A SHOT OF WHISKEY
In the old west a .45 cartridge for a six-gun cost 12 cents and so did a glass of whiskey. If a cowhand was low on cash he would often give the bartender a cartridge in exchange for a drink. This became known as a “shot” of whiskey.‘
THE WHOLE NINE YARDS
American fighter planes in WW2 had machine guns that were fed by a belt of cartridges. The average plane held belts that were 27 feet (9 yards) long. If the pilot used up all his ammo he was said to have given it the whole nine yards.‘
BUYING THE FARM
This is synonymous with dying. During WW1 soldiers were given life insurance policies worth $5,000. This was about the price of an average farm so if you died you “bought the farm” for your survivors.
IRON-CLAD CONTRACT
This came about from the iron-clad ships of the Civil War. It meant something so strong it could not be broken.
PASSING THE BUCK / THE BUCK STOPS HERE
Most men in the early west carried a jackknife made by the Buck Knife company. When playing poker it was common to place one of these Buck knives in front of the dealer so that everyone knew who he was. When it was time for a new dealer the deck of cards and the knife were given to the new dealer. If this person didn’t want to deal he would “pass the buck” to the next player. If that player accepted then “the buck stopped there”.
RIFF RAFF
The Mississippi River was the main way of traveling from north to south. Riverboats carried passengers and freight but they were expensive so most people used rafts. Everything had the right of way over rafts which were considered cheap. The steering oar on the rafts was called a “riff” and this transposed into riff-raft – or riff-raff, meaning low class.
COBWEB
The Old English word for “spider” was “cob”.
SHIP’S STATE ROOMS
Traveling by steamboat was considered the height of comfort. Passenger cabins on the boats were not numbered. Instead they were named after states. To this day cabins on ships are called staterooms.
SLEEP TIGHT
Early beds were made with a wooden frame. Ropes were tied across the frame in a criss-cross pattern. A straw mattress was then put on top of the ropes. Over time the ropes stretched, causing the bed to sag. The owner would then tighten the ropes to get a better night’s sleep.
SHOWBOAT
These were floating theaters built on a barge that was pushed by a steamboat. These played the small towns along the Mississippi River. Unlike the boat shown in the movie “Showboat” these did not have an engine. They were gaudy and attention- grabbing which is why we say someone who is being the life of the party is “showboating”.
OVER A BARREL
In the days before CPR a drowning victim would be placed face down over a barrel and the barrel would be rolled back and forth in a effort to empty the lungs of water. It was rarely effective. If you are over a barrel you are in deep trouble.
BARGE IN
Heavy freight was moved along the Mississippi in large barges pushed by steamboats. These were hard to control and would sometimes swing into piers or other boats. People would say they “barged in”.
HOGWASH
Steamboats carried both people and animals. Since pigs smelled so bad they would be washed before being put on board. The mud and other filth that was washed off was considered useless “hog wash”.
CURFEW
The word “curfew” comes from the French phrase “couvre-feu”, which means “cover the fire”. It was used to describe the time of blowing out all lamps and candles before sleeping for the night. It was later adopted into Middle English as “curfeu”, which later became the modern “curfew”. In the early American colonies homes had no real fireplaces so a fire was built in the center of the room. In order to make sure a fire did not get out of control during the night it was required that, by an agreed upon time, all fires would be covered with a clay pot called-a “curfew”.
BARRELS OF OIL
When the first oil wells were drilled they had made no provision for storing the liquid, so they used water barrels. That is why, to this day, we speak of barrels of oil, rather than gallons.
HOT OFF THE PRESS
As the paper goes through the rotary printing press, friction causes it to heat up. …therefore, if you grab the paper right off the press, it’s hot. The expression means to get immediate information.
Okay, now you folks remember which page we’re on, right? If not, go back to previous posts here and here, then rejoin us. This is the only way I can tell this, so get yourself a refreshing beverage, relax, and we’ll play “let’s pretend,” okay?
Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, there was a fair and fertile land festooned with lotsa bananas, bunches of Bad Guys, and some buses. The bananas grew mostly out in the countryside, and the Bad Guys did too. These Bad Guys used to be armed, funded an’ fed by an Evil Empire, but when its wheels fell off like a flattened Flexy Flyer, the Bad Guys just dropped their political pretensions and became freelance murderers, bandits and killer-kidnappers. They ’specially liked killing and kidnapping BananaLand’s judges, mayors and Deputy Assistant Ministers of Thus-and-So, because it was both entertaining and profitable.
A group of “Hard Hombres” was formed to protect these officials. About half of ’em came from the state police, a quarter from BananaLand’s army, and the rest were just really tough dudes with shiny hair and shinier pistols. All of the Hombres could shoot, though they tended to get kinda festive with the fireworks, and all were either very brave or too proud to ever back down from a fight, which is almost the same thing. What they didn’t have was “consistent tactics,” so they couldn’t dance well together while fightin’ BadGuys.
Far to the North, a country called YanquiLand heard about this and offered to help. YanquiLand sent four guys to teach the Hombres how to fight BadGuys, and how not to shoot innocent bystanders. This training would happen at The Big Bus Farm, upcountry from the capitol, Santa Mañana, on the edge of a dark, damp forest called The Yongle.
The Big Bus Farm
The buses — lots of ’em! — and some assorted trucks lived on a not-quite-flat crazy-quilt expanse of asphalt, grass and concrete patches behind some charm-free but room-rich government buildings. The buildings housed a vehicle maintenance facility, some s’posed-to-be-secret treasury offices and not enough bathrooms.
Training was fun, though some Hombres questioned the value of learning to fight as “fire teams.” Everybody played nice, and the coffee was excellent and plentiful. So, during a break, the whole happy group kinda wandered out amongst the buses an’ trucks, to go pee on the bushes at the edge of The Yongle. As the Hombres and YanquiDudes wandered out, they encountered some other dudes wandering in, like maybe they’d hadda go pee too, you know? But they didn’t.
They were BadGuys, and they had picked the wrong day for whatever mischief they had planned. Actually, they looked kinda like the Hombres, except not so clean and neat, and they had pistols like the Hombres, and some rifles, too! Everybody sorta looked funny at each other, an’ then some eyes got really big and others got really squinty, and then there were some shots, and then things got really weird.
Everybody scattered like a good break on a pool table, scrambling in and around an’ over those big buses an’ trucks, all the while shooting at each other. One Yanqui described it as “a disorganized, chaotic, drawn-out string of vicious firefights involving two, three, up to 10 participants, which would then break up and form different firefights — a helluva mess.”
Window Weirdness
Several BGs clambered aboard buses, and that was dumb. They trapped themselves. Most of the bus windows were two-piece, so they could be opened from top or bottom. One BG stood up and fired over a window’s lowered panes, as though the glass was “cover.” It wasn’t even concealment. He was shot lotsa times. Another stood up at a closed window, holding a pistol in one hand and fumbling to lower the top pane with the other. He got punctured plenty, too. Another fired at some Hombres and then just ducked down below the window. Bus skin didn’t stop bullets. Neither did bus seats.
Some guys on both sides stood and fired over the decks of flat-bed trucks and semi-trailers. They got shot a lot in their hips, groins and legs. About a dozen guys from both sides fell flat on their beaks or butts while traversing the uneven seams of those asphalt, earth and concrete sections. Some of ’em didn’t get up. It’s like they were only thinking and fighting from their belts up.
At one point, a glass-rattling godlike voice commanded Stop shooting! — and amazingly, everybody did. Then the voice went on, Stop! You’re shooting my buses! PLEASE stop! It was the motor pool manager, screaming over a PA system. Firing resumed.
The BGs, who had some rifles, began fighting in cells, while the Hombres, with only handguns, fought as individuals, pairs and amoebae. The BGs started winning. Then some Hombres returned from their vehicles with M-1 carbines and Thompson submachine guns, and the tide turned — hard.
Pistol ammo ran low fast. A teenager wearing a Chicago Cubs cap appeared outta nowhere, passing out loaded Glock-17 and 1911 .45 magazines from cardboard boxes. That was nice. Afterward, nobody seemed to know who he was. Weird. The surviving BGs fled into The Yongle. Many lessons were learned, to be discussed later.
One YanquiDude wrote this in his book of “Evolved Practices”: “From touching distance to bus-bumper width, I’m gonna start shooting fast as soon as my muzzle covers meat — kneecaps, elbows, I don’t care, and I won’t worry about conserving ammo as long as an enemy is armed and upright. From front bumper to rear bumper distance I’m going for a straight point, a flash sight picture, a firm grip and trigger control. From there out to The Yongle, I want a crisp front sight and a rock-steady hold — or I’ll move closer, or get further away.” He called these “The Greyhound Rules.”
Connor OUT
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TGIF!!!!!!!!!!!!
There’s certainly nothing intrinsically funny about forest fires. However, one
particular conflagration back in the early ’90s did let me meet some very nice firemen.
Photo: Sippakorn Yamkasikorn
I have thus far inadvertently instigated three proper forest fires. This is indeed not the sort of thing about which one should boast. However, they all ultimately ended well.
I was stationed on a sprawling Oklahoma military base home to the Field Artillery. Everything from small arms to sky-splitting Multiple Launch Rocket Systems tore the ranges asunder night and day. However, the firing of personally owned automatic weapons on the post ranges was strictly verboten. For a young buck with a pair of transferable machineguns, what was a brother to do?
My sweet bride’s solution was the birthday gift of a year’s membership to a nearby civilian range. So long as I was safe, they didn’t care if I ran my machineguns or not.
Some shooting buddies from college came up from Dallas for the weekend. We had planned this outing for months and had stockpiled a prodigious quantity of ammunition in support. We also brought along half-a-dozen milk jugs filled with water to serve as crude reactive targets.
This MAC10 sub-machinegun set me back $650 back in 1987. M158 Star Clusters
sell for about $75 online these days. I once inadvertently incinerated a modest
fraction of Oklahoma with such a trinket.
Tactical Riverdance
I planned to kick off the day’s festivities with a GI-issue M158 Star Cluster rocket. How I came by the thing doesn’t matter. Suffice to say, the statute of limitations has long since expired.
Star Clusters are as cool as Steve McQueen’s sunglasses. This tidy little folding-fin rocket comes packed within an aluminum tube. To fire the thing, you remove the cap from the top and slip it onto the bottom. You then hold the unit facing upward in the left hand and strike the base vigorously with your right. A firing pin inside the cap detonates the solid propellant.
The Star Cluster rocket rises about 250 feet before expelling five bright illuminant assemblies. Total burn time is six to 10 seconds.
The little rocket roared to life and burst at the prescribed height with prodigious vigor. As we had a robust headwind, the rocket then drifted over our heads and fell back behind us. We all had a chuckle and took up our favorite stutter guns to get the party started in earnest. At that point, I hazarded a glance over my shoulder and noticed the tiniest wisp of smoke.
Deleterious curiosity not being confined solely to the feline, we young men climbed out of the depressed range space to investigate. The burgeoning grass fire was by then perhaps 15 feet across. We commenced to stamping about like a Riverdance troupe on crack.
For the briefest moment, the battle teetered. We retrieved our milk jug targets and began emptying them along the expanding perimeter of the blaze. We had maybe half of the conflagration controlled when there arose a mighty wind. That’s when things got real.
Vermin Exodus
The grass thereabouts was perhaps waist deep and speckled throughout with isolated cedar trees, several of them a couple dozen feet high. When the hot Oklahoma wind added its mischief to the mix the blaze blossomed like Trump’s temper. When overcome, the trees exploded like bombs.
It is simply breathtaking to appreciate how many small creatures call your basic patch of Oklahoma grassland home. A modest dirt road bisected this enormous prairie, but the fire cleared this impediment with ease. I got to this failed firebreak just in time to see a veritable horde of rats, mice and similar displaced vermin running for their lives.
One rangy rat of simply epic proportions stopped in the road not 10 meters from where I stood. For a pregnant moment we just stared at each other. His beady little eyes said flatly, “I really, really hate you, man,” before he scampered off.
At that point we had a decision to make. We could load up our vehicles and make haste, all the while fabricating some plausible cover story to use when the next day it was determined we had incinerated the preponderance of the American Midwest. We opted instead to do the right thing and fetch the Fire Brigade.
While awaiting the professionals, I waded into the conflagrating grass and single-handedly rescued the range facility’s port-a-john from a certain fiery doom. I would be reticent to use the appellation hero myself in describing my actions that fateful day. However, I would not much object should others choose to do so.
The pumper truck made short work of the carnage. I ultimately incinerated maybe four acres. Nothing of substance was destroyed, though I did struggle to explain the liberated GI-issue rocket flare to the firemen. They sighed, and I didn’t go to jail. A grand time was had by all … except for the rat. His day kind of sucked.
Categories
Paint me surprised by this!
Staring this guy down all night long would likely put anybody’s problems
into perspective. (Source: Mika Brandt, Unsplash)
It is simply breathtaking to look back on two decades of medical practice and appreciate some of the things that drive patients to seek a physician’s attention. I have had folks with snakebites, active strokes, gunshot wounds and evolving heart attacks aplenty inexplicably report to my humble urgent care clinic for treatment. Most, but not all, of those individuals get a quick ride to the local ER.
I have also had patients become genuinely put out with me should I respectfully refuse to excise their quarter-sized facial lesions or not expeditiously remove their gallbladders in the procedure room because they, “really hate going to the hospital.” I once had an elderly lady tell me that she would sooner die in my waiting room than go back to a hospital. However, on the other end of the spectrum, sometimes a visit to the local sawbones is somewhat more social than medical.
If they are of the proper age and comportment to manage them responsibly, I frequently make inflatable animals for my pediatric patients out of rubber gloves. I derive markedly more enjoyment out of this exercise than do they. On two occasions I have had kids fake illnesses just to get a fresh rubber animal.
While such antics will invariably precipitate the screaming habdabs in mom, these represent some of my proudest moments as a physician. Sometimes, however, grownups will come to the clinic for things that are, shall we say, not terribly critical.
“I can’t describe it,” “I just don’t feel good,” “My (insert random family member) is crazy,” and “My teeth itch” are perennial favorites. In each case, I do my utmost to discern some underlying treatable pathology and proceed accordingly, but sometimes the problem has a more esoteric origin.
We Information Age Americans have become awfully domesticated these days. We are now quite far removed from our rugged hunter-gatherer forebears. Sometimes what we need is not some expensive medication or rarefied medical therapy so much as a hefty dose of perspective. I think after so many years as a small-town doctor I have finally divined the answer.
Behold the implements of America’s game. Under slightly different circumstances,
they could also be viewed as medical instruments. (Source: NeonBrand, Unsplash)
Go North, Young Man
When some verklempt unfortunate reports to the clinic with itchy teeth, sometimes I just want to retrieve my prescription pad and scrawl out, “Lion Therapy — #1, Refill PRN” before scribbling my John Hancock across the bottom. I would then instruct the patient to take the prescription and drive 78 miles north to the Memphis Zoo, planning to arrive at the front gate around closing time. Don’t bring spare clothes or a bag. This novel but effective therapy demands neither.
You present the little medical writ to the gate attendant at which point they usher you back to the big cat enclosures. Once at the lion paddock you are shown into a nicely appointed climate-controlled dressing room painted in soothing pastel colors. In the privacy of your dressing room, you then strip naked and place your clothes and belongings in a secure locker provided for your convenience.
While all this preparation is taking place, the keepers are nearby vigorously feeding the lions. The lions are gorged, having consumed all the Purina Lion Chow they can manage. Once you are divested of all vestiges of civilization to include your cell phone, eyeglasses, beauty products, cross trainers and underpants, the zookeeper issues you with one standard baseball bat. They then plop you into the lion paddock and go home for the night.
Itchy Teeth Be Gone
When the keepers return the following morning, chances are you will not have been eaten. The lions were well-fed, after all. However, armed with nothing but a baseball bat after spending an evening standing naked while being curiously ogled by half a dozen African lions you now have your previous problems in perspective. You have been successfully treated with your first round of lion therapy.
The aforementioned wistful rambling should not be misinterpreted to minimize the import of mental illness or one of several zillion serious medical maladies that can manifest in ways that are both ethereal and mild. But compared to the rugged individualists who settled this great nation, our current generation seems to me to be not quite so durable. While my malpractice carrier would undoubtedly take umbrage with this radical course of treatment, I think it might be just the ticket in certain narrow circumstances.
How many folks do you know might benefit from a round or two of lion therapy? I’ve got my pad ready.