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Showing content with the highest reputation on 11/28/2023 in all areas

  1. Been using a mismatched pair since I started. Looked at several brands and talked to other shooters about what they liked/didn't like about theirs and made my own. Dabbled in some leather before but not to this extent. Really happy with how they turned out
    19 points
  2. Today I was at work at my LGS, showing a little gun to a customer when CAS comes up. Turns out to be @Flaco Joe! Great guy and really enjoyed meeting him.
    7 points
  3. I was trying to find some funny foxhole memes. All I kept finding were really stupid cartoons and memes about some silly video game. So, I typed this: “us military foxhole meme not punk video bull sh**” This was the 2nd image that popped up.
    6 points
  4. I have four Ruger NM Vaqueros in 38/357....Three from Jimmy Spurs and one I did myself.......All function great, three are extremely accurate. But one of them will put three shots in a tiny group and then throw two to who knows where. Usually 4-5" outside the group and sometimes the bullets entering the paper sideways. It's been years since I rebarreled a revolver. Years ago I used to build PPC "Pipe Guns" on S&W model 10 frames and I've done a few SSA revolvers. But it's been at least 15 years since the last one. My good friend, Tyler Tornado gave me a brand new 38/357 barrel for the NMV. I pulled the Rugers barrel and chucked it up in the lathe. Putting a dial indicator against the barrel shank face it was out of square by .004"! And the forcing cone was cockamamie....No wonder it was shooting so poorly. As it turned out, the new barrel was about 2 degrees positive which meant it had to go nearly 360 degrees for the sights to line up....Did the math on the thread count and faced off the shoulder for a perfect crush fit.....then shortened the shank for a .006" cylinder gap, half way between .004 and .008 which is the industry standard for B/C gap on this type of revolver. So, back to the range and now it's a shooter! I guess three out of four good Ruger NMVs is not bad...... I also discovered that I still really like gunsmithing, although I've not been doing much lately... (But I am in the process of building a Benchrest 22RF for 22RF silhouette matches)
    5 points
  5. DIARY OF A SNOW SHOVELER: Moved to North Dakota this fall. We heard that summers are fun and winter is beautiful. We think there is no more beautiful a place in the whole world! December 8 - 6:00 PM It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic, we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow! December 9 - We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the whole world? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had! Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life! December 12 - The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry- we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor. December 14 - Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so. December 15 - 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all. December 16 - Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel. December 17 - Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God! I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room. December 20 - Electricity's back on, but had another 14 inches of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling! Took all day. The damn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but. they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying. December 22 - Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white shit fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again, I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob-who has a plow on his truck-for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy. I think the asshole is lying. December 23 - Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago. She says she did but I think she's lying. December 24 - 6 inches - Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snow plow, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling, and then he comes down the street...at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents...but I was too busy watching for the damn snowplow. December 25 - Merry f---ing Christmas! 20 more inches of the damn slop tonight - snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God, I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a fricking idiot. If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to feed her through a chipper shredder. December 26 - Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves. December 27 - Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $4,400 to replace all my pipes. December 28 - Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. The BITCH is driving me crazy!!! December 29 - 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am? December 30 - Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars, not only for the beating I gave him, but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel up his ass. The wife went home to her mother. Nine more inches predicted. December 31 - I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling. January 8 - Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed ??? -Author Unknown
    5 points
  6. I’d be dead from alcohol poisoning!!
    5 points
  7. I remember reading Luciano's book. Instead of jerking his thumb back like every other umpire in the world does to show you're out, he would make a thumb-finger gun and shoot you. And some guy, he had done shot him out three times in that game, and he was obviously out and when he saw the hand coming up he said "please Ron, don't shoot me again!" So Luciano pull the pin on a hand grenade and fragged him.
    5 points
  8. LOCAL GHOST Mothers are observant creatures. The mother of a sick child is perhaps hyper-aware, hyper-observant. One such mother saw the other nurses look at one another as a nurse in the classic dress and winged cap came into the ward. She'd heard whispers about this one, this nurse, this darling of the new medical director: she thought she was better than everyone, wearing something from years before, when nurses nowadays wore the more efficient scrubs and clogs -- why, this one even wore a blue cape, something not seen since, oh God, when? -- World War II? The old-fashioned nurse stopped at the first sink, washed her hands quickly, efficiently: she turned, eyes swinging over the ward, as if searching for something. The mother had just finished helping bathe her child, she'd drawn the covers carefully up around a young chin, she'd caressed a young face, looked into unresponsive eyes. Terminal, they'd said. Inoperable, they'd said. She knew the spine was involved, she knew the cancer was spread, in spite of chemo wafers packed into the void where the glioma was removed from the living brain, in spite of blasting the invading tendrils with radiation ... in spite of cutting, burning and poisoning, the cancer was taking her child, and nothing she could do to stop it. The nurse flowed across the floor, her cape lifting a little as she did: she tilted her head, looked with unblinking pale eyes at the child's face, the bald head. She lowered the near siderail, bent, ran a hand under the child's pelvis, one under the neck, closed her eyes. "What are you doing?" the mother asked. The nurse lifted just a little, then pulled, as if stretching the diseased, brittle, crumbling spine. "What are you doing?" the mother asked again, louder, then grabbed the nurse's arms. She let go, suddenly -- hot! she thought, looked at her hands, expecting them to be red, blistered. She looked at the nurse, shocked, uncertain whether to shout for help, unsure just what to do -- The nurse straightened, bent over the child's bald head, caressed the shining, hairless scalp with both hands, and the mother was struck by how pale, how unblinking her eyes were -- how ... ... how unnatural. The nurse held the small head in both hands, laid her thumbs over the closed eyes, moved them up to the hairless brow ridge, then she released the child's head, straightened. She turned, walked back to the sink, washed her hands, left the ward. The other nurses hung back, silent, not moving. The mother looked at them, looked at the closing door. "What," she asked, "just happened?" The unit supervisor came over, bent, looked closely at the unmoving child's face. She looked at the mother. "When did his eyebrows start growing back?" The mother looked at her child, froze. She reached down, hesitantly caressed ... Eyebrows? And eyelashes -- She pushed away from the bed, ran across the ward, yanked open the door, looked wildly down the hall, looked the other way -- Gone -- She ran, stopped, looked one way, then the other, down the night-empty corridors -- She ran back -- The unit supervisor was taking her child's vitals: she looked up, smiled as the mother approached the bed. "Who was that nurse that was just in here?" The supervisor looked at her, puzzled. "What nurse?" "The one ... you know, in the old-fashioned uniform --" The supervisor shook her head slowly. "But ... she came in and came over ... I saw her, she ... I grabbed her arms, she was hot --" The supervisor and the other nurses looked at one another, shook their heads. Angela dropped heavily into the Mars-issue, spun-plastic chair, leaned back, sighed contentedly. Dr. Greenlees smiled a little. "I take it you were successful." "Oh, yes," she said. "The field kept me invisible. All anyone but the mother saw was the door open and shut. I even managed to conceal my handwashing." Dr. Greenlees nodded. "And the child?" "I implanted the nanobots at the distal and proxmial spine both," she said, "and I couldn't resist a little ... theater." Dr. Greenlees raised an eyebrow. "I knew there were a few nanos on my invisogloves, so I ran my thumbs across the patient's brow ridge." "Did it work?" "I didn't stay long enough to find out," Angela admitted. "The iris opened as I approached and disappeared just as fast. Nobody saw me in the hallway and no cameras in that section." "Was it the ghost of Nurse Susan?" "Who?" "Puffy mob cap, long dress, watch on her bodice --" "No, no, it looked like nurses in my grandmother's era. Winged cap, stockings, dress, a blue cape." "Mmm. No, I've heard of the ghost of the original Dr. Greenlees' wife being seen ... no, I don't know of any ghosts like that." The unit supervisor frowned, considered, looked at the door. "You might ask the Sheriff. He knows about our local haunts."
    5 points
  9. I was talking about the concept of a "Bonus"...if a time savings is given for a "Bonus", then it's no different than any other target once 1 person hits it. They're stoopid if it can effect a change in the outcome of a match. Phantom
    5 points
  10. "Monty Python's Holy Grail" was fictional?
    5 points
  11. Some Content text as requested.
    5 points
  12. I will be out of commission, in a good way, until the second week of January. Whisperin Meadows and I will be Elk Hunting, then a trip to Australia and then cataract surgery. If I have your gun or guns for repair, I'll be back working the second week of January when I can see small parts again. Thank you for your patience, Johnny Meadows
    4 points
  13. theres something about these post war movies that remind me of my youth and how different things were compared to today , there was an actual american ethic of pride in our country and what we could achieve as a people - not what the government could do for us [to quote kennedy] im not saying we arent still capable , im just noticing that with all this current diversity effort - be it persuasion , or identification [feelings] , recent immigration [without assimilation] , and very recent outspoken hatred/demonstrated in the streets we are not the united country we were after the way , we are not even the fractured country we were after VN , im not sure anymore what we actually are or if we can come back from this place to what we need to be , but we will never in my lifetime be what we were when i was young , i feel badly about that for my grandchildren , hope ive not violated any rules here ..........
    4 points
  14. “The problem with Earl [Weaver] is that he holds a grudge. Other managers, if they disagree with a call, may holler and shout, but you can still go out for a beer with them after the game. Not Earl. He never forgets. Heck, he even holds your minor league record against you. Once, a couple of years ago, I made a controversial call at the plate. Earl charged out of the dugout, screaming that that was the same call I'd blown at Elmira in '66. That sort of thing can get to you." - Umpire Ron Luciano in Sports Illustrated (March 1, 1982, 'The Ump and the Manager')
    4 points
  15. AMBASSADORIAL PRIVILEGE Women are marvelous, fascinating creatures of mystery, given to actions, statements, decisions that puzzle their male counterparts, that confuse their male counterparts, that utterly confound their male counterparts: just when a man thinks he might be close to figuring out women as a whole, or a woman in particular, these creatures of grace and beauty do something to turn that conclusion, that hubric supposition, on its absolute head. One thing the Ambassador knew, however, was that when his Martian counterpart, Sheriff Emeritus Marnie Keller, began to growl, it meant things were going to be quite unpleasant for someone, and generally in very short order. The Ambassador came into the Earth-and-a-quarter, as it was called, and immediately felt heavier: the gravity here was 1.25 Earth-normal, and it was where Marnie practiced. The Ambassador was no weak soul, by any means: he, too, maintained his physical strength, his stamina; he, too practiced various of the Arts Martial, but he could only stare in admiration as Marnie jumped, seized a bar, chinned herself ten times with apparent ease: she dropped, crouched, reached left, reached right, gripped what he knew were cast iron dumbbells that – in Earth-normal gravity – weighed twenty pounds each: the weights at the end of the stippled, cast-iron bars were hexagonal, and Marnie used them as push-up handles, driving herself mercilessly against the increased gravity. He knew she’d been running – she ran as her grandmother ran, with a full ruck, with a rifle over her shoulder, boots laced and fatigue trousers bloused – but unlike her grandmother, her labors were without the driving rhythms from towering speakers with a good bass response. The speakers were there; at times, Marnie did time her exertions to the beat of “In the Hall of the Mountain King” as played on a madman’s cello, she practiced with a three-foot riot baton to the screaming urgency of Celtic war-pipes: at least, she had done these things in the past. Today she drove herself in silence. The Ambassador watched as she mercilessly pushed herself through half-a-hundred pushups: her legs came up under her, she released the dumbbells, she ran for a fighting-golem. The golem came to life at her approach. It didn’t move fast enough. Marnie’s attack was at running speed: she swung up, drove both bootheels into its middle, knocked it down, hard: she continued her attack, staying just out of reach of the quick-grabbing hands, kicking the golem, dropping back, jumping, twisting. The Ambassador took another step forward. The golem stopped, stood, went inert: Marnie crouched, her eyes pale, splayed fingertips on the floor. For the very first time since he’d met her, the Ambassador felt a trickle of fear as the Marnie he seldom saw, looked very directly at him. Her eyes were fighting-white, her face was the color of parchment, and the skin was stretched tight over her cheekbones: her bloodless lips were peeled back, he saw the muscle definition in her bare, sweat-sheened arms, and he realized that perhaps he should have used the annunciator rather than just walking in unannounced. Marnie dropped her head, rose; she lifted her head and smiled: her face was pleasant, her expression gentle, the color was back in her cheeks and her eyes held that faint shade of cornflower blue that meant she was pleased to see someone: she toweled her sweaty face briskly, then her damp, wet-shining arms. “You should have called ahead,” she announced cheerfully, “I’d have had a nice cold beer waiting on you!” The Ambassador looked at Jacob’s wife, then at Jacob. “You’ve chosen well,” he said softly, and Jacob looked from his wife back to the Ambassador. His smile was quiet, reserved: he nodded, then he stopped, looked at the Ambassador again, and laughed. He leaned forward a little and said quietly, “Just between you and me and the fence post yonder, I’m not sure but what she’s the one that made that choice!” The Ambassador sighed, nodded: “I know my wife did,” he admitted. “I didn’t have the sense God gave a rock.” The Ambassador’s expression softened a little. “I’m glad she did.” “Me too,” Jacob admitted: both men rose as Ruth approached their table, bearing a great tray of comestibles: she placed the tray, gave it a final, approving look. Jacob and the Ambassador, and Jacob’s wife, dined well that afternoon: an original cut of backstrap from a particularly healthy specimen had been scanned into the replicator, along with choice examples of the various other dishes they favored: Ruth adapted quickly to new technology, probably because she’d been raised a daughter of privilege, with servants and cooks to tend such mundane tasks: she was able to select dishes from the computerized menu and have them appear, hot, fragrant, spiced to their preference: the kitchen’s demands on her were minimal. Conversation was pleasant, they discussed horses and hydroponics, power generation and musical performances: the Ambassador expressed his admiration for Jacob’s skill with an artist’s pencil and his sister’s as well, and Jacob laughed and told the Ambassador about the time Marnie wore a business suit and stood behind their bank’s counter when a wanted man came in and tried to swindle his way into a safety deposit box: how, when Marnie was sworn in, after the criminal was apprehended and it came to court, she wore the same suit, she identified the defendant, and she identified the portrait grade sketch she’d made immediately after the foiled felon’s frustrated flight, and how the defendant exclaimed “Howinell’d I know she was a damned sketch artist!” – to the absolute distress of his defense attorney. “You know, your sister is quite a remarkable woman,” the Ambassador chuckled. “She thinks rather highly of you as well.” The Ambassador looked thoughtful, looked at Jacob, turning a sweet roll between his fingers. “I am ever so grateful she separates her professional from her personal,” he said softly. “Was I not happily married … I might … ask her father’s permission to pursue her hand.” Jacob nodded thoughtfully; he and his wife exchanged a look. The Sheriff’s line chimed: Jacob said “Excuse me,” slid his chair back, strode for his desk across the room: he bent, pressed a button, looked at the monitor. “Sheriff Keller.” “Sir, there’s a fight, second level, hangar deck –” The anxious individual turned, looked to his left: Jacob saw the man’s mouth fall open: the caller winched his jaw back into engagement as he turned and looked into the camera again. “Fight’s over,” he said, and Jacob heard a familiar voice a little further away call, “Prisoner inbound, have Doc on standby!” “You heard the lady,” Jacob said. “Give her whatever help she needs.” Jacob lifted his head. “Sorry to interrupt, folks, but I’ve got to take care of this.” He slung his gunbelt around his middle, cinched it snug, clapped his uniform Stetson on his head, looked at his guest and announced happily, “Dressed!” Ever since he was a wee child, as long as he had his hat and his boots, he was dressed, and his Mama had a blackmail picture somewhere of little Jacob wearing only those two items, standing in profile at the bathroom sink, grinning through a mouthful of toothpaste foam, eyes shining and toothbrush in hand. Jacob strode for the door, intercepted his sister and one of the maintenance men, half-dragging, half-carrying a groaning prisoner with two black eyes a good start on a bloody nose. “Assault on a law enforcement officer,” Marnie said crisply, “simple assault, on a civilian, assault with a deadly weapon, public intox, aggravated stupidity and mopery with intent to creep.” Marnie’s smile was grim. “You know, the usual.” Jacob nodded, went through the prisoner’s pockets, patted him down quickly, expertly, with the ease of long practice. “All right, fella,” he said, “let’s get you to see the Doc. Looks like you run your face into someone’s fist.” Jacob looked at his sister. “You okay?” She shook her head and he saw she was holding her hand carefully, the way she did if she was injured and didn’t want to show it. “Someone else assaulted?” “Got their statement already. That’s the simple. He pulled a club on me for the weapon specification.” “You didn’t just kill him? Armed assault on a law enforcement officer is a death penalty offense.” Marnie shrugged. “Ambassadorial privilege.”
    4 points
  16. Mildly annoyed my wife again just last night. Rudolf came on as I was finishing up cleaning my deer rifle. Took a bead on the TV. It changed the whole dynamic of the show, watching it through a scope.
    4 points
  17. If you do, go over and shovel Forty Rod's place for him.
    4 points
  18. I'm giving up on Wild Bunch and letting go of one of my RIA 1911s. M1911-A1 FS. It has Pachmayr rosewood grips and one 8 round mag. It has original GI sights and has been polished out and shoots great (I don't). $450 shipped to your FFL.
    4 points
  19. I only received one of their calendars years ago. For kicks I put it on the fridge with magnets. I came home from work and it was gone. I figured she threw it away. She had taken it to the garage and put it on the wall. When she got home she said “Those girls are cute, but they aren’t going to hang out in my kitchen.”
    4 points
  20. As much as I like their products and how they stand behind them, Mrs. Cassidy is **NOT** a fan of their catalog covers, let alone their calendars.
    4 points
  21. I won't tell either ...... unless ..........
    3 points
  22. Boy do I unfortunately remember that stuff.
    3 points
  23. Can do. ( I actually know Forty personally.)
    3 points
  24. I would have paid that for it. Nice revolver. Love the inscription. ——————————— I would say today that “user grade” model 10s are around $650-$700 on average wherever I see them. I have seen a couple in the past year at $500-$550.
    3 points
  25. im also taking issue with this statistic - it seems these days that everyone wants to take a small sampple poll then extrapolate results that they then can call a consensus [im beginning to hate that word] then they call it science [which it isnt] and cram some new liberal program or tax down our throat , agree BS
    3 points
  26. 3" K frames are desirable because they still have a full length ejector rod so you can kick the empties out easier than the stubby rods found on the 2 and 2 1/2" guns.
    3 points
  27. Mrs. Lose has made the cover of the Blue Press a few times. In my dreams.
    3 points
  28. ..... so, that part of "Monty Python's Holy Grail" wasn't all that fictional ?
    3 points
  29. 5 second bonus. I do find it ironic that my call is based upon a video reprographic means which would not be permissible during the match.
    3 points
  30. Samuel Clemens, Mark Twain, was quite sickly in his first ten years. When Twain’s mother was in her 80s, he asked her about his early years of ill health and whether she was “uneasy” about him. “Yes, the whole time,” she replied. “Afraid I wouldn’t live?” asked Twain. “No,” she said, “afraid you would.”
    3 points
  31. I have no idea who the people in the top image are.
    3 points
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