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shooter's handbook, page 21 "5-SECOND PENALTIES Misses are 5-Second penalties. Revolver, rifle, and shotgun targets must be engaged with the appropriate type of firearm. A MISS is defined as the failure to hit the appropriate target type using the appropriate type of firearm and includes: - Each missed target. - Each unfired round. ... Double Jeopardy applies- a miss cannot cause a procedural." A miss for the unfired round. No "P" --Dawg

I'm going to go with, he engaged all ten targets, so just a miss.

https://www.datamp.org/patents/displayPatent.php?pn=14221&id=13696 https://www.facebook.com/reel/1172793884147685?mibextid=0VwfS7 https://www.goantiques.com/baxter-double-ended-931476 Similar

I want info on edible eye, this is cool for Halloween!

One MISS (option #3) RELOAD CHOICES

Yep just a miss like Prairie Dawg said and showed..

1 miss

“Stand your ground. Don’t fire unless fired upon but if they want war, let it begin here.” Captain John Parker

The shot heard round the world….

coordination and muscular ability as well as the timing of a drummer

Definitely British

Just a miss.

I truly do not care.

A shooter "may" carry extra rounds, only rounds carried to the line are legal; nobody can hand you an extra round. Nor is there a requirement to have any extra rounds. So just a miss. But what if the shooter did have an extra round which could have been put in the gun? No requirement to do so. Still just a miss. If the shooter got a competitive advantage by jacking out a round (leading directly to a 5 second miss penalty unless replaced with legally acquired ammunition), that is one slow shooter. I'm not sure I would want to hang my hat on a SOG call giving me an advantage in standings over this shooter. It is still just a miss. This hypothetical shooter beat me fair and square. Even with the miss.

It picked me.

Reloading was optional. The stage instructions did not specify that he had to reload so no spirit of the game earned.

U picked the alias. Lol

Loggins & Messina, the one I couldn't seem to drag out of the cob webs! Thanky

Can't say I've ever seen a shooter forced to reload a jacked round, but most do. But that doesn't answer your question!

Betty's Bein' Bad

Howdy!! Been looking through things and came across this 32" long 4 x 15 all brass scope. This one as far as I can tell was made by Tasco and marketed through Cabela's many, many years ago. I never put it on a rifle. Optics are clear.. No dents or anything. The mounts look to be for an octagonal barrel... and these mounts are harder to find than the scope! Could use a wee bit of elbow grease and some high quality polish to make it shine! $400.00 and I will go for shipping in CONUS.. PRICE DROP: $350.00 shipped within CONUS Anyway questions feel free to ask.. Thank ya all kindly Iron Monger Jimmy SASS#5115

Ten Years After Canned Heat

I get such a kick out of this. Imagine having the ability to go back in time and convincing people, people in power that this is true. Imagine how far we would be today in space technology and travel due to the scary perception that Mars is inhabited by robots. Sometimes fear can be a great motivator.

YOU DAMNED TIN PLATED KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR I came through my own front door like I always did. I hung my Stetson on its peg the way I always did, hooked my boots off and left them in the boot tray and came sock foot into the kitchen, like I always did. Shelly turned, looked at me, waited: I came silently over to her, gathered her gently, almost carefully into my arms – she joked in moments of confidence that “My husband holds me like I’m a delicate porcelain teacup!” – Shelly brought her arms up, shoved my embracing arms away. Her fingers ran down my shirt front, freeing the buttons: her expression was serious, she gripped the tabs on my vest, ripped them away, looked up at me as I murmured, “Now, dear? What will the children think?” “I need to check something,” she snapped. “Strip to the waist!” I did. I pulled my shirt tail loose, hung my uniform shirt over the back of a chair, then the body armor; I brought off my T-shirt and Shelly gripped my shoulders, turned me a little to get the most light on my chest. She took my elbow, lifted my arm, turned me, studying my ribs: she was clearly looking for something, though I had absolutely no idea what: she turned me a little, then did the same for my left side: she finally turned me clear around, examined my back, turned me again, snatched up my T-shirt, shoved it into my hands. “Get dressed,” she snapped. “You’re buying tonight!” I long ago came to the conclusion, or perhaps the realization, that women are contradictory, confounding and confusing creatures, and no man – especially not I! – would ever figure them out, and so, when faced with the unexpected (like tonight), I took what I’d found to be the wisest course, and did as I was told. Shelly folded her arms, turned away from me: she went to the sink, viciously scrubbed at a platter, rinsed it and carefully placed the heavy, older-than-she-was oval ceramic in the drain rack, pulled the stopper, emptied the sink and rinsed it, her moves deliberate, controlled, almost … angry. I dressed, wordlessly; I came up behind my wife, gripped her shoulders, lightly, gently, looked at her barely-visible reflection in the window over the sink. “Darlin’,” I said in as gentle a voice I could, “is there –” Shelly whirled, thrust herself against me, her jaw thrust aggressively forward, her arms suddenly stiff against her side: she honestly glared at me, then twisted away and stomped off toward the front door. I raised an eyebrow. I had absolutely no idea a’tall what I could possibly have done to upset the woman. Reckon I’ll find out eventually. Not a word passed between us as we drove to the Silver Jewel, as we went inside; not a syllable escaped Shelly’s clenched teeth until she told the evening waitress that she’d reserved the back room. I brought my hand up, unobtrusively turned on my body cam. Whatever was about to happen, was apparently serious, and if something unexpected was about to happen, I’d want to be able to document everything that was said. Shelly ordered the special, and coffee, for us both, waited until we were alone in the back room. She gave me a long and penetrating look, her expression almost unreadable. “Darlin’,” I said gently, knowing my choice of a first word would be like tossing a pebble in a still pond, “what’s going on?” Shelly’s jaw was set: she looked away, she looked back, she opened her mouth to say something when the door opened and the hash slinger in the pink-and-white checker-print dress came in with coffee and salads. I watched the door shut behind the waitress, looked at my wife again. “Shelly?” Shelly leaned forward, the inside of her wrists against the edge of the cloth-covered tabletop. “I talked with Angela,” she said. “And?” Shelly’s eyes ranged upward, then to the side, and she blinked rapidly as she did: she looked back, bit her bottom lip. “Linn, you nearly died.” I raised an eyebrow. “They re-grew and replaced your left lung entirely.” She swallowed, looked to the side, looked back. “The right lung… they replaced half. “You had surgery to both your retinas and while they were in there, they took out the cataracts that run in your family.” “I see,” I murmured. Shelly ignored my remark. “They worked on your brain to take care of concussion damage.” My wife honestly glared at me. “I don’t see how anything could damage that thick skull of yours.” She stopped, took a breath, closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, then continued. “They rebuilt your entire right inner ear, including new enervation, replacement cilia, they had to completely regrow and replace the semicircular canals that let you keep your balance. You have two new eardrums. Angela said they enlarged the arterioles in both inner ears so you would not suffer that lifelong tinnitus anymore.” Shelly closed her eyes, clenched her jaw in frustration as she heard the door open again: that cute little hash slinger (is it my imagination, or do waitresses, doctors and State Troopers get younger every year?) brought our supper. I automatically salted my mashed potatoes – taters always need salt! – and threw some pepper on taters and gravy just for general principles. I picked up my fork, looked at Shelly. She was staring at me, staring with an intensity I hadn’t seen for some long time. I set my fork down. One tear came a-rollin’ down her cheek. “Mr. Keller,” she hissed, “you glorious, heroic, self-sacrificing, tin-plated idiot, do you realize you nearly died?” I looked my wife right square in the eye and said flatly, “Mrs. Keller, I was not going to let you die. I figured to bust the corner of the windshield and rip it free and get you out of there, peacefully or otherwise.” “Or die trying?” she squeaked, her bottom lip quivering like a little girl. I come out of my chair and reached for her: I took her under the arms and honestly picked her up out of her seat just as the water works started, and I held her, and held her tight, the way I used to hold our children if they were hurt, or scared, or terribly upset, and needed to feel safe while they rained out their sorrows on my shirt front. Once her rainstorm passed, I laid my cheek against hers and whispered, “Why did you strip me in the kitchen?” “There are no scars,” she whispered. “They did all that surgery and there are no scars!” I kissed her forehead: the door opened, the waitress stopped, took a look, pulled back, closed the door, and I made a mental note to thank her for that discreet withdrawal. “Darlin’,” I murmured, “do you recall I told you Michael saw there was no give-up in you?” She sniffed, nodded. “You jumped in that dumped-over crackerbox for the same reason I come after you. You weren’t going to let someone die on your watch.” She nodded again. I tightened my arms around her and whispered fiercely, “Mrs. Keller, you are the reason I draw breath in the morning and the reason I come home at night. You are why I don’t cash my paycheck at the beer joint. You are the reason I don’t open a house of ill repute and make a million dollars” – She pulled her face back, looked up at me, and I looked down at her. “Darlin’,” I said, “I knew what I was ridin’ into when I come after you, and I knew I would likely get killed, but if I’d done nothing and you had been killed, I couldn’t live with that.” “Michael and Victoria don’t need a folded flag and a picture. They need their father.” “I could say the same about their needing a mother.” “You damned tin-plated knight in shining armor!” “Flattery,” I said solemnly, “will get you everywhere.” Shelly started to cry again, and then she hauled off and kicked me in the shins. Hard.

Back in the late sixties, a small (very small) town nearby installed 5 or six new street lights that were controlled by sensors, e.g. they would turn on when it got dark and off when it got light enough. Well, we would drive over to the town with a powerful (for that era) flashlight and drive around the town and "turn off" all of the street lights and make the town completely dark for a few minutes.

I haven’t built a model in 50 years. Man it’s weird to type that out… Anyway, I may have to try again and build “my” plane.

I'll watch the show. It is well made. If I didn't watch a movie or TV show because of leftists, I'd never watch anything. I'm not taking the guy out to dinner, just watching a show.

Here is a concise write up of AR’s opinions on Cops, Trump and Christians. It’s not a site you have to give your email or agree to anything. https://www.hollywoodintoto.com/alan-ritchsons-tough-guy-trump-church/ I would just like to add that one night my wife and I were watching Reacher and I commented “I wonder if this guy is just a facade and in real life he’s a leftist?” My wife said “It’s just a show.” Me: “And Mao’s little red book is just a book.” (Cue roll eyes)

These actors and all entertainers need to shut up and do their thing. We don’t need to hear their politics!

Thank you Pards for posting this. He’s just another Useful Idiot. Screw him. A quote from the Hollywood Reporter that Dave linked: “Trump is a rapist and a con man, and yet the entire Christian church seems to be treat him like he’s their poster child and it’s unreal. I don’t understand it.”

yup , youall have access to a lot more on line data than i do as i spend so little time there , im disappointed to see this i really liked him in the series , i guess it goes to show where these folks think - when you pretend for a living ...you really never think real in life , sad

I bought a brand new Comanchero 1873 in 45 Colt 4 years ago from Taylor’s and bought a used Codymatic 1873 in 45 Colt 2 years ago for backup. The second one is over 5 years old. A spring broke on the used one right after I bought it and I happened to be shooting with Cody in a two day match the next week. He took it home with him after the first day of the match fixed it and give it back to me the next morning. I have been shooting both rifles randomly since with no problems.He is a good guy, stands behind his work and even though it was used refused to let me pay him for fixing it.

I have owned and when in firearms business, sold many Codymatics for close to 10 years. Even had several Cody designated as The Billy Boots Model (shortened 24" to 19", rolled crown, and more of Cody's tricks). Great rifles. But, as Stan mentioned stroke is not as short as many of the newer "drop-in" (not cut/weld) 73s now available. Codymatics always impressed me as to how smooth they ran. IMO when one goes to the newer short strokes, they usually give up some smoothness and gain a bit more resistance (effort inn throw) for the shorter lever throw achieved.

Ran one for 16 years......no complaints. Not super short but at match speed I don't think it matters. Stan