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the United States secretly used to make a white clear Coca Cola specifically for General Zhukov after World War I| . It had the same flavor as the original, virtually unchanged by the absence of caramel coloring. After the end of World War II, General Eisenhower introduced General Zhukov to Coca Cola (Coke) for the first time. Zhokov absolutely fell in love with Coke and couldn't get enough of it. Unfortunately for General Zhukov, Coke was illegal in the Soviet Union and therefore he couldn't be seen enjoying the lovely soda. Zhukov asked his American counterpart, General Mark Clark if there was a way to produce Coke without the coloring. Clark passed on this request to President Truman who tasked Coke with making a colorless Coke that was packaged to resemble Vodka. Truman contacted Coke and asked them to create a colorless Coke that tasted the same, but was packaged to look exactly like a clear bottle of vodka. The colorless version of Coca-Cola was bottled using straight, clear glass bottles with a white cap and a red star in the middle. One unusual consequence for the Coca-Cola Company was a relaxation of the regulations imposed by the occupying powers in Austria at the time. Coca-Cola supplies and products were required to transit a Soviet occupation zone while being transported between the Lambach bottling plant and the Vienna warehouse. While all goods entering the Soviet zone normally took weeks to be cleared by authorities, Coca-Cola shipments were never stopped.

The Friendliest Bar In Town A WEEK HAS SEVEN DAYS. Everyone knows this. Even the hard-working, hard-studying, totally serious lads of Kappa Phi Delta. Heck… maybe especially the hard-working, hard-studying, totally serious lads of Kappa Phi Delta. And the five day period that comprised the middle part of the week, that part that separated the glorious weekends, was an especially long stretch of devotion to our labors. And so it came to pass, either by committee proclamation, idea-osmosis, or just plain old desperation, that a determination was made that it would be in our best interests – physical, mental, and emotional – to divide this stretch of time into manageable sections. And fortunately, with thanks to Julius Caesar and his invention of the modern calendar in 46 B. C., the five-day stretch separating weekends was quite handily broken up by that most marvelous middle day, Wednesday! (Thank you, Odin!) So, after supper and any homework that couldn’t be put off, but usually no later than 2100 (that’s nine o’clock PM), several of us would saddle up and head out to visit a known establishment, like “The Front Room” pizza parlor or “The John Barleycorn,” just around the corner. Or, if the mood struck, perhaps search out a new watering hole. And we found a few! “The Griffin,” where we were always welcomed (after the women realized we weren’t going to steal their girlfriends) and where we rescued and returned a wounded (but well anesthetized!) sergeant to Letterman Hospital, “The Cock’s Inn,” with the giant neon rooster over the door and where said sergeant dominoed several bar stools, depositing their residents onto the floor. And others. On one particular Wednesday in ‘71, Hank, Bill “Wynuts” Wyant, Louis Quint, myself, and one or two others were packed into Hank’s ’62 T-bird. We were on the prowl. We expected to end up at one of the “established” establishments, and were headed up California Street when someone said, “Look!” Of course, we all looked where someone pointed. And there, was a simple but well-illuminated marquee, declaring the place to be “The 998 Club ~ The Friendliest Bar in Town!” Well, Goll-ee! How could we go wrong with a place posting such a proclamation? “Uh…Hank…?” “Yeah Man! I see it! I’ll find us a parking place!” He did, only a half block away, fortunately downhill from our target. Fortunately, because, although the hike up California Street was fairly steep, we would have gravity on our side when it came time to stagger back to our ride. I’ll be dinged, but the marquee was truthful! We thoroughly enjoyed the next several hours. The staff was friendly, polite, and prompt with service; the other clients were likewise friendly. Good conversations about sports, a few games of dice (Liar’s Dice, Ship-Captain-Crew, and the like), darts, some light-hearted flirting, and general jocularity. A note about the staff! Wynuts, Hank, and I were sitting at a small round table next to a plate-glass window, watching traffic – foot and auto – outside, enjoying our libations and all-in-all having a good time. But at one point, Hank made an exaggerated gesture and swept his drink glass off the edge of the table. Crash! And remarkably, in an instant a young serving lass had the glass, ice, and liquid cleaned up – and a fresh drink on the table. With a smile and no charge! And all was well, until a few minutes later, most amazingly, Hank repeated the move with the same result! And again, remarkably, in an instant that young lady repeated the service, this time with an amused giggle. No one knows why; full moon? Odd conjunction of other planets? Poltergeists? No telling. But, even more remarkably, Hank managed to send THREE MORE GLASSES crashing to the floor! Starting with drink number three, “Miss Brandy” decided to just leave the rubble on the floor. “Watch your step!” she’d say, still with a smile, as she’d plop a fresh glass in front of Hank. At least six drinks were served to the lad that night. But with most of ‘em puddled on the floor, he was sober as a judge when we returned to the frat house. Consequently, “The 998 Club” continued to be a favored spot for a few Wednesdays. Until one… well… one somewhat of a quirky mid-week expedition. On this particular Wednesday, for some reason I was not part of the “break-up-the-week” crew. Actually, I think I was working the swing shift at my mailroom job, and didn’t get home ‘til after midnight. For me it was a quick snack, and off to bed for some sound sleep. Until about 0330. What a racket! The revelers returned, definitely not in “silence mode.” Naturally, I had to bail out of bed to get the story. There HAD to be a story. And there was! And after hearing the story, I must say that to this day I am appreciative of having worked that night. Much safer. It seems that the fellas – “the usual gang of suspects,” with the addition of John “JJ” Jarvis – had set out in earnest to break up the week. And they were quite successful! The “John Barleycorn,” another dive by the waterfront, food at some time during the evening, and then someone realized that “Last Call!” was imminent at whatever pub or tavern they were at. Well, evidently, someone then offered up the observation that if they REALLY hurried, they could make it to The 998 Club in time for THEIR “Last Call.” A good idea, perhaps, but not well thought out and certainly not practical. Of course, those two factors were never an impediment to the men of Kappa Phi Delta! And with that, the fellas rushed out of whatever establishment they were in and dashed the few short blocks to the “998.” Alas, the best laid plans and all that, they were too late. Lights were on, a few souls could be seen milling about inside, but the door was locked. Well, shucks. Now what? Naturally, the proper and logical thing to do would be to saddle up and head home – after all, Thursday would be back to jobs and school, and so some sleep would be beneficial. Uh… nope. ‘Tain’t gonna happen. Not with these fellas! All wired up, or as my dear ol’ grandma would’ve said, “full o’ piss and vinegar.” Could NOT call it a wrap just yet – nosiree Bob! Hank wasn’t driving this night; but he was sitting in the “shotgun” seat of whoever’s car they were in, alternating between snoozing and sipping off his ever-present flask of Old Crow stashed in his vest pocket. Bill “Wynuts” and Louis decided to hike up the street a block or two, just on the off chance that some other place might still be open. But JJ had another idea! In the trunk of the car was a set of golf clubs. And, naturally, in the golf bag were quite a few tees and golf balls. And they just happened to be near the crest of California Street. Hmmm… So, without further ado, JJ selected a nice driver, stuffed a few tees and a bunch of golf balls into a pocket, and set off. Finding a likely spot, he discovered that he could press a tee into the slight gap between the pavement and the cable car track. And what a perfect place to drive balls from! We never did hear if that dozen balls sent flying off into the night did any damage (fortunately, it was late enough that personal injuries were unlikely), but he later proclaimed that he’d achieved tremendous loft and incredible distance! “Dang! I’m sure I got over four hundred yards! Heck, it was so far I couldn’t even hear ‘em hit!” At some point, Hank woke up and realized he was alone. Of course, he didn’t realize that Wynuts and Louis were on a walkabout and Jarvis was playing Arnie Palmer; he quite naturally assumed they were practicing twelve-ounce curls inside the 998 Club. So, not wanting to be left out, he decided to join ‘em. And was quite surprised to find the door locked. Shoving and rattling the knobs did nothing. “Lemme in!” he finally shouted. “We’re closed!” came a muffled reply from inside. “Lemme in!” he demanded. “We’re closed!” was repeated. By now, ol’ Hank was getting kinda frustrated. He just KNEW that his pards were inside, enjoying “Last Call” while he was locked out. “Dang-Blast It! LET ME IN afore I gits my shotgun and BLOWS my way in!” he blustered. This time, there was no response. Accepting that he was not going to gain access – and having no shotgun – he wisely decided to return to the car, crawl in, sip a bit more whiskey and perhaps snooze until the fellas came out and joined him. Meanwhile, Bill and Louis were likewise headed back to the car, where they met JJ. John stowed the golf club in the trunk, and led the others to a vantage point where he could boast of his deed. Of course, none of them could have known that the righteously alarmed proprietor of the 998 Club had in a panic called the SFPD. And the noble and gallant Men in Blue responded with alacrity! Hank was awakened from his slumber by the somewhat noisy and garishly illuminated arrival of two carloads of San Francisco’s Finest, accompanied by an official conveyance colloquially known as a “Paddy Wagon.” With some amazement, he watched as the enthusiastic officers descended on his three astonished and confused comrades. He slid down in his seat, barely peeking over the dashboard, and watched as the fellas were frisked, handcuffed, and unceremoniously shoved into the back of the boxy van-like truck. Instantly sobered up, he decided to move to the driver’s seat – the key was still in the ignition – and follow at a discreet distance, perhaps to render aid to the guys if possible. Well, as luck would have it, it seems that JJ and Bill both happened to know one of the two officers manning the paddy wagon. In fact, they all thought the situation was somewhat hilarious – but they were still going to haul ‘em to the station. ‘Twas protocol, don’tcha know. Once installed in the vehicle, the frat guys discovered they were not alone; there were three or four other drunks, who were themselves quite intrigued by the recent arrivals. And, being Kappa Phi Delta men, our erstwhile heroes were not about to go quietly. ‘Specially since one of their “captors” happened to be a buddy. So, after a quick discussion, they formed a plan – to wit, the three of ‘em started shouting, “Police brutality! Help! Help! Police Brutality!” and began rocking the wagon from side to side. And hollered the louder! Not to be outdone, the officers in front decided to reciprocate by swerving the wagon as violently as they could without toppling the tall vehicle or crashing into something – tree, curb, cars… By the time the wagon approached the police station, the other drunks had all gotten into the spirit of the event and they had a regular chorus going. “Police Brutality! Police Brutality! Pigs! Pigs! Pigs! Sooo-eeee! Sooo-eeee! Sooo-eeee!” repeated again and again, with the prisoners all swaying in unison. When the vehicle arrived at the station, the other officers on duty were surprised to see their comrades exit the front, laughing uproariously, with a drunken choir cheerfully and exuberantly providing an unexpected but loud and melodic chant which, although offensive in words, was in reality terrific comedy. Especially with the one extremely gay drunk singing in a tinkling falsetto. Well, all in all, it was a good-natured “arrest.” It was ultimately established that none of the fellas in capture had grumbled the threat at the door of the 998 Club; indeed, it was decided that everyone hauled in would be released if they could find transportation. And, of course, in short order Hank arrived – with no one the wiser of him being the catalyst of the evening’s topper. Sadly, though, we all felt it prudent to scratch the 998 Club off our Wednesday list. And that was too bad, really… ‘cuz, on balance, it truly was “The Friendliest Bar in Town!”

There is a great documentary about the filming of JAWS on Disney + and HULU (no comments please, the grandkids enjoy it when they visit). Quint's history of hating sharks needed an explanation, and a screenwriter suggested the Indianapolis story. Shaw wrote the final version, delivered the first effort drunk, reshot the scene sober after apologizing to Spielberg. Acting genius to deliver his story with a faint smile. Breathtaking!

80 years ago this day.

A Shady Brady was once described as a straw hat that looks like a pheasant exploded on the front of it. IIRC Horace

Go to your room! 🤣🤣

Thank you all for the words of advice. I've been in contact with beartrap and we are planning on going to his class on the 9th. I wish we could go sooner but work sure has a way of messing up plans for life. My family and I all thank you and look forward to helping out and paying it forward in the furture.

Yeah...his almost detached but still passionate narrative is amazing. Superb camera work and editing, too.

It scared the daylights out of me, and I had never swam in the ocean. As an aside, I will argue that the USS Indianapolis scene is the single best piece of acting ever caught on film. It seemed Shaw stopped acting, and Dreyfuss and Scheider were mesmerized.

A couple of months ago I did a little report on the Henry .327 rifle. After a tune-up and throwing away some parts I was, and continue to be, amazed at how well it works. I prefer tuned 73s with short strokes and remembered I had converted a Ubert 73 rifle to .32 about 20 years ago. It ran but not as well as I hoped so I dismantled it and used some of the parts in another project. I decided to dig out the barrel and some other parts and try again. Unfortunately I had cut off the chamber area so I would have to cut new threads on the barrel. I had sold my old lathe and only have an 80 year old 9" Logan right now. I immediately had a problem as the barrel was a little too big for the through hole in the headstock. I had to shorten the barrel to 16 1/2" to get it to fit into a four jaw chuck and a dead center mounted in the tailstock. It just barely fit. Lots of parts had to be modified or made new. Here is a photo showing some of the parts. Starting at the top. The dovetail for the fore end cap had to be recut 3" forward. The chamber section I had cut off the original experimental .32 barrel 20 years ago. (Why I did this I cannot remember.) An adapter to go from a Uberti mag tube down to an old Marlin mag tube. The bolt had to be modified. A new follower made. The shortened barrel with new threads. The rear sight dovetail had to be moved forward and the old one filled. The carrier had to have a piece of brass tube soldered in and machined to .32 size. It also had to be shortened. The Marlin mag tube and a piece of Uberti tube beneath it. The bolt had to be turned down and the extractor and bottom tab moved to fit the .32. .357 bolt on the left, .32 on the right. The 20 year old carrier shortened compared to a stock carrier. A piece of Uberti tube was green loctited to the Marlin tube to fit the barrel hanger. A spacer had to be machined to take up the space left by the shortened carrier. The finished rifle. It seems to cycle fine and the 16 1/2" barrel actually makes for a well balanced rifle. I am gathering parts to build a second 73 but using a carbine barrel to lighten it a bit.

We get that you guys like Unique. Now where does a new shooter find this wonder powder? I haven't seen any Unique for sale in over 2 years.

My grandpa left me with a tackle box full of old and valuable lures (mostly tri-hooks) or as I call them "trouble hooks"! I could have saved them and sold them for a good price but thought grandpa left them to me to fish with. That's what I did and caught everything from bass to walleye and perch with them but in time over the years most were lost to snags from logs, rocks and who knows what? Thanks to grandpa I caught some mighty fine fish over the years!☺️ The best catch was a 4 pound bucket mouth back in 78"!🤩

Well I agree you’re not anywhere near as good looking as Miss Flanell but don’t fret Blackwater we listen to ya! 🤠

No excuse for showing up with jacketed ammo. With the internet you can learn everything you need to know about CAS. When I started we didn’t have the info online and there was not many options for guns either. I don’t have one gun that I started with. Selling and trading is part of the fun for me anyway. I hardly lost any money selling guns and getting new ones. I started with a Winchester Trapper, Ruger Blackhawk, Uberti cattleman and a Stoeger shotgun. I still use a Stoeger but not the one I started with.

Sounds good but I have seen two new shooters show up to their first cowboy match with a Henry Big Boy and a bunch of semi-jacketed ammo. In both cases they became so frustrated that they never came back. We offered to loan them guns and ammo to finish the match, but both were too embarrassed/frustrated to take us up on the offer. We have had a bunch of first time shooters that came to the match to just watch. Only to find themselves shooting a couple stages by the end of the match. In almost every case they came back and continued to shoot with us.

To all the posters suggesting that new shooters "just go buy stuff" you are doing them a great injustice. That may be fine for someone with an unlimited budget that can afford to replace everything as soon as they start, but is not practical for most. I teach a monthly "new shooter" clinic at my home club and can let them try different grip frames, calibers, rifles and shotguns BEFORE they buy something they'll want to replace 2 months later. I can also save them money by turning them on to quality equipment that current shooters want to let go of. I can't tell you how often I've had people show up with jacketed hollow point ammo, holsters that are for the wrong size frames, illegal items, firearms that don't suit them or are not allowed, etc. PLEASE suggest potential new members go to any club and they'll probably get at least some basic advise and get to try a few things out before making some bad decisions.

$187.

Bout time to get it out on the range.

I kinda think of it as The Day That Saved Japan. If it hadn't worked and the Allies had to carry out Operation Downfall, Japan would likely have had 3,000,000 to 5,000,000, some say up to 10,000,000) Japanese deaths from direct military a tion. Add in millions more from disease and starvation.

Sweathogs...!

Up your nose with a rubber hose!

I Have posted pictures from matches and gotten a lot of friends interested, but the issue for most is the initial cost for guns/reloading equipment. If there were a 22 category, that would open it up to much less expensive firearms/ammo for new shooters, fun for current shooters, and help the older shooters that are now having issues with either strength to hold guns or shoulder issues as a lot of current members have had shoulder surgery. At our range, we always watch for potentially new shooters and have either extra ammo or 22's on hand to let them join in the fun. This is just a much less expensive way to get them involved.

To the Fire For Sale: Rossi Overland Hammered 12 Ga Coach Gun -Long Time Safe Queen -20 1/8ths" barrels (M&IC) -13 7/8ths LOP (first trigger) -Very Light Use (Still New Gun Stiff) -Beavertail Forearm -Some Safe Dings -Giving up Desire for CC Price: $650.00 shipped & Insured to your FFL Prefer USPS MO No Trades at this time PM with OFFERS and questions Thanks for Looking Regards Texas Red

Honey is great, I have a lot !!...'But I've learn't you can overload..so every now & then I cut back for a while...you hear people say too much is no good as it's just like sugar..I say it's natural & your body takes it in differently to sugar..well that's my story & I'm sticking to it !! My sugar & cholestrol are good & always have been...just don't let me near Bees' ..always thought the more you were stung gave you better resistance..well heck that ain't true, dang swell up like a balloon !

Unique if you can find it. WW231/HP38(same powder)works very well. Start at the middle of the load range and use a firm roll-crimp.

I believe males are not allowed short sleeve shirts but females can wear them - has nothing to do with Classic category

I don’t know. My own cart is arriving tomorrow. I will be making an “unboxing” video of it and will let you know! Hugs! Scarlett

As an old gentleman, you can never be overdressed. A mirror, when you’re an old geezer Can leave you feeling distressed You should try not to do it while naked Go get yourself properly dressed And you know what I mean by properly A neatly pressed shirt for a start No backwards ball cap on your noggin No jeans that are falling apart A proper fedora’s a nice touch Or a Stetson if the mood is just right or even a Boater in summertime To ward off the sun’s rays so bright Properly cleaned and pressed trousers A crease like a knife’s a nice touch And a good belt to hold up your pants please Or you’ll look like a gangsta and such Shine your shoes, add a tie if you want to A vest if the weather turns cool But avoid a fur collared raccoon coat You don’t want to look like a fool Now go back and look hard in the mirror In you classy fine hat and new suit Go stroll around town with some pride for a change The young girls might say “Awww. Ain’t he cute!” They say “Clothes make the man”, well not always But they’re handy if it starts to sprinkle And one very important factor is They will certainly hide most your wrinkles

New shooters may well find a great deal on used 'toys' via club contacts.

Are you sure? They could be on their way home!

Yeah, sometimes our old hands around here forget how hard NOW it is to get some of the powders they recommend! For a powder that will work in .45 Colt light loads, and is available, TiteGroup is hard to beat. Other than the fact it smokes up (lays down soot) cases a little more than most powders, especially the .45 Colt case which is very thick walled and rarely seals up the chamber really well with light cowboy type loads. good luck, GJ

So long as you can pin it down...

TRUST Linn found himself in conference with his mother more frequently than he'd anticipated. By his own admission, he was not in the least little bit shy about asking for advice from those who knew what they were talking about. He'd raised twin boys, at least until they died, but now he had a little girl under his roof, and to be honest, he felt kind of lost. He recalled when the twins -- Emil and Gottleib -- were still in diapers screaming as if in intractable agony: they were not teething, Shelly had been at absolutely the end of her ideas, so she'd done something she swore she'd never do. She called the one most intimidating person she'd ever known, for help. Willamina was there in less than six minutes. Willamina came in, all business, she went to the downstairs crib where the twins were screaming in discordant harmony. Her face was serious as she opened one howling mouth a little more, shot her flashlight's beam inside, then the same with the other howling songster: her light thumb-snapped off and she told Shelly, "Draw me a tub of really warm water. Not quite hot but close to it." Shelly seized on this direction as if it were the Grail itself: she'd been so utterly lost, and now she had direction. Shelly honestly fled up the stairs, to the white-enamel bathtub, twisted the hot water faucet wide open. Willamina wrapped the twins snugly in white flannel, picked them up, bounced them a little, her grandmotherly murmur lost entirely against red-wrinkle-faced squalls that exceeded industry safety standards for unprotected hearing. Shelly was on her knees beside the tub -- the water was a hand's span deep, warm and steaming, when she felt a swirl of cooler air and she knew her pale eyed mother in law was coming through the door with the whimpering twins. Willamina unwrapped one little boy, then the other, laid them carefully in the tub. Motherly hands held stiff, protesting, rebellious little limbs, until they realized being warmer and wet felt pretty good. Willamina waited no more than three minutes before shooting her compact little flashlight's beam into one mouth, then the other. The twins were relaxing now, their screams settled down to intermittent whimpers. Willamina handed the compact tactical light to Shelly. "Look at the roof of their mouths," she said, her voice gentle, and Shelly did. "See those white spots?" Shelly nodded, her eyes wide, almost shocked. "Measles." They got the twins dried off and diapered, fed and wrapped up. "Measles," Shelly said, her voice as hollow as her eyes. Willamina smiled gently and gave the younger woman an understanding look. "It scared hell out of me when Linn got the measles," she said. "Doc Greenlees came out and knew what to do and what to look for." Willamina laid Gottleib back in the crib, relieved Shelly of Emil,laid him down with his brother, then steered the younger woman toward the kitchen. Willamina brewed tea and poured each of them a mug, then reached in her purse and pulled out a silver flask. "For medicinal purposes only," she murmured as she gave Shelly's tea a healthy dose, then winked: "Nerve tonic!" It had been some years since the twins' death: Jacob came along very soon after, and now Marnie as an underfed four-year-old. The Bear Killer immediately claimed Marnie, which was good, because Marnie had known things in her young life no child of her few years should ever endure. She did not scream and flail when touched, but she stiffened, she shivered. Linn had seen this before. He went down on his Prayer Bones and Marnie looked at him with honest, wide-eyed terror. The Bear Killer was laid down beside her and her arm was over his neck. Linn was satisfied that was the only thing that kept her knees from failing her. "Marnie," Linn said gently, "I think you don't want to be touched." Marnie did not answer. She just looked at her new Daddy, looked at him through a wooden face and wide, scared eyes. Jacob came up, curious: Linn opened an arm and Jacob stepped right into him. Linn held his son as he often had. "Marnie," Linn said, his voice careful, "nobody has the right to touch you if you don't want touched." Marnie blinked, but made no other move. Linn released his arm from around Jacob's waist, stood, backed up a pace, then turned and thrust one sock foot, then the other, into his boots, opened the front door, stepped outside. Marnie reached for Jacob's hand and Jacob returned the reach, then he turned and hugged his new sister, and she hugged him with one arm, the other arm still around The Bear Killer's neck. Marnie sat with her sister at a sidewalk table in front of a fashionable little coffee shop. "I know what happened to you," Angela said, "back East." "Oh?" Marnie asked neutrally, sampling her black elixir: the blend was new to the planet, and still commanded a premium price. "I remember you went from blue jeans to skirts and dresses overnight," Angela said quietly, "and you wouldn't wear anything but handmade. Mama wanted to go dress shopping with you and twice it came to bloodshed." Marnie's expression was unreadable as her pale eyes regarded her younger sister through a wispy cloud of coffee flavored steam. "It was the shoplifter's fault," Marnie said easily. "We'll just leave it at that," Angela suggested. Marnie frowned, lowered her coffee. "Do you really want to know why I ... changed ... out of blue jeans so quickly?" "I know there's a reason." Marnie placed her cup on its translucent saucer. "It was a dare," she admitted. "A ... dare," Angela echoed, blinking: she leaned forward, her voice low, earnest. "Marnie Lynne, you are the one most peer-pressure-proof soul I know. What do you mean, a dare?" Marnie's eyes were suddenly very pale, and Marnie's posture was suddenly very controlled, and Marnie's voice was suddenly very unemotional. "When I learned how to break someone's arm," Marnie said, "when I learned how to over power a joint lock and tear an elbow apart or shred a wrist or break a thumb, when I learned how to heelstrike a nose and dislocate a knee and drive a number two lead pencil through someone's innominate artery -- when I learned how to --" Marnie stopped abruptly, drew back a little, her eyes closed. "When you learned how to back it up if you said no," Angela finished for her. Marnie nodded, then she opened her eyes, and she smiled just a little, but it was not a pleasant smile at all. It was the smile of someone who knew the feel of splintering cartilage in her grip. "Once I found out I could kick better in a skirt, and once I learned I could say no and make it stick, I started wearing skirts as a dare." Her voice was low, the menace unmistakable. "I can look anyone in the eye and just dare them -- jump right on and do your worst, damn you, and know I can do very unkind things to them if they even try." Marnie looked down at her bodice, turned up a fashionable little pinned-on watch, smiled, rose, the absolute image of feminine gentility. "I have to go see Daddy," she smiled. "Wait a minute, you can't just drop that in my lap and leave!" Marnie paid their bill, smiled at the blushing young waiter, keyed a command into her wrist-unit, looked at Angela, tilted her head a little and smiled again. "Well?" she asked as the cat's-pupil-black Iris opened behind her. "You coming?"

I have a few items that definitely qualify.

Howdy Snakebite, I don’t know how Timmy loads his .22 RF BP ammo, but back in the day, Cliff Hanger and Old Scout would pull the bullets on .22 RF ammo, dump out the smokeless powder, refill it with the Holy Black and then reseat the .22 bullets. A true PITA, but fun to shoot.

If I hadn't bought at least one cowboy gun before I went to a cowboy match, I probably wouldn't have been interested in cowboy action shooting at all. While I agree with the idea that buying the wrong things is an expensive mistake, the reality is that I would not be here but for wanting to buy a lever action rifle and have a reason to use it. Another coworker wanted to buy a SA revolver, and between the two of us, we realized we were halfway to the stuff we needed for SASS and ended up going to a match. That is why I disagree with the people who tell everyone not to buy anything, because if I didn't already want to buy things, I wouldn't be here. And probably neither would most all of you. It's easy years later after you ended up preferring something else to encourage people not to buy anything, because we all wish we got the stuff we really like the first time rather than having to do it over. But that's part of the process of getting into every shooting sport--you learn what you like by doing, not by hearing about it from other people or borrowing their guns long enough to shoot a stage. That said, if someone is already interested and willing to show up at a match, they should just do that, irrespective of whether they've bought anything or not. I do wish I'd gone to a match a long time before I actually did.

I laughed!! I can’t say for sure if I laughed because it was funny or as a reaction of ridicule!! A perfect example of why people shouldn’t try other people’s tricks!!

If you melt scrap in your pot it will crud up and not be suitable for casting quality bullets without a thorough cleaning afterwards.