

» Evil Pranks

My brother bought a copy of Project: Zero
Which, for those who haven't played it, a fucking scary PS2 game about ghosts and the like.
Seriosly; this game gives me heart failure. But it's also brilliant.

My brother and I had taken to playing it in the dark, to maximumise the bum-puckering effects of the game.

I came home from work one winter evening. It was dark already and howling a gale outside. The front door was locked, requiring me to walk around to the back door via the garden to get in. On route I passed the lounge window and noticed my brother, illuminated within by the blue glow of the TV/ PS2.

Like I said this game is scary.

So when I slammed into the window, hard, and screetched like a banshee (I think I shouted "Braaains!" but can't be sure) my brother screamed like a girl and somehow vaulted over the sofa to cower behind it.

The look on his face as it emereged from behind the sofa to the sounds of my side-splitting laughter was classic.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 15:32, More)

» Pathological Liars

Not really a pathological lier, just a 7-year old with a head full of crap
Back in primary school I had a friend called Alex.
He was king of childhood bullshit.
Some great playground porkies still stick in my mind 20 years later.

He claimed his dad was Elvis Presley. A week or so later his Dad was actually Bruce Lee (“yes, I’m half Chinese”, he’d say, “and Dad’s taught me Kung Fu but I can’t show you else he’d go to prison”).
He also claimed to be dying from ‘stomach maggots’ he caught after eating a uncooked squirrel while on holiday in Egypt, served to him by Bedouins to test his courage.

Best of all his crap though was the time he claimed to be Jesus.
That’s right; the actual son of God Almighty.

Now I was a good little church-going lad back then, and quickly guessed this was tosh, but decided to play along.
So when Alex confided in me he (Son of God) missed his Dad (Yaweh, Jehova, the Big Guy Upstairs) and could I think of a way he could get home to heaven, I was quick to suggest all manner of horrible suicide methods (back then I didn’t think of it as suicide; Alex just wanted to ‘go home’).
The one that sticks in my head was drinking piss.
Now wee, as any good 7-year-old knows, is poisonous, so drinking it = death.

I suggested to Alex that a few sips of his own flat lemonaid would ensure a trip back to heaven sharpish.

To his credit Alex went into the boy’s bogs, whipped out the goods and pissed into his hand and then hesitantly licked a few drips.
(Wed 5th Dec 2007, 15:28, More)
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