Crazy Stories of Faire, Redux?

[Jinglebum]

Ahahaha. Reading these at work was a bad idea. It was very hard not to burst out laughing. XD
I, unfortunately, have yet to experience any truly epic occurrence to recount. It's faire though, so I'm sure that will change before long.

[eloquentXI]

Ahahaha. Reading these at work was a bad idea. It was very hard not to burst out laughing. XD

Its referred to as Riots disease.

[Riot]

 

[Blue66669]

It's only Riot's Disease when the computer (or someone's face) gets sprayed accordingly LOL!

[Mouse]

Remind me to make sure I am updated on all my shots before I visit McLotofus....*double checks shots and downs three* So far, I'm caught up.

[Rapier Half-Wit]

I get in trouble when I hijack threads like this.

[Sir Martin]

I get in trouble when I hijack threads like this.

Nah ... the forum owner/admins allow some flexibility for that.  If things get too crazy I'll try to nudge the rudder back on course.  On another note, your TRF story was a perfect example of retelling a memorable event without getting too explicit.  And for even spicier threads, we have the John's Inn section.   

[Mouse]

Indeed..I even told a friend earlier tonight about that story...he looked at me with horror..he has spent the normal amount of alloted time in ye old privvys at faire and he said to post his condolences from him

[Breandan]

Rather than make a new thread, figured I would resurrect this one just in time for the official countdown to TRF

A Tale of Bacon
During the latter half of the season in '08, my mind was elsewhere. My wife was on active duty, I was soon to deploy myself, and I had a high-profile executive protection gig for the CEO of a major chemical company that was entirely mine to plan and organize as well as work. Between work, missing my beloved wife, and planning my own impending departure, my mind was second only to scrambled eggs thrown through a blender when it came to disjointedness. Alas, such is a most inappropriate mindset to possess whilst working in a blacksmith shop.

Among our crew was a new apprentice who- while enthusiastic- occasionally had lapses in judgement herself. She was working on a piece just prior to a demo, and as the countdown reached five minutes till, we set about clearing our projects out of the way and cleaning up for Mark to do his demonstration. I was busy- making sure the flux bucket was full and clean, making sure there was enough coal on the table, putting the tools that weren't needed away, putting the necessary ones in place for Mark to have them at hand (nothing distracts from doing an in-character demo to a crowd like having to root around for tools), picking up random bits of metal laying around and getting them out of the way, including the one laying on the anvil....

... and I suddenly smelled bacon.

Now, it is incumbent upon me to backtrack a bit at this point and explain a little bit about blacksmith physiology. I said physiology, not psychology... that's a whole 'nuther mess that psychiatric professionals could (and have) make a career on. In the course of our work, we hand a lot of the stock we heat up by hand, without gloves, because it is simply easier to work that way. The heat does work its way up the piece, obviously, but slowly and usually not to excess. Regular exposures to this have inured our nervous system to temperature differences, and we have thick, heat-desensitized skin as a result.

It was due to this physiology that I had managed to walk five steps holding a piece of black-hot steel that said apprentice had forgotten to quench and simply left laying on the anvil before I realized that the bacon smell and sizzling noise was my hand. Twas upon the fifth step that my hand reported to my brain- belatedly, but with the utmost of enthusiasm and vigor- that it was, in fact, holding a small, linear portal to the deepest depths of the largest oven in hell. After placing said ten-frillion degree bar of steel into the quench bucket at a rather high rate of speed, my hand immediately lurched for the refrigerator in the back room, dragging my protesting body along. I did not know ice could speed-melt.



"Mmmm.... smells like bacon!"

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

BACON!