Let's Smoke a Bowl (550 hits)
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Submitted by <suburbanator350.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2008-09-08 20:46:37 EDT
Tales From the Trail
Picture if you will three knuckleheads, a chick, and a 1988 full-size Chevrolet Blazer.
It was the winter of 1997; I was living in this small Colorado ranching town called Meeker. Located in the northwest corner of the state, it had a population of 2001. I was the "1". Meeker is one of those small burgs where men are men, and sheep are afraid. (As well they should be...stupid range maggots. Man, I hate sheep.)
The only things to do in the town were to drink, shoot things and practice making babies. It is a ranching community, so I guess there is that whole aspect, but for those of us that lived in town, we didn't have cows to heard, except for some of the local women...sheesh! OK, that was crude, but honestly, you should see some of these women.
I had just purchased the Blazer a few months before. It was the first vehicle of its type I had ever owned. If I knew then what I know now about how to build on off road rig, I'd have not done half the stuff in that Blazer that I had done. I bought it with a four-inch lift in the front and a six in the back. The rear was lifted with stacked four and two inch blocks. It was missing one rear shock absorber. It had something in the rear diff called a "Ratchet Rear-end," never heard of it before, haven't heard of one since. It had 33x12.50x15 mudders mounted on the old "Cyclone" style rims. (Rims that are cooler than cool)
My additions to the Blazer were a set of five KC daylighters across the top of the cab, and two more on the brush guard. I later put on a set of Rancho RS9000 shocks and a set of 35x12.50x15 mud terrain tires.
I spent over $350 for those lights, and by golly, I was gonna use 'em. My buds and I would get a wild hair up our respective fourth points of contact and we'd decide to go wabbit huntin'. Disclaimer: I like guns, and I like throwing lead at unsuspecting paper targets, but I have no desire to hunt animals at this point in my life. When those lil' buggers can carry their own firearms and shoot back, then it might be a bit more fun and challenging.
Well, anyway, wabbits like them bright lights mounted on the Blazer and they likes to run in the road in front of you, somehow mesmerized by the lights themselves and unable to get out from the beam of light on either side of them. That ol' deer caught in the headlights thing. Except these are rabbits.
The nice thing about the .22 caliber round is that it is a fairly quiet round and as long as you are outside, you really don't even need ear plugs.
But when your knucklehead buddy decides to fire inside the vehicle at a rabbit behind us, the .22 caliber round is a bit loud. Not even my glass packs or stereo could out-noise the gun shots.
Well TweedleDumb and TweedleDumber didn't think ahead to bring a bigger box of ammo, so we decided to continue the night by trail bashing once the ammo was expended.
By the way, my buds are LOUSY shots, so no wabbits were harmed during the actions of this story. Prolly just got skeered a bit with lead hitting the ground around them.
Anyhoo...
The Daylighters were doing their job just fine, lighting the way for us. We found several really cool trails to venture forth upon. There were actually some pretty tricky spots we had to get through.
At one point we hit a road that we knew was straight and level, so I opened up the Blazer and flew down the road.
The chick asked me to stop so she could, er, "drain the main vein." So I stopped and we took this as a cue for us all to follow suit.
The chick is one of those cool kind of chicks that can hang with the guys and not roll her eyes and shake her heads in disbelief at the stupid types of things guys are prone to doing (most of the time at least).
She trundled down the road to find herself a nice place to powder her nose when she let out a scream. And not one of those kinds of screams guys like to hear.
My first thought was "Holy Cow! It's one of those Colorado screaming spiders"
My second thought was, "Did you know cows don't actually have the ability to manipulate their lips to make a 'mmm' sound, so they are actually saying 'ooooo,' and not 'moooo?'"
Of course, my third thought was, "When hanging out with all the young dudes, is one prone to ponder, 'What exactly is a Hoople, and is Mott a popular name among them?'"
Funny how it didn't occur to any us that the chick could be in trouble. We're kinda stupid that way, y'know?
After the chick yelled out again with a "Holy Schnikies, c'mover here," we made our way to over where she was. She had fallen into a hole. Actually more like a trench. A five-foot wide trench that was about eight feet deep. The chick was OK; she fell in near the end of the hole where it wasn't as deep.
That's when it occurred to me that for the first time I was actually thankful for the small and constantly needing of being drained bladder of the female human.
The trench was just on the other side of a rise in the road and my lights didn't illuminate it due to the fact that the crest of the rise in the road shadowed the trench. Essentially, if it hadn't been for the fact the young lass needed to make a call to nature, we'd have gone right into that trench at about fifty miles per hour. My be-loved Blazer would have been all kinds of FUBARed, and we would have been a whole bunch of messed up in very bad way.
There was also a bit more suckage going on at this point. We'd now have to turn around and follow the road all the way back to get back to town. Like, the spot we were in, we could see the lights of town, but now we would have to back track almost twenty miles to where we could get out and back onto the highway. (FYI there was a pond on one end of the trench, a fence on the other, that's why I didn't go around.)
Woo-Hoo, more wheelin'!!
Rather than go all the way back on the groomed dirt road, we decided to find some more of the trails in the area to make the night more fun.
We had just had a pretty good-sized snowstorm about a week before, followed by a rather warm stretch so there were lots of mud puddles and what not. Since the Blazer was wearing mud terrain tires, I felt it necessary to put it through the mud as much as possible. Not to mention that having a mud covered truck showed the signs that you had been out wheeling and the more mud on your vehicle and the higher it's location meant the more intense the mudding was. A windscreen completely covered in mud, save for the area where the wipers wiped, was as cool as you can get. The fact that you are driving around in a mud-covered truck shows how badass your truck is because you made it back. Again, this is guy logic, something not to be understood by most women or people who drive "cars."
So we were cruising around looking for mud puddles and found a few, but they were too shallow to really get the Blazer good and muddy. Since it was the middle of winter, a lot of these smaller mud puddles were covered in a small amount of ice.
Suddenly we spotted it. There it was in all its muddy glory, 20 feet long, seven feet wide, unknown depth. The mother of all mud puddles.
Or at least the mother of all mud puddles in the immediate area.
I went down the trail a little ways, turned around and bolted towards the mud puddle, hitting it about thirty miles per hour. That doesn't seem too fast, but in the off-roading world on a trail, at night, thirty miles per hour is actually pretty fast.
I aimed my Blazer right at the mud puddle. I hit it at full speed. I expected a huge splash to fly up through the air, fifty feet or so, only to splash down all over the top of the Blazer, but that didn't seem to happen for some reason.
Who'da thunk that the puddle would be frozen over? Not I.
I cleared the other end of the puddle to no avail for covering the Blazer in mud.
Nertz!
I went down the trail a ways, turned around, and hit it again.
Exactly how solid is this ice? Well, I drove across it again.
One more time for good measure, this time I hit it a bit slower.
This time as I reached the other end, I felt something crack beneath me. Cool, I busted the ice.
I turned around one more time to hit the puddle again. I wasn't gonna let no stinking puddle of mud keep me from my mud covered bragging rights! I'll show that puddle who is boss, damnit!
I sat poised behind the steering wheel, ready to attack that mud puddle with a vengeance. I revved the engine a couple of times, if for no reason more than just to do it because it's what they do in movies, and it seems really cool. Plus I had a set of twin tail pipes with glass packs and that loud rumbling sound just gives me blood displacement like only an attractive woman can.
I stepped on the clutch, put the tranny into gear and got ready to charge forth into the murky depths of the mud puddle. My left foot came off the clutch pedal as my right foot stepped on the go pedal.
My mighty Blazer leapt foreword in an amazing leap and proceeded to die on me.
OK, so I accidentally put the shift lever into the third gear position and not the first.
Once the Blazer was restarted and I made sure the gear lever was in first, I lay on to the go pedal and charged the unsuspecting mud puddle. I took a small bounce before I hit the mud, and that was just enough to get me ever so slightly airborne to come down onto the ice and break through.
KEEERRRRRRACK!
The ice gave way under the mighty might of my Blazer! I pressed harder on the gas and pushed my way thorough the ice, through the mud, through the water. My RPMs were starting to red line, so I shifted in to second.
Yeah, mud puddle, whose your daddy now, huh? Yeah, that's right! Me!
Well apparently I got my relationship with the mud puddle backwards as IT turned out to be MY daddy.
All foreword motion seemed to stop. There was no more go. HMMMM. No bueno.
Nada Problema, I'll just start from here. I dropped the tranny into granny and the transfer into four low and proceeded to make my wheels spin at a very slow, high RPMed rate.
Okely-Dokely, I'll just put it in reverse and back out of the mud puddle; guy logic dictates that I had just cleared a path going foreword, so I should just as easily be able to backwards through the same path.
I put the tranny into reverse, kept the transfer in four low and proceeded to make my wheels spin at a very slow, high RPMed rate backwards.
Now it must be time to get out and assess the situation. I rolled down the window and poked my head out to see how deep we were in the mud.
I learned back in my Jarhead days to check the depth of the water before opening the door. I once opened up a door of a Humvee that had water to its mid point and flooded the interior. While water had been slowly seeping in as it was, had I not opened the door, I'd have had dry socks and boots the rest of that day.
Let's see, quarter of the way up the door, four inch lift, add a couple more inches due to what the tires will lift it, yeah, that's about two and a half feet deep.
Two and a half feet deep of ice cold water and mud that I'd really rather not have flooding the interior of my Blazer.
Out the window we went, Bo and Luke style.
This is one of the things about off-roading that you just have to accept. You are going to get stuck at some point in time while you are by yourself. It is inevitable. The off-road gods demand of it to teach you humility and unstupidity. The second you do anything to your four wheel drive vehicle to make it a better off-road vehicle, you will get stuck, and you will have to accept that fact that you may have to walk home at some time.
There was another girl we had invited along with us, but she declined and it was at this point that we were glad she did because, although she was one of our favorite people in the whole world, she would not have been able to laugh at the fact that we got stuck the way the rest of us were.
I did have a shovel in the back of the Blazer, so we broke that out thinking there was something we could actually dig at. We took larger rocks and placed them under the tires. They just sank. We cleared the ice from in front of the axles. Ask me how I actually managed to do that without getting my feet wet.
Go on, ask.
I didn't actually manage to do it without getting my feet wet.
We tried everything to get us out of there. After about two hours of doing what we could, we decided to walk home.
Here in lies one of the problems. It was about 2:30am at this point. We were about three miles from the main road. And then we were about twenty miles from town. Fortunately we had jackets and gloves and what not, but we had to leave my poor Blazer all alone in the wilderness for the night.
With it being cold like it was, now our beer would stay cold while we walked outta there. Disclaimer: I had not had anything to drink prior, I am firmly against the drinking and driving thing, but I fingered, since I wasn't driving now, what the hell, may as well. And I will just add, no drinking took place prior to the attempted murder of innocent forest creatures. Once the ammo boxes were emptied, though, that's when TweedleDumb, TweedleDumber and the chick busted into the cooler.
We got to the highway just fine, we only stumbled and fell about six times apiece as we had no source of illumination and there was no moon out. Tragically, one unopened beer was lost. The funeral service was nice though, and we mourned the loss by drinking the rest of the beer as fast as we could so as not to have another tragic event like that again. (We are respectful outdoor users, we did have a bag with us for the empties so we wouldn't have to trash Mother Earth.)
Ever notice how when you are hitch-hiking and a cold, lonely, desolate road, out in the middle of nowhere, that all the cars are going the opposite direction you want and not the direction you want to be going?
A few cars passed us, but none were willing to stop, although I don't blame them, I'm not too sure I'd stop out in the middle of nowhere at 3:00 in the morning to pick up a group of four idiots out walking along the highway. We even tried to put the chick's long, luscious legs to use by showing them a bit, but that didn't work either. Who knew that there would be that many straight women and homosexual men driving that stretch of road that early in the morning?
After about six miles of walking, (we measured the distance the next day during recovery operations) we came across a ranch where the lights were on.
You know those movies where a stranger walks on to a ranch and the farmer comes out in his red long johns with the butt flap half open and he has a shotgun in hand? Well, we got to see that in real life. Me, I've had guns pointed at me before. The chick and other two guys, I guess never had, so they hauled ass out of there, while I stood there thinking about how to convince this rancher that I wasn't there to cause any harm. Once his shotgun went off, I didn't see any need to try to convince him anymore, and caught up to the other three. Seemed to pass them up as well. Hey, I don't have to out run the farmer, just everybody else.
So we found ourselves on the road again, thumbs out, hoping and praying for a ride.
Praying.
Hmmm.
I liken this to a drunk, hugging his porcelain god, swearing never ever to drink again, but to just please, please make this awful feeling go away.
Dear, mighty powerful off-roading God, please, please let us get a ride. I promise to install a winch. I swear never to go out alone. I shall make a sacrifice of a paycheck to installing a Detroit locker in the rear end. Please, please let a ride come along.
Suddenly, around the corner came an example of my second love in the world of mechanical things. 70 feet of tractor-trailer. A sight to behold was this magnificent mechanical beast. A Freightliner Classic XL with 70" condo sleeper and a loud, growling Caterpillar engine. Chicken lights all over the place so as to look like a rolling Las Vegas and a big shiny 53' trailer. With a set of bright driving lights lighting the way for him, we thought, "this must be our savior!"
Then the bastard just drove right by us.
Damn truck drivers.
More lights coming up behind us. Thumbs at the ready...
Ready...Steady...Thumbs out!
It worked! A nice looking Chevy Suburban stopped for us.
"What the hell are you people doing way the heck out here at this time of night?" was asked of us by the woman behind the wheel.
The chick, in her normal quick witted response replies, "They're guys. Need you ask more? I felt the need to come along simply so there would be one working brain in the bunch." She then turned to give us one of those "if you say anything, I-will-remove-your-manhood-with-a-pickle-fork" looks.
The nice lady gave us a ride. We were glad this was a Suburban where we three not-so-wise-men could sit in the back seat and contemplate our stupidity in silence, while the two women chit-chatted about how we should be contemplating our stupidity in silence.
We decided it was that point in time when the chick became a man-hating lesbian.
Not really, but she did choose more carefully her male friends from that point on.
We made it back to town in about fifteen minutes. Funny how you can cover a lot more ground at fifty-five miles per hour than you can at four.
We gave the nice lady some cash for gas after she dropped us off at my apartment. We all agreed to meet again at about 11:00 to venture out to retrieve the Blazer. Funny, the chick didn't want to go with us for some reason.
So at about 2:00 in the afternoon we finally dragged our sorry butts out of bed and hopped into Jon's (TweedleDumb) 1960 Ford F-100 two wheel drive. Dustin (TweedleDumber) declined to take his 1965 Dodge two wheel drive out there on account that his racing slick tires probably wouldn't do us much good.
We brought along some extra shovels and a chain as well as some other stuff we thought we might need to unstuck my stuck Blazer. We got out to the Blazer, still sitting there in its puddle, and tried to figure out how to go about getting it out.
The ice had refrozen around the Blazer, but not as thick as it had been, so we broke the ice and cleared away the big chunks that had been broken the night before.
I stuck my Hi-Lift under the front bumper in hopes to shove some dunnage under the wheels. All that did was push the base of the jack deeper into the mud. OK, so now we had to tie the tow chain to the Hi-Lift to pull it out with the Ford.
While Dustin and I continued to dig, Jon went to turn his truck around.
Somehow, he managed to get it off the road in doing so. I, to this day, still don't know how he did it, or what it was he was trying to do. So now we had two trucks we needed to free from stuckage. Fortunately Jon wasn't stuck too badly, so we were able to get him out quickly. Back to work on the Blazer.
After what seemed like hours and turned out to actually be hours, we got the Blazer to a point where we thought Jon's truck could pull it out. We backed Jon's truck up to the Blazer and looped the chain around his bumper hitch. We then went to hook the chain to the Blazer.
Note to self: Install front tow hooks two days ago.
Besides the fact that it was under freezing cold water, I didn't want to hook up a tow chain to the front axle. The bumper was also a no go as there really wasn't a place to hook up to. So we committed an off-road sin and hooked the chain to the front leaf spring bracket.
I got in and fired the engine right up. Not bad for an engine that had been sitting in freezing cold water for the better part of a day and only had 10W-30 in it.
Jon pulled his truck up to the point where there was barely any slack in the chain. I put the tranny into gear and prepared to move. Dustin stood aside and made sure things were all lined up and ready to go.
Like two top fuel dragster drivers, waiting for the Christmas tree to give us the green, Dustin waved his hand and Jon and I gunned our engines at the same time. Jon's truck pulled with its entire wiener-dog mite, at the same time I put the pedal to the metal, expecting the pull to freedom.
Note to self: the bumper hitch on a 1960 Ford F-100 is not the place to attach a tow chain.
As we examined the bumper lying on the ground, connected to the chain, connected to my Blazer, we noticed Jon, once again, managed to get himself off the beaten path, sideways and with some damage to the back end of his truck. Like something had been pulled right from the end of the frame.
With eyes as big as the headlights of his now mutilated truck, Jon exited his vehicle.
He looked at the bumper, lying on the ground.
He looked at the back of his truck, where the bumper should have been.
He looked at the bumper, lying on the ground.
He looked at the back of his truck, where the bumper should have been.
He looked at the bumper, lying on the ground.
He looked at the back of his truck, where the bumper should have been.
He looked at the bumper, lying on the ground.
He looked at the back of his truck, where the bumper should have been.
"Well, I guess, it's time to smoke a bowl."
I looked at my watch. The afore mentioned bumper-ectomy occurred at 4:19. It was one minute later.
Me, I had quit using the stuff by this time, Jon and Dustin, well, this is why they come up with wild ideas of wabbit huntin' at midnight, and why they can't shoot for crap.
Just as said bowl smoking was completed, we came upon a grand idea for to get the Blazer out, an idea so grand, it was worthy of having been thought up while smoking a bowl.
But as fate would have it at such times, we forgot it right away.
Once again we had to dig the Ford out from its snowy nest.
This time we tied Jon's end of the chain around a frame cross member. Jon backed up to the Blazer and planned on getting a good running start, hoping the shear force of his foreword momentum would pull the Blazer from its watery, ice covered situation.
Again, the small Ford mill screamed like a little girl with a skinned knee, my 350 fiercely roaring through the dual glass packs, bubbling the water around the tailpipes.
Dustin gave us the "go" signal and Jon took off like a bat out of Hell. I watched as the slack came out of the chain, waiting to time it just right so I could hit the gas just as the first pull hit me and I could get out of this mud.
More slack to go, more to go. Ready...3...2...1...GUN IT!
The loud snap that followed was almost as painful to hear as watching the chain come out from under my Blazer's front end, fly through the air and go right through the back window of Jon's truck.
Wow.
I thought Jon was gonna loose it.
The nice thing about stoners is that A) they don't catch on to things very fast some times, and B) they tend to forget things real fast.
"Well, I guess, it's time to smoke a bowl."
As the two knuckleheads were contemplating using large air bladders underneath the Blazer and how cool it would be to off-road the Moon, I noticed something hiding in the trees not too very far off, so I went of to investigate. It was big, yellow and black, and smelled of diesel exhaust and hydraulic fluid.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my key chain. There it was, the small, stubby little key, with three big letter embossed on it: "CAT." A key designed to fit every vehicle made by that manufacturer.
A Caterpillar D-5R bulldozer (insert Tim Allen like grunt noise here).
I checked the oil and other fluids like all good equipment operators should and climbed up into the cab. I turned the key slightly and waited for all the gauges and dials and other little gizmo demi-widgets to do their thing and cranked the engine over. Oh-yeah, she fired right up. I'd have to come back to this dozer a little later and leave the guy a few gallons of fuel and a six-pack. (yet another rule of off-roading, payback is good karma.)
This was a newer style dozer; rather than the two control sticks, one for each track; this had a single horizontal joystick on one side of the seat to control movement and levers on the other side to control the blade. HMMMM...ain't never driven one like this a'fore. Not a problem, I have a superior intellect on how for to finger out how to make a machine move.
It was a bit sluggish at first, until I discovered the parking brake was still engaged, then it moved real nice, and those small saplings looked as if they were going to die anyway. Maybe the large gouge left in the ground from the blade wasn't necessary, but it could act as a run off ditch. And the ripper didn't really do that much damage to the road.
By the time I got the D5 back to the Blazer, Jon and Dustin were hooking the chain the front bumper of the Ford, convinced in the fact that reverse gear had the most torque and would pull the Blazer free. Well, that may be true, but considering the track record we've had so far connecting the chain to the Ford, why chance fate? Third time's a charm? I think not.
I turned the Dozer around and we attached the chain to a loop on the back of the yellow beast, set the Blazer in neutral and heaved and hoed and finally the Blazer was free.
I parked the dozer back were I found it, like my mom taught me when ever I illegally "borrowed" somebody else's piece of heavy equipment.
I hopped in the Blazer and we set out to return home. I was tooteling down the trail and noticed that Jon was no longer behind me after a mile or two.
I stopped.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited yet some more.
I flipped a bitch, as they say, (and exactly who are "they," and why do "they" say that? The true definition of "bitch" is a female dog, which, so far as I can tell, has absolutely nothing to do with turning around, and secondary and more slang like definition of "bitch" is a, shall we say, cranky woman. This also has nothing to do with making a U-turn, unless of course you are turning around so as to avoid said cranky woman. But then why does one "flip" a bitch? What exactly is one flipping? Flipping around I guess, but really, doesn't the thought of turning end over end come to mind more so then turning around to one's side when using the term "flip?" The actual prospect of flipping end over end isn't really a pleasant thought when off-roading, now is it? Unless, of course, it's that jerk-off hot dog in the store bought Rubicon that called you grandpa for taking your time while going up the last obstacle, him you'd like to see going end over end, that'd teach that young whipper-snapper a thing or two, coz he'd be all "hey look at how cool I am in my store bought Jeep and how not cool you are coz you're in a Blazer," then he'd go over the next rock and roll his sorry little punk ass, and he'd be all "Whaaaaaaaaa, my Jeep!" and you'd be all HAHAHAHAHA! Punk ass-piece of duke! That'll learn ya!" and he'd be all, "Shut up!" and you'd be all, "Make me!" And he'd all be "I don't make trash, I throw it out!" and you'd be all "Oh real mature. Nice come back!" And he'd be all "Shut Up!" !" and you'd be all, "Make me!" and he'd all be "I don't make trash, I throw it out!" and you'd be all "Oh real mature. Nice come back!" and he'd be all "Shut Up!" and you'd be all, "Make me!" and he'd all be "I don't make trash, I throw it out!" and you'd be all "Oh real mature. Nice come back!" and he'd be all "Shut Up!" !" and you'd be all, "Make me!" And he'd all be "I don't make trash, I throw it out!" and you'd be all "Oh real mature. Nice come back!" And he'd be all "Shut Up!" and you'd be all, "Make me, infinity!") to see what was keeping Ol' Hempy (Jon) from following me.
I cleared the rise and sure enough, there he was, on the side of the road. I pulled up next to him and asked what seemed to be the problem.
"Outta gas," he explained.
So we piled in to the Blazer, cruised into town, dropped Dustin off at work and got a Jerry can full of gas. We drove back out to the Ford.
Or at least where the Ford had been.
"Must be in stealth mode," I observed.
We drove down the hill and found the Ford sitting in a brook.
Well, maybe it was a creek.
Well, more like a river.
Fortunately it got hung up on a log, so it wasn't floating down stream, but you could tell that was what Mother Nature had intended on doing with it. (Truth be told, the world might have been better off with out that thing anyway)
Unfortunately, I had run out of film in my camera.
"Guess the parking brake wouldn't hold as well as I though," Jon said.
Well, DUH!
We chained the Ford to the Blazer and went with the pulling motion to get it out of the river. Here's the part where I bet you're expecting me to tell you I pulled the front bumper off or the chain snapped and smashed the front windscreen. Well as luck would have it, Mr. Murphy (of Murphy's law fame) was occupied elsewhere for the time being and we got the Ford free of its potentially watery grave.
See Mr. Murphy wasn't around to mess with me pulling the Ford out because he was too busy draining my gas tank.
Sputter, sputter, sput sput, dead... AW, for the love of Pete!
So, back to town we went for yet more gas. Once again, we returned to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and filled my tank. You know you're having a bad day when the teenager geek at the Kum & Go gives you crap. (Honest to God that it was what the store is called. We preferred the following pseudonyms for it though: "Jizz & Git," "Squirt & Scram," and the ever popular "Ejaculate & evacuate.")
Jon and I returned home safely, after stopping and filling our respective gas tanks.
We pondered the events of the past day and wondered why we do such things.
"Dude," he said, "We're guys. Let's smoke a bowl."
YOU READ IT, YOU CAN'T UNREAD IT!
It's not what you buy; it's what you build.
User Reviews
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-09-10 20:19:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
thems a lotta werds
Submitted by Otter (user info) at 2008-09-10 20:00:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I thought it might be something like that. Many of the cadets at the school were jump qualified or even reserveists, it was an Army oriented school.
In the Marines we'd say "brain housing unit." I thought I sounded rather intelligent and whitty when I'd tell someone to "pull their brain housing unit from their fourth point of contact."
I also found the only way a lieutenant could pull his head out of his ass was either: A) they were getting promoted to captain or B) they had a good conduct ribbon.
Submitted by X54 (user info) at 2008-09-10 00:04:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
When you do a parachute landing fall (a PLF) there are five points of contact that your body is supposed to make with the ground, in order: feet, elbows, face--something like that. I forget them all, but the fourth point of contact is your ass. It's a common term in any airborne unit: "Pull your head out of your fourth point of contact, Lieutenant." I'd forgotten about that until I read your post.
Submitted by Otter (user info) at 2008-09-09 21:31:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
X54, actually I'm a Marine. Though I did have a roomate that was in the 82nd, so by proxy, that makes me... the former roomate of a member of the 82nd. She rocked though, almost enough to have been a Marine.
However, the "fourth point of contact" phrase I picked up from when I attended New Mexico Military Institute. I never knew what the origin of phrase was, but it has stuck with me for almost twenty years now. (OY VEY! 20 years ago?!? Crap, I'm getting old)
Submitted by X54 (user info) at 2008-09-09 21:24:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Winches FTW. Jesus, what a shaggy dog story. However, I already committed to +2ing it for, "My buds and I would get a wild hair up our respective fourth points of contact..." AIRFUCKINGBORNE!
Meeker, by the way, is known the world over for the annual sheepdog competition held there. It's like the fucking Superbowl of sheep herding contests. Those dogs are really smart, smarter even than ME maybe.
Submitted by metalbeast7 (user info) at 2008-09-09 20:45:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Bah, i read the whole thing.
i think it was worth it.
Submitted by Otter (user info) at 2008-09-09 18:38:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thank you for the kind words folks. At least none of you wrote, "I'm not reading all this so I'm giving you a -2." as has happened iun the past. I'd prefer to be judged on content rather than the fact that the reader's ADD kicked in. Again, thank you.
Adam, you are correct sir! This was the first off road vehicle I'd driven/owned, except for Hummvees and five tons I drove when I was in the Marines. I had a lot to learn at that point and the two monkeys that were with me were more of the "Redneck" type off roader, y'know, the "gun it till it breaks!" types, so using a chain was what we did.
I am now in the process of building up my (3rd) Grand Cherokee, and after ten years of wheeling, and befriending those in the know, this one will be a kick ass rock crawler and a stylin' daily driver.
Sadly the Blazer of this story lost its life later that winter. It was early morning when the evil bitch goddess "Black Ice" reached out with her frosty hand and jerked my beloved K5 off the highway and set it upside-down on the side of the road. I walked away with only a few small cuts to my hand, but God is now enjoying the trails of heaven in my Blazer. R.I.P.
Submitted by Cyrus (user info) at 2008-09-09 14:30:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
On the other hand, +2 for huntin' wabbits & bowl smoking.
Submitted by Cyrus (user info) at 2008-09-09 14:26:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Didn't have cows to heard?
Still a knucklehead I see.
Submitted by Yozz (user info) at 2008-09-09 14:22:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WTF?! I almost read all that.
Submitted by Lanik (user info) at 2008-09-09 11:32:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuckin' brilliant. I've never heard so much positivity come from so much negativity.
Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2008-09-09 10:18:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Anyone who offraods knows that you use towstraps not chains and you always bring a can of gas. BTW when you get stuck in a large puddle like that, try making a drainage trench especially if you're adjecent to a pond.
Submitted by Comfortably_Numb (user info) at 2008-09-09 07:58:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This brings back memories of my teenage years with my buddy's '79 F100 4x4. Good Times.
Submitted by Aadarm (user info) at 2008-09-09 06:58:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Just because it's so long and made me mad after waking up from being passed out in a chair. And because my PO gets me put away again for smoking, that bitch.
Submitted by sexualchocolate1984 (user info) at 2008-09-09 05:23:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I thouroughly enjoyed this, but you really write like a stoner. You sure you don't smoke?
Also, there's nothing wrong with smoking and drinking before shooting! We go wrecked lamping often and enjoy killing rabbits (specially the big black and white ones, with the nasty sharp teeth, or the one's with the big red bushy tails, rabbits, honestly officer) with the old .22, gotta love the silencer though.
And you can drink when you're not driving on proper roads, it's the roads you're not alowed to drive drunk on. Isn't it?
Submitted by SensibleShoes (user info) at 2008-09-09 05:17:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2008-09-09 00:01:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
just too long
---
I wonder how often he hears that?
Submitted by frankthebear (user info) at 2008-09-09 00:44:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
WTF! I'm not reading all of that! you only get a +1 because of the gas-guzzleing road-hog
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2008-09-09 00:01:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
just too long
Submitted by Wuzi (user info) at 2008-09-08 23:10:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
read about halfway through it
but I did splooge when I scrolled down and saw the truck
mmmmmmmmmm
Submitted by sandmantate (user info) at 2008-09-08 22:27:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
This was to long for me. 4 inches in the front and 6 in the back must have given that truck one hell of a rake.
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2008-09-08 22:04:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I admit I didn't read all of it. A "ratchet rear end" is BACF for a Detroit Locker Differential, most often used in offroad and drag racing for passcar-sized vehicles, and in medium-to-heavy-duty roadway construction vehicles.
http://www.eaton.com/EatonCom/ProductsServices/PerformanceProducts/index.htm
BACF is "Backward-Ass Country Fuck". I like your truck, too.