Category: Well I thought it was funny!
Libraries are typically considered to be fairly civilized, quiet spaces conducive to learning.
However, that is not always the case. Photo by Carol Highsmith.
Most folks reading this are likely grown-ups. We have jobs, mortgages, families and responsibilities. However, for guys at least, no matter your station or means, little is more reliably entertaining than a good fart story.
There I was, a second-year medical student. For the previous year and change, I had functionally lived in the library. I should have taken my mail there. In exchange for the absurd amount of time I had logged in that accursed place, I developed some super friendships and had been privy to some genuinely bizarre goings-on. One of the more memorable was a truly gripping tale of urban survival.
Cultural mores are regional. What might be socially appropriate in one part of the world is breathtakingly offensive elsewhere. Our hero in this case was a foreign student whose idea of what was acceptable behavior in public obviously differed somewhat from our own.
This is where I went to medical school. In addition to a great many radical experiences,
I was also once nearly farted to death by a foreign student in the school library.
The Guy
I was sitting peacefully with a half dozen fellow denizens in the library’s central upstairs study zone, my head buried in a pathology text, when the hapless villain strolled by. As might we all, I looked up, nodded, and smiled. These things I did without conscious thought.
Without preamble, this vile, rotten dude responded by ejecting the most earth-shattering fart it has ever been my displeasure to survey. Witnesses to the event later attested that they observed books falling from shelves and overhead lights flickering in response to the deafening ejection. In retrospect, it was a miracle no one was killed.
The Thing
Flatus is the release of gas — predominantly methane, carbon dioxide, nitrogen and hydrogen sulfide — from the gastrointestinal tract. This gas is a byproduct of the chemical and enzymatic breakdown of our food. The typical adult human produces between 500 and 2000 milliliters of the rancid stuff per day. It is the hydrogen sulfide that produces the distinctive objectionable odor.
Given the volume and resonance of the discharge, I fully expected it to have blown a hole in his pants. Discreetly covering his backside with a sheaf of papers, Flatulence Man strolled blissfully on. He unleashed one more ground-shaking monster before calmly selecting a seat nearby. He then began to dig out his books nonchalantly. Our eyes burned, and our ears rang, yet this dude acted as if nothing of significance had occurred.
The Aftermath
For one pregnant trice, all remained still and peaceful. Not one sound broke the utter silence of the scene. Then, like that awesome moment during the demolition of a towering building between when the charges go off and the massive structure begins to topple, I gradually raised my eyes. There, seated directly across from me and now adjacent to the gentleman with terminal gas, sat my classmate.
His eyes, watering uncontrollably, met mine. I bit hard into my tongue, nearly drawing blood before I succumbed to the inevitable. We both then unleashed an uncontrolled torrent of pitifully-suppressed laughter. Mine felt as though it escaped through my nose and ears.
I stood up and quickly made my way to a quiet spot in the far corner of the library, now laughing so hard I thought my eyes might bleed.
My buddy met me moments later, and we both savored the hilarity of the experience. We replayed the details verbally so as to ensure that, should one of us not live through the evening, at least the epic story might survive. When we finally had regained some semblance of decorum, we purposefully made our way back to our seats.
No sooner had we resumed our places did the flatulent gentleman now retrieve one of those nasal suction devices used on congested infants and go to work zealously purging his sinuses.
The resulting snorking sound very nearly loosened the ceiling tiles. I looked on in amazement as my buddy veritably leaped from his seat, apparently fearing that some of the voluminous nasal discharge might inadvertently affix itself to his person.
All decorum was now hopelessly lost. My prospects for a profitable evening of study had perished along with it. I gathered my gear and made my way home, sincerely but fruitlessly wishing the rest of my library pals productive scholarship.
Ruminations
I don’t recall having seen the flatulent gentleman with the atypical personal hygiene habits again stalking the halls of the library after that fateful evening, his potentially lethal bowels ever ready to strike.
We all felt his scholarly pursuits might be best exercised in a better-ventilated area. Regardless, I sincerely expect to see his G.I. tract on display in a museum someday, either as a revolutionary new source of natural energy or a devastatingly effective chemical weapon system.
I think the school children of tomorrow should be able to appreciate such a remarkable medical oddity, albeit in a safe and controlled environment.
Regardless, I enjoy a certain deep and abiding kinship with Walt, Krista, Scotty, and the other survivors of that momentous evening.
Like survivors of an air crash, earthquake victims, or combat-hardened Navy SEALs, I feel that we have, by triumphing in the face of this unspeakable crucible, developed a bond that transcends the boundaries of most mortal experience.
Should I be so fortunate as to bump into one of these fellow physicians 30 years hence at some professional gathering or academic symposium, we will no doubt be reduced to tears over the retelling of that timeless evening when the mysterious stranger with the hyperactive bowels rendered the entire med school library uninhabitable.
Memphis man arrested after discovering pit bull security system comes standard with free grill
H/T Wynn
MEMPHIS, TN — A Memphis man learned the hard way this week that not every backyard appliance is part of the city’s unofficial “take what you can carry” rewards program.
Police say 41-year-old Leonard “Lil Riblet” Barksdale allegedly hopped a privacy fence in Southeast Memphis around 2:13 AM after spotting what he reportedly described as:
“a lightly supervised gas grill.”
According to neighbors, Lil Riblet moved through the backyard “with the confidence of a man who’s never once considered consequences.”
That confidence lasted approximately four seconds.
Because waiting in the yard was Memphiszilla…
a pit bull described by witnesses as:
“Built like a refrigerator with childhood trauma.”
Authorities say the dog immediately activated what experts are now calling:
“The Find Out Phase.”
Neighbors reported hearing screaming so intense one woman thought somebody was auditioning for a gospel solo three streets over.
One resident said:
“That man hit notes that could remove wallpaper.”
Police say Lil Riblet attempted multiple escape strategies, including:
• Climbing a trampoline
• Throwing a lawn chair as a peace offering
• Yelling “BAD DOG” in a voice cracking like a middle school clarinet
• And at one point allegedly trying to negotiate:
“Bro please… I don’t even need the grill anymore.”
But Memphiszilla was reportedly unmoved.
Investigators say the suspect eventually climbed onto a patio table and called 911 HIMSELF while the dog circled below like a furry tax collector.
Dispatchers reportedly struggled to understand him because he was simultaneously crying, wheezing, and screaming:
“HE GOT MY SLIDES!”
When officers arrived, they found Lil Riblet apologizing directly to Jesus.
The homeowner later announced Memphiszilla would receive:
Two T-bone steaks
Full neighborhood hero status
Unlimited backyard patrol privileges
And possibly a commemorative plaque near the smoker
Online, Memphis residents immediately renamed the dog:
“The Grill Reaper.”
Moral of the story:
In Memphis, you might steal somebody’s grill…
…but sometimes the grill comes with teeth.
or hopefully this
and on another note
Welcome, fellow gun nerds, collectors, shooters, hoarders, handloaders and any other law-abiding shooters obsessed with firearms and firearm-related regalia. We come from all walks of life, socio-economic backgrounds and varying intensities for our love of guns and gun-related stuff.
But as we get older, the fruits of our life’s long labor reach a pinnacle for our efforts, and strange things can start happening.
Brain Fog?
While guns and all their associated paraphernalia bring us much joy, it’s not all fuzzy feelings, warm puppies, and rose-colored glasses, either. Sometimes, guns bring some of the most frustrating times imaginable. Huh?
Let me explain. With time, (age), it gets harder to keep track of all our possessions. It’s why we like leaving stuff lying around the house. While our wives think it’s laziness, it’s really because we want to know where certain items are.
Be it the kitchen counter, the side table by “our” chair, or even the kitchen table, placing these items “out in the open” provides a sense of security by reassuring us we know where it is.
We’ve learned long ago to know better than trusting ourselves to place important items in that “special place.” We’ll never forget, right? These are usually the first things we forget about. Keeping track of expanding inventory is tough.
Never Lost?
Some of the most frustrating things I’ve lost were never lost in the first place. This incident happened about 30 years ago, when I was just barely 30 years old. I just came back from the range and was cleaning my guns, most being single-action revolvers. You all know you must remove the cylinder base-pin on a single-action to remove the cylinder so you can clean the barrel.
I’d clean one gun, reassemble it, and move on to the next. All was going splendidly until the last gun, a Ruger 4 5/8″ Blackhawk. I pulled the cylinder, cleaned it, and went to put it back together. Where the hell did that base-pin get off to? It wasn’t on the red shop rag where I’d laid the other base-pins.
I looked on the floor, spreading my search pattern inch by inch in a circular pattern. I considered the possibility of the base-pin rolling under my workbench, since it was round. No luck. I looked under the shelving behind me. Negative results. I pulled everything off the shelves, thinking maybe it bounced, or I had absently placed it there. Nothing!
By now, I’m starting to sweat, not figuratively, but literally, from the combination of frustration and anger. Well, over an hour goes by and I pick up the offending gun, figuring I’ll just buy another base-pin from Belt Mountain, who incidentally, was just purchased by Skinner Sights. Looking at the gun, I felt like a bigger idiot than I already am.
The gun had a 4 5/8″ inch barrel. To remove the base-pin would require taking the ejector rod housing off, which I didn’t do. The base-pin was on the gun the whole time. I felt relieved, and then, even madder at myself for being such an idiot, before laughing. For a good hour, that beloved gun drove me crazy.
Never Lost II
These next tales I can’t take credit for, but happened to a good friend of mine. He has a collection of rifles that are all the same make and model, only having different calibers. All the rifles come with muzzle brakes, along with a thread protector, for when you don’t want the brake on the gun.
My buddy lost the thread protector. He looked in his box and in all the usual places. He’s more patient than I, as his search lasted well over 6 weeks before solving this caper. The gun for the thread protector he was looking for was never threaded. He just assumed it was and spent several hours stretched out over six weeks looking for something that never existed.
This same buddy couldn’t locate one of his pistols. He looked and looked to no avail.
He talked to our Sgt. about reporting it stolen. Knowing my buddy’s history, our Sgt. told him to wait a few days, see if it turns up. A day or so later, the office phone rings. I answer it, the person on the other end tells me he’s a gunsmith, and my buddy needs to pick up the gun that’s been ready for 6 weeks. Case closed!
Spring Forward, Fall Back
Just as owning, collecting and shooting guns can be relaxing, so can working on them. But be forewarned. Working on our beloved guns has the potential to be very frustrating, especially when it comes to springs.
Whoever invented the tempered coiled spring should be wrapped in the very wire they’re made from and dropped from a bridge to see if they bounce back. When compressed, these spiral wires provide us with free motion for moving parts. But there’s a catch!
They also have the potential for causing frustration and/or serious injury! They look innocent enough, packaged in clear plastic bags. But try compressing one while cramming it in the tight confines of a gun, and their temperament takes on a whole new dimension.
Possessed to infuriate, they enjoy launching themselves unannounced, then playing hide & seek in dimly lit basements with flooring the same identical color as them. Recovery can be futile, unless, of course, it’s sticking in your eye. Don’t ask, but I once wore an eye patch for a week. The popular Slinky brainwashes children into believing springs are all fun and games. Curious gun owners know better.
Before the Cube
Working on your own guns is easy, mostly. Sure, we all like to think we’re gunsmith worthy, the second coming of John Moses Browning himself, and like taking our guns apart to bare basic parts. But sometimes, guns don’t play nice with us, refusing to go back together. Before the Rubik’s Cube, we had guns. Bored pioneers would sometimes take their guns apart out of boredom and try to put them together.
This anomaly led to the sack of shame, a brown paper bag full of gun parts turned over to the local gunsmith. Most try saving shame by blaming the living “exploded diagram” of parts on their brother-in-law, telling the smith, “He swore he knew what he was doing.” But the smith knows better.
Unconditional Love
Despite these comical dalliances with guns, don’t for a moment think I begrudge my guns and associated gear for one instant. Guns, handloading, shooting, hunting and fiddling with them are my life. I’d be lost without them. Surely, I’d be bored silly. As several friends have stated, if it weren’t for guns, I’d have no joy in life. I understand…