Leaderboard

My wife started this some long time ago with intent to have it finished by my birthday. It's a little late but I am sitting here just plainly devouring it with my eyes! She ordered a plastic model and spent an unholy amount of time and effort (and holding her breath!) to detail this to her satisfaction!

Anti Tick measure - Reversed masking tape

NRA Board of Directors 2024. Ballots that arrive after Sunday 4/28/24 will not be counted. This isn’t a call for a whine-fest. It’s just a reminder for NRA members that want to vote.

When first married we lived in a place with LOTS of Ticks, and despite best efforts some would get on board. I could feel them on my skin and would strip off and spin around in front of the mirror. To this day, better than 4 decades on, the Wife teases me about "The Tick Dance".

To reseat over-length crimped rounds, I use a hammer bullet puller to nudge the bullet FORWARD enough to straighten out the crimp. Then I reseat to proper length and quick as that, the round is ready to fire. good luck, GJ

JAPANESE SUBMARINES ATTACKED SYDNEY HARBOUR - WW11 Hendry, 19, who was serving on the iconic Fort Denison in the heart of Sydney Harbour told Nine News he would never forget the evening the city's defences were breached and the country was put on 'very, very intense alert'. 'We were told to scan the water and we fired one or two rounds at what we thought were submarines. But it was pitch black out there and very difficult to see,' he said. The alert came after one of three Japanese submarines tangled in preventative netting near the headlands at the entrance of the harbour, not far from where the 'mother ships' were lurking. The second submarine made it to Garden Island, near the Royal Botanic Gardens, but was destroyed by depth charges shot by a bevvy of international war ships that were stationed in the harbour at the time. It was the third submarine that would cause most of the damage, as it made its way towards the USS Chicago, a large American cruiser ship. The submarine fired torpedoes at the ship, but missed, instead hitting and ultimately destroying the HMAS Kuttabul, claiming the lives of 21 Australian and British sailors. 'Many of the victims had been sleeping and just didn't stand a chance,' Mr Hendry said. Sydney was under attack and the city was in chaos. The affluent Eastern Suburbs were evacuated as sirens and explosions rang out among the late night sky. Brian George, a nine-year-old resident of Bellevue Hill at the time, told Daily Mail Australia he still 'vivdly remembered the whirring sounds of shells flying overhead'. 'One of the motherships was not far off Bondi and they were firing shells over us towards the Rose Bay base. I remember a couple of shells hit not far from our house, one struck a building nearby.' His father was an air-raid warden, so as he and his family were quickly rushed into a bunker, his father had to ensure the rest of the area was safe.

GET OUTTA HERE NOW The Sheriff was not a trusting man. He’d been lied to often enough and badly enough that he trusted very few individuals: those of his inner circle were trusted implicitly and without hesitation, but those who were not part of that inner circle … weren’t. When word came to him that three men with lready stained reputations wished him harm, he considered the information was probably correct … though it could be just hot air, bluster, bragging, the way men will in careless moments. When two of those men came riding toward him, the Sheriff looked at the lay of the land, gigged his stallion in the ribs, ran on ahead to where he’d have the advantage of terrain. The pair saw him and reacted, and the three ended up a mile or so distant, playing cat-and-mouse with each other, until one disappeared and the Sheriff had no idea where he was. His stallion stood, sleepy-looking as was his habit: the Sheriff knew his golden Palomino was anything but drowsy, and when an ear swung to the right, horse and rider both spun and surged forward. “DON’T!” the Sheriff yelled as his left hand Colt came to full cock. One of the men he was after had his rifle in hand, and halfway raised: the stallion’s head started to move. Linn never remembered drawing his right hand revolver, only that his left hand Colt fired, his stallion spun under him and he fired a second round from the engraved, gold-inlaid, left-hand Colt. Part of his mind, sitting well behind his eyes, stood on the quarterdeck of a sailing-ship, wearing a Captain’s hat and watching the enemy’s ship: he heard his own voice, distant and faint, “Fire as they come to bear!” – and his left-hand Colt did just that as his stallion completed his surging turn. Linn gigged his stallion into a gallop, he dropped into a gully, stopped, turned. They’ll expect me to ride downhill, under cover, he thought. Yonder’s where they’ll expect me to come up. He turned the Palomino’s head upstream, walked him quickly, then gigged him into a jump and he was back up on the flat, a revolver in each hand, ready – One horse stood looking at him, ears swinging, the other was a quarter mile distant and still moving. Two men lay on the ground, face down. Linn holstered his unfired, right-hand revolver, kicked out the fired hulls and reloaded the other: he holstered, walked his stallion over to the watching horse, looked down. As there was a bloody hole out the back of the man’s head, he concluded there was little threat to be had from this one, and walked Rey del Sol over to the other unmoving form. The saddled gelding followed him, apparently anxious for the company. Linn swung down. Don’t see any holes out his back. “You alive?” he asked uncharitably. The other outlaw made no reply. The Sheriff squatted, picked up the dropped pistol. “Be damned,” he muttered as he checked the loads, then sniffed the muzzle: “You got a shot off!” Part of his mind reminded him his earlobe was stinging just a little. He reached up, brushed it with the back of his finger, and it came away wet and red. Well, hell, he thought, I’m gettin’ my coat bloody! He grabbed the outlaw, rolled him over, ready for an arm to punch up, ready for a close-held pistol to come to bear – The Sheriff grunted. The man’s life was soaked out into the sandy ground. One hole in, no holes out. He looked up, looked around, squinting a little against the sun’s glaring brightness. He put two fingers to his lips, whistled, a high, shimmering note, the kind that carried well in the thin, high air. He reached into a pocket and drew out a plug of molasses twist tobacker and shaved off several generous curls, bribed the dead outlaw’s horse into coming closer: once he had hands on its reins, the horse followed docilely. His whistle brought the departing equine’s head up: the Sheriff saw it coming back toward him, as he’d hoped it would. “Daddy,” Angela said, her big blue eyes wide and innocent, “did you get hurt?” Linn smiled at his little girl, squatted. “No, Princess, why would you ask that?” “Your ear’s bloody.” “Yeah, I kinda scraped it on something.” “Ow,” Angela grimaced sympathetically, then turned and looked at two carcasses bent over their saddles. She looked at her pale eyed Daddy and said skeptically, “Daddy, are you sure you’re not hurt?” Linn’s voice was gentle as he nodded. “I’m sure, Princess.” Five year old Angela Keller drew herself up to her full frilly frocked height and shook her little pink Mommy-finger at her Daddy and scolded, “Daddy, if you gets hurted real bad an’ killed, I’ll never speak to you again!” Hard men remain hard men when they are faced with danger, with enemies, with confrontation. Hard men will not infrequently melt like butter on a hot skillet when a pretty little girl shakes her little pink Mommy-finger and admonishes her Daddy in a high, sincere, little-girl voice: Sheriff Linn Keller laughed quietly, went to one knee, wrapped his little girl in a big comforting Daddy-hug and murmured gently in her little pink ear, “I’ll keep that in mind, Princess,” then she felt him change and he released her, leaned back. The Sheriff rose, his eyes hard and his voice matched his eyes. “Get out of here, now,” he said, his voice low, urgent. Angela was Daddy’s Little Girl. Angela was a blue-eyed child of the Kentucky mountains, orphaned in a train wreck. Angela had been Linn and Esther’s daughter for just over one year, and in that one year, as children often do, she was a highly observant, extremely attentive, sponge. Angela knew her Daddy’s voice and her Daddy’s hands and she knew when her Daddy said to scoot, it was time to scoot! – and she did. Her Daddy stood and her Daddy’s coat was open and Angela twisted between her Daddy and the front of the Sheriff’s office, she ran a-scamper to the end of the boardwalk and jumped, landed flat footed and ducked to the right. She was halfway down the alley before she realized she’d just heard two gunshots, sudden, shocking, slapping at her as they echoed down the alley between Digger’s funeral parlor and the Sheriff’s log fortress. Angela kept running, turned right again, skidded a little as she came to her Daddy’s little bitty stable behind the Sheriff’s office. Angela stopped, looked down the alley. A man was just falling off his horse – limp, boneless, he fell and hit the ground like a sack of sawdust and just laid there, his foot falling from the stirrup as his horse danced sideways, eyes walling. Angela ran to the mouth of the alley, looked around, then she strutted out in the middle of the street, her little pink hand extended: “Come here, horsie,” she cooed in her little-girl’s voice: “ ’Mere, horsie.” The horse’s nostrils were flared, its ears laid back, but at the approach of this little frilly creature with a gentle voice, the horse stretched its neck, snuffing loudly at the little pink hand. Angela giggled and gathered the reins in her hands, reached up and stroked the horsie’s damp pink nose, chattering quietly to it the way a fearless little girl will do. Angela was enamored with the snuffy horsie, so much so that she honestly did not see running men, curious onlookers: it wasn’t until she heard the clatter of Digger’s dead wagon that she looked up and realized the fellow who fell from the horsie was picked up from behind her, and loaded into the dead wagon. Angela looked up, all bright eyes and white teeth, smiled as Esther dipped her knees, gripped her daughter’s shoulders with motherly hands, regarded her with wide, frightened eyes. “Hi, Mommy,” Angela laughed. “I founded me a horsie!” An empty brass hull fell to the boardwalk. The Sheriff did not hear it hit through the red ringing in his ears, but he felt the impact of the brass rim hitting the weathered, warped, dusty board through his bootsole. He replaced the fired round and holstered his engraved Colt. He looked at his wife and at his little girl, and he was flat forevermore grateful that when he told her to get out of here ... she did.

Funny Signs

Annie Oakley was the fifth of seven surviving children, Oakley was born Phoebe Ann Moses on August 13, 1860, in rural Darke County, Ohio. Although she became a Wild West folk hero, the sharpshooter spent her entire childhood in the Buckeye State. Called “Annie” by her sisters, she reportedly chose Oakley as her professional surname after the name of an Ohio town near her home. Eight years after the Battle of the Little Bighorn, the Lakota Sioux leader who orchestrated the defeat of General George Custer’s troops attended one of Oakley’s performances in St. Paul, Minnesota, in March 1884. Mesmerized by her marksmanship, the Native American chief sent $65 to her hotel in order to get an autographed photograph. “I sent him back his money and a photograph, with my love, and a message to say I would call the following morning,” Oakley recalled. “The old man was so pleased with me, he insisted upon adopting me, and I was then and there christened ‘Watanya Cicilla,’ or ‘Little Sure Shot.’” In addition to a nickname that followed Oakley the rest of her life, Sitting Bull also reportedly gave her a pair of moccasins that he had worn at Little Bighorn. The two became even closer friends the following year when Sitting Bull joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show for a four month stint. “He is a dear, faithful, old friend, and I’ve great respect and affection for him,” Oakley wrote of Sitting Bull.

No such thing. Read the law in question. The term really is silencer. Being pedantically silly here.

I agree with you, Randy..... 100%. If a person really wants to be fast, ya gotta pull out nearly all the restrictions to find out those 'impossible' limits. Soon, the practice sessions will reveal areas of sloppiness that can be worked on. AND, those fast practice sessions will also reveal that your previous 'limitations' are changing because your speed has improved. Assuming you don't have any restrictive health issues, you gotta believe in yeowndangself and believe those 'unreachable' speeds are actually not impossible to reach. Sooooooo, I would suggest you practice hard and practice fast. At a match, its o.k. to throttle back a little. But when its practice time again, as Randy stated, ya gotta practice fast to know your speed limits..... and then exceed it. You might be the next 'speedmeister'. ..........Widder

No, I like to drink my coffee. My understanding is that Turkish coffee needs to be chewed.

You don’t have this?

That is strange. Have you done some strange mod to your 73?

I mostly agree except practice fast, you’ll never know your speed limit until you exceed it. Randy

That’s just cold.

I believe it was THE GANG THAT COULDN'T SHOOT STRAIGHT. Italian gangster. Mafioso. Big fat guy. And whenever he would go to a restaurant and order spaghetti, he would take off his suit coat, and then his neck tie, and then his shirt. And he would sit there at the table wearing his undershirt which had red stains all over the front of it. Apparently it liked to taste his dinner too.

If I recall, back in the day, folks from outside of the particular unit in question using those terms often suffered consequences.

..... I have shirts like that ...

Well let's see I'm going to Kansas State first, then the next weekend is my local clubs championship, then the next weekend I'm going to Mississippi State and the next weekend I'm going to Wisconsin State. Mississippi will be the 22nd and Wisconsin will be the 23rd different state that I have shot cowboy action in. Yep looks like I'm going to play some Cowboy. Yeee Haaaa!

Is that why I have a Mr Coffee, AND a stove top percolator, AND two French presses, AND a speckleware cowboy coffee pot, AND several individual packets of instant?

My signature, on a couple of other boards. Meddle not in the affairs of dragons, for thou art crunchy, and taste good with catsup - George of Lod, Year of Our Lord 297

The short barrel rifle will cost you a $200 tax stamp plus some paperwork. I don't think there's an exception for old guns, factory original or not. The good news is that the ATF seems to be fast tracking NFA paperwork right now. At least on suppressors.

I am gonna hafta say “Nay” on this one. I had a heckuva time putting contacts in my eyes years ago. But I will keep this in mind. Thanks Dave.

@Duke Skywalker, SASS # 26871 this is your chance!

That response makes more sense than the choices in the question. And the homecoming f'ing sucked, I was young then and saw it. Shameful.

I fixed it.

A Newfoundland farmer named Angus had a car accident. He was hit by a truck owned by the Eversweet Company. In court, the Eversweet Company's hot-shot solicitor was questioning Angus. 'Didn't you say to the RCMP at the scene of the accident, 'I'm fine I'm fine?' asked the solicitor. Angus responded: 'Well, I'll tell you what happened. I'd just loaded my fav'rit cow, Bessie, into da... ' 'I didn't ask for any details', the solicitor interrupted. 'Just answer the question. Did you not say, at the scene of the accident, 'I'm fine!'?' Angus said, 'Well, I'd just got Bessie into da trailer and I was drivin' down da road.... ' The solicitor interrupted again and said ,'Your Honour, I am trying to establish the fact that, at the scene of the accident, this man told the police on the scene that he was fine. Now several weeks after the accident, he is trying to sue my client. I believe he is a fraud. Please tell him to simply answer the question. ' By this time, the Judge was fairly interested in Angus' answer and said to the solicitor: 'I'd like to hear what he has to say about his favourite cow, Bessie'. Angus thanked the Judge and proceeded. 'Well as I was saying, I had just loaded Bessie, my fav'rit cow, into de trailer and was drivin' her down de road when this huge Eversweet truck and trailer came tundering tru a stop sign and hit me trailer right in da side. I was trown into one ditch and Bessie was trown into da udder. By Jaysus I was hurt, very bad like, and didn't want to move. However, I could hear old Bessie moanin' and groanin'. I knew she was in terrible pain just by her groans. Shortly after da accident, a policeman on a motorbike turned up. He could hear Bessie moanin' and groanin' too, so he went over to her. After he looked at her, and saw her condition, he took out his gun and shot her between the eyes. Den da policeman came across de road, gun still in hand, looked at me, and said, 'How are you feelin'?' Now wot da f**k would you say?

I had a batch of "bad primers" several years ago. I took several of bad rounds home and took them apart. The primers had already been fired. That means that my 650 almost punched the spent primer out, removing the firing pin dimple, and then reseated the the spent primer. I solved this problem by getting a Lee universal decrimping die. (About $20.00) Now I deprime all my cases before cleaning. That way, I know there are no spent primers in the cases. I have not had any "bad primers" since I started this procedure. Pull apart your bad round and see if the primer had been fired.