I would like to make my first post on these forums an amusing - and true (!) story (with a moral, no less)! I hope it restarts a topic (Crazy Stories of Faire?) that's doubtless been started many times before. :)
My wife and I have been camping at TRF for the last six or seven years, and over that time have accumulated a lot of gear, including a toilet ("bio-blued" bucket topped with seat) and tent-privy. Aside from making the art of camping at Faire more comfortable (and more complex), such gadgetry eases the task of convincing friends - the vast majority of whom are NOT Rennies - to join us at the campsite for a weekend of carefree carousing.
One such victim, Patrick, had been to TRF before - some twenty years before, which alone was reason enough for my wife and I to insist that he go again. When we heard that he had never camped there, we introduced him to our spare tent / air mattress / bedding (and the marvels of toilet-bucket, tent-privy, et cetera). He relented, and so it was to be just the three of us.
The Friday night of our arrival and setup was wonderfully cold, and as we lounged about the fire with beer / bourbon in hand, some visitors (a couple, who couldn't have been much older than 16) entered our campsite to share the heat. After some pleasantries, including my (necessary!) revelation that "not going to jail for giving alcohol to minors" was one of my lifelong goals, they continued on their way. As the drum circle began to make an appreciable level of noise, we refilled our drinks, locked the beer and bourbon away (!), and made our merry way toward the bonfire, hoping to show our guest something memorable.
The bonfire was - as usual on a Friday night - less than incredible, so we soon wandered in search of another source of commotion and entertainment. The first we found consisted of a small trailer, illuminated with tripod-mounted worklights, whose sole raison d'etre lay in supporting a stripper pole which groaned under the weight of several writhing female bodies.
Patrick was visibly amused. I was sure he'd be back next year.
After about a quarter of an hour of my finding other things to look at (the wedding band, you see, she is heavy) and Patrick's unabashed ogling, our Wondrous mugs became empty and our bladders full. We bade farewell to a collection of names, and made for our campsite to drain and refill.
Patrick and I found trees in short order. My wife found something else entirely.
"THERE'S SOMEONE IN OUR BATHROOM!" exclaimed she.
"Huh?" I replied cleverly, despite a mind clouded by bourbon and the bliss of steaming relief long overdue. A glance in her direction revealed a privy-tent moving of its own accord. Was it ambulating? I leaned closer and squinted - again, cleverly, pissing on my boots.
"THERE'S SOMEONE F***ING IN OUR BATHROOM!" she screams, now committing to the "pee-pee dance" of urgency.
"Huh?" says I - in perhaps my most memorable display of literary eloquence - as I think to myself, "was that expletive for emphasis, or did she literally mean..." With rapidly flagging confidence, I answered myself aloud: "Nooo..." It simply couldn't be.
A voice from within the tent-privy began then to utter in slurred earnest a repetitive string of words: "I'mSorryI'mSorryI'mSorryI'mSorryI'mSorry..." As I recognize the speaker as the male half of the couple who had visited us earlier, a female voice from within then conveniently muttered something incomprehensible, confirming the presence of the Beast With Two Backs.
While struggling to remember their names so as to address them with something more proper than "moron" and "moronette," the male Voice From Within uttered next The Three Magic Words, which stopped me in mid-flow, mid-thought, and mid-breath, leaving me gape-jawed and nonplused to a degree I struggled to remember visiting before:
"Can we finish?"
I began to take a deep breath to laugh (I laugh LOUDLY) but was shocked into silence by an event that occurred before I could fill my lungs.
Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote "[t]he fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of man," and thus it raged within my wife, whose theretofore amusing "pee-pee dance" became the ominous, mad gyrations of a (wo)man possessed, and from whose mouth escaped a string of foul expletives so furiously and rapidly hurled that it was only upon her need to gasp another breath that I realized I was involuntarily retreating from the campsite... soaking my other boot in the process.
My wife began to look about the campsite, likely for a weapon. As I breathed a sigh of relief for the complexity of my peace knots, the male half of the Lavatory Love Machine fled the privy shirtless; the female stumbled out soon thereafter, clutching her shirt to her breasts and holding her hand over her face in humiliation.
Now I'm POSITIVE Patrick will join us again this year.
Oh yes, the moral.
ALWAYS BRING YOUR CAMERA(S).
LOL!! :D
I used to install and clean Port-O-Potties and something similar happened to me while cleaning them out at 4am once.
Never underestimate teen-age hormones!
"Can we finish?"
Priceless.
Oh my that was good. I'm sure they are very lucky for the peace knots.
ROTF!
That is just hilarious and proves my sound reasoning for bringing locks for my privy tent!!!
Quote from: Chianti on May 25, 2009, 04:05:31 PM
"Can we finish?"
Priceless.
And true. I've had stories I've wanted to tell before, but this...
...this!....
Mayhap you should hang a shingle over yon potty portal forewarning of video surveilance. Friends will share the jest, and others...
No, nevermind. With any luck, you'd have 'em lining up instead.
That was hysterical!!
Not having camped in Patrons in years... hell, make that nearly two decades (damn I'm getting old), I miss a lot of the shenanigans that go on out there these days. That being said, back in the day we had quite a few of our own inside. I remember when I had first started there, running around with the Barbarians as an unofficial bear-pelt-wearing appendage to the horde, we used to camp behind the Drunken Dragon in the inner circle. Fate played a particularly amusing hand in the placement of my tent that year, wherein after night fell I realized that a neighboring tent was aligned precisely between my tent and a security light in just the right way so that the goings-on inside said tent were projected on my wall with crystal clarity. By clarity, let me simply say that the midnight interlude going on was so sharply projected that I could make out the hair on the arms of the male part of the ménage à trois occurring next door.
Not being the wisest of lads, I made the mistake of pointing this out to a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, and, well, promptly found my tent filled with an audience of limbic voyeurs who actually started scoring and cheering, ruining any chance of sleep. Now, do not misunderstand my attempt to sleep through the silent theater of the carnal upon my wall as a puritanical bent on my part, but I had driven five hours from Corpus Christi that night after work and was exhausted, so my survival instinct of preventing sleep-deprivation around alcohol and sharp-and-pointies the next day overrode my libido. That being said, the appreciation of the trio of apparent gymnasts with inexhaustible stamina soon turned into a drinking game, wherein shots were taken at various points, and triple-shots (of some caustic substance that would be put to better use degreasing engines or fueling an F22 Raptor than imbibing, I might add) for dexterous exploits that none in attendance thought physically possible. I am ashamed to say I took part in this, having long since given up on sleep after a certain someone *coughSeancough* used me as a seat.
Alas, I do not recall anything that followed for a period of 36 hours, beyond vague memories of doing something untoward on a table whilst wearing a kilt, and something about sheriff's department protocols regarding launching bottle rockets from a moving vehicle. The trio were, apparently, quite agile.
Ironically, one of my crazy faire stories involves walking out of my tent only to find out that I WAS a victim of that projection screen effect, although it couldn't have been me, my stories all happened in the last 12 years!
And should you ever hear rumors about a game of drunken truth or dare in participants camp and "I'm a little teapot" in the buff in the middle of a freezing night, they're LIES I say, LIES!!!
(Oh, to be young and carefree again....)
One year a friend and I worked the faire so we had a camp set up in the participants camping area. And it was quiet hour after 10PM. As my friend and myself tried to sleep and hearing all the fun over at the playtron's camping area, it was raining a little bit and we kept seeing flares being shot off every few minutes or and drums beating in the background . But finally drifted off to sleep close to 2AM I guess, only to awakened by carnal moans and groans...and that was when I found out that god was in a tent a few yards away from me.... or at least that was what some young lass (let's call her Laura) was calling him...all night long. :o
Well the next morning was up making coffee on the coleman stove and another young lady came by hollering a girl's name, and was heading straight for god's tent. When she got up to my tent, she said "Good Morning, have you seen my friend Laura???" Laughing, I told her "the only person I knew for sure was in that tent was god, but he did have a lady in with him." Next thing you hear is the zipper of god's tent opening up and out pops Laura, who came over to her friend and then said to me "sorry if I kept you awake," you could tell she was embarrassed :-[ Well, then god pops out of his tent and her friend and I got a gander at god, and I told her..."if I would have met someone with god's chisled looks, I might have kept someone awake too." :o
Quote from: Tipsy Gypsy on May 29, 2009, 09:22:08 AM
Mayhap you should hang a shingle over yon potty portal forewarning of video surveilance.
Well put. :)
QuoteFriends will share the jest, and others...
No, nevermind. With any luck, you'd have 'em lining up instead.
That's a good point. To don a costume in the first place, you've got to be a bit of an exhibitionist...
You know, there are three kinds of luck: Good, Bad, and Dumb...
QuoteThat was hysterical!!
Thanks! Here's to more wackiness at TRF 2009 - to which we are already looking forward!
Edit: whoops; messed up the manual quote tags
Quote from: Breandan on June 07, 2009, 01:44:52 PM
Not having camped in Patrons in years... hell, make that nearly two decades (damn I'm getting old), I miss a lot of the shenanigans that go on out there these days.
Really; I'd heard the patron campground was comparatively sedate. Now I suppose it makes sense that it wouldn't be, considering that none of the participants there need wake sober enough to, say, toss knives and juggle torches.
Reading your recounting of your pseudo-exhibitionistic exploits was fantastically graphic and amusing. Thanks for your contribution - very well written.
My wife led me to these forums and said I shouldn't be shocked by the literacy of its inhabitants, but still... I get sent at least two YouTube links a day, and the comments there, well... I can FEEL IQ points leaping from my ears, convinced that the structure is aflame and that their existence is in peril. Probably my cats have become their new home, for now I have one capable of opening the pantry...
Quote from: Gwen aka Punstergal on June 08, 2009, 02:57:35 PM
Ironically, one of my crazy faire storie
The same thing happened to me, though I realized what was happening and quickly began to "ham it up," much to the amusement of our campmates.
QuoteAnd should you ever hear rumors about a game of drunken truth or dare in participants camp and "I'm a little teapot" in the buff in the middle of a freezing night, they're LIES I say, LIES!!!
I'll keep my ears open... :)
Not of the same caliber but still quite as amusing, at least as how I remember it...
Last season, Element of Air and I were on our ususal trot to find her boyfriend, Sir Jerrick Reyfe and as we were about to pass in front of Ravenswood, something dropped from the sky with a loud plop much alike something falling onto the surface of water. We both stopped dead in our tracks and much to our amazement, that furry little ball, unfurled to reveal a squirrel. It was only a moment, eyes darting from side to side before it zoomed off away from our feet.
I think I spent the rest of the day watching for above trees and any kamikaze squirrels. :D
oh, you've met the ninja squirrels... beware, for they can steal food at phenomenal speeds. We adopted one as our forge mascot, Angry McSquirrel (http://ciarraide.org/temp/pics/smithy/smithy_Angry_McSquirrel.JPG) :D
And we also have a skunk that has taken up residence under the back room of the blacksmith shop... found that particular tidbit of information out at 2200 on a Friday night while unloading the car into the upstairs apartment last season. It was sniffing my tire, and we surprised each other. Thankfully, we chose to go our separate ways at equally rapid rates of speed :P
Anyone remember the big foam spider that Steve and Pepe (Wilkinson Furniture) made at TRF many years ago? It was about 3 feet across, with wire and rubatex legs and a styrofoam ball body, and Pepe rigged it up to skitter across the ground on a zip line between the booth and one of the benches. Watching unsuspecting patrons leaping up in the air, eyes wide and legs bicycling madly, was the highlight of the afternoon :D.
Speaking of squirrels, we have a perennial resident in Pyro City aptly named PyroSquirrel. This little fellow actually seeks out and eats/stores the little round unburned 'stars' from the aerial shells we use in the fireworks shows. Frequently, a firework shell will explode, but not all of the little stars inside ignite to make the pretty colors. These "blind" stars fall to the ground and end up providing sustenance to this squirrel. These things are made of some fairly rare chemicals, and I am not sure why the squirrel has not spontaneously mutated into some world-destroying monster worthy of Japanese cinema, but it is certainly big and fat.
Some years ago, one of the denizens of Pyro City tried to catch PyroSquirrel. He had the box, a stick with a string and what he thought was appetizing bait. The squirrel ran up to the box, looked in, turned and appeared to LAUGH at the hapless squirrel hunter. I swear we heard the little squeaky laugh.There were several additional attempts to catch this critter during the run of faire, and we actually had a sign up keeping score. It was an epic failure. I think it ended up with Squirrel 5 : Human 0.
That is a good squirrel story. It would be interesting to see this squirrel and hear about future attempts to catch it.
You could set up a "surprise" for him... something nice with a mercury rocker switch.
BOOM
I think I speak for all concerned on that half of faire when I say "DO NOT GIVE THE PYROMANIACS ANY IDEAS!" :o
You might have something there... LOL.
I can make a surprise for the little guy...
We have one at Sea Devil during rehearsal that must have had the worst case of "BLUE BALLS" that I have ever seen. They hung past his feet and dragged when he would walk, just think of what it must have felt like when he jumped from tree to tree. Admiral Drake named him Big Nuts, and so Big Nuts would sit up in trees above the stage and throw things at us as we rehearsed.
Riley our beloved "Dooble" had one dive into his lap while we were on break at the New Market Gazebo during rehearsals.
Quote from: Broadside on June 12, 2009, 12:27:02 PM
I can make a surprise for the little guy...
We have one at Sea Devil during rehearsal that must have had the worst case of "BLUE BALLS" that I have ever seen. They hung past his feet and dragged when he would walk, just think of what it must have felt like when he jumped from tree to tree. Admiral Drake named him Big Nuts, and so Big Nuts would sit up in trees above the stage and throw things at us as we rehearsed.
Riley our beloved "Dooble" had one dive into his lap while we were on break at the New Market Gazebo during rehearsals.
Broadside! You old sea dog! It's Drew! How goes it my friend?!?
DOing well.. Just getting things ready for hell to start I mean rehearsals.
Quote
They hung past his feet and dragged when he would walk, just think of what it must have felt like when he jumped from tree to tree.
Sounds like the Fark squirrel:
(http://img.fark.com/images/squirrel.jpg)
http://www.fark.com/farq/about.shtml (http://www.fark.com/farq/about.shtml)
While this did not happen in TX I think it qualifies as a crazy faire story.
It was early morning and I was camping in the MNRF participant camp and got up to priv. I noticed something very shiny laying in the grass right in front of my tent. I burst out laughing and go back inside to get my tentmates to come and see it. What was there glistening in the morning dew was a metallic purple "personal massager". We giggle and make a sign for it that says "I'm lost and I miss my mommy." My boyfriend stands upon it and turns it on with his other foot so it rests there with it's sign vibrating away.
Later on in the day, my boyfriend was accosted by an angry mother. It seems her daughter had picked it up thinking it was a toy and had been carrying it around with her for hours as she ate from their communal popcorn bin. The mother finally noticed because her child took it out and began massaging said mother's neck with the "device".
The next week I was sitting around a campfire relating the story to much amusement. A girl who was around the fire began to frantically text the guy sitting next to her. He burst out laughing and asked if he could tell. Apparently it was hers and had rolled out of her tent when she was shaking out her blanket.
Quote from: Tipsy Gypsy on June 12, 2009, 03:00:27 PM
Quote
They hung past his feet and dragged when he would walk, just think of what it must have felt like when he jumped from tree to tree.
Sounds like the Fark squirrel:
(http://img.fark.com/images/squirrel.jpg)
http://www.fark.com/farq/about.shtml (http://www.fark.com/farq/about.shtml)
They were bigger. :o
I have a whole slew of stories to add to this thread, but there are some which are noteworthy, not because they happened at faire, but on the way to it. To explain this, you have to understand the journey- at the time, my foster-brothers Orren and Marty and I lived in or around Corpus Christi, which is four hours south of Houston along the coast. This meant a four hour trip to Houston on IH 77/59, and then switch to I-45 in Houston (which at that time was under constant construction and a nightmare and a half), followed by another hour to hour-and-a-half to faire. We did this after getting off work on Fridays... Epic journey indeed. One such tale happened in late October, 1995
That particular Friday eve, Marty and I were in the cab of my truck, and Orren was stretched out in the bed sleeping, encased in Marty's Army-issued arctic mummy bag and buried under our gear. As we came into Houston, 59 choked up to three very narrow lanes where construction was ongoing, and the 9pm bar-bound crowd was out in force. Then, it rained. Let me take a step back and rephrase that... somewhere above us in the heavens, a dam broke, deities fled for high ground, and then tore a rent in the sky to divert the biblical wall of water down onto our unsuspecting heads. We went from clear vision to where-the-hell-did-my-hood-go visibility in .04 seconds flat. All we could see of the car ahead of us was a faint red glow of brake lights as the dimwitted hydrophobe locked up and became a brand-name speed bump. Fortunately, I managed to avoid the bump and dodge a wreck, but found myself next to the k-rail divider. With a torrential downpour blinding us, and making traction dodgy at best, and the proximity of the concrete wall to my left seeming to be mere millimeters from my ear, things were understandably tense. Then, out of the rain-darkened night came a metallic behemoth from the right. A semi truck had pulled over into the middle lane, just as the car ahead of us slowed down. Boxed in by wall, semi, a cautious driver to the fore and a veritable vehicular proctologist behind us, our nerves were wracked like Torquemada's favorite victim.
A strange cracking noise sounded in the cab, and I risked a quick glance over to see Marty gripping the dashboard, and crushing it in his death grip as he stared out the right window at the truck. I then heard a strange squeak and realized I had bent the steering wheel in my own grip of the doomed. We rounded a curve, and then it happened- the semi crossed the dotted line. The lanes were already narrow, barely wide enough for my truck to fit in between the lines, so there was no room for movement as a mack truck suddenly wanted a wee cuddle. I pulled as far to the left as I could, only to be rewarded by a loud THWACK! as a reflector sticking out of the k-rail smacked my rearview mirror and slammed it against the window. Marty rolled down the window, allowing half the content of the Atlantic Ocean to join us, it seemed. I figured he had justifiably chosen to bail out of the doomed truck and take his chances clinging to the outside of the semi, but I was wrong. No, his loyalty to his brothers was strong as he leaned out the window and began furiously pounding on the back of the cab of the semi truck.
This seemed to get the attention of the driver, for the semi suddenly jerked away from pancaking our poor little truck into a Ford patty. I saw an opening and we managed to maneuver between vehicles like a ferret on meth , Marty shouting out "CLEAR!" the instant an opening appeared to the right, and we launched up the exit to I-45. As soon as we hit the exit, some god of weather returned from his visit to the loo and flipped the switch, shutting off the vertical tsunami. As we got onto I-45 proper, the skies parted, stars shone, angels sang, babies belched, and we pulled off onto the shoulder, grey-haired shattered wrecks of PTSD-stricken young men. It occurred to me that we had forgotten the last sibling of our traveling trio, and apparently Marty came to the same realization, for we both said "Orren!" in unison and bailed out of the cab, running to the bed to check on our trapped little brother. The wee bastard was still sound asleep. He had not only slept through the entire ordeal, but through some miracle of airflow and hydrodynamics he was bone-dry. Marty fixed that, scooping cold water off of the cab roof and dumping it on the slumbering cherub. After we finally reached faire (without further incident, thankfully), Marty and I agreed it was for the best if we drank ourselves into unconsciousness, which we did with the fervor one can only find in an ambitious career alcoholic.
Ah, good times ;D
Picture it, TRF, closing weekend, 2008. It was cold and we were all exhausted at Castle Kzar Leatherworks. 8 long weekends of slaving away at faire, sleeping in frosty tents, and drinking the nights away in grounds afterhours. It was brutal, and we were all ready to give our last huzzah to the 08 season.
About an hour before our closing time, a notorious rennie came strutting in to talk to the bossman, dressed smartly in a kilt. He and Kilber exchanged a few words, of which I heard none. Next thing I know, I was being told that he was ordering a custom leather armour codpiece. He needed to have measurements taken, and I was to grab the tape measure and hand it to the production manager, Tim.
For a couple of awkward moments, Tim fumbled with the tape measure, unsure of where to start. After a moment, he realizes what this job entails and promptly tosses the tape measure at me. Bossman says, "Would you please take our guest back to get his measurements?" I begrudgingly accept the task, knowing that any rennie Scotsman worth his salt is, of course, regimental. I take our guest by the hand and lead him behind the curtain.
Once in the back, I quickly take his waist measurement, dreading what I'm about to have to do next. I tell him that the next measurement will be a bit intrusive, and to go ahead and lift his kilt for me. It was exactly as I expected.......
For those who don't know, a codpiece measurement consists of the beltstrap for the waist, and then the back piece that connects from the beltstrap to the bottom of the actual codpiece. Think, renaissance thong. So, here I am, face to face with this Scotsman's nude backside when I have to tell him to do something very unnatural..... "Grab your jewels, lift em up, spread your legs and bend over just a bit." I placed the tape measure on his taint and ran it up his buttcrack to get the last number. I was MORTIFIED for the both of us. I'm beginning to think that he was amused...
After taking the last measurement, I thanked him for his patience and poked my head out to give the boss the numbers. I then ran as fast as I could to the very back of the shop to have my mini heart attack and hyperventillate a little. Upon my return to the salesfloor about 15 minutes later, EVERYONE at the Castle was there, staring at me and stiffling their giggles. Bossman apologizes profusely, insisting that he had NO CLUE that our customer would have come in regimental to get measured for a codpiece.
Thusly, the rule of Blue came into effect- WHEN BEING MEASURED OR FITTED FOR CUSTOM LEATHERWORK, ALL CUSTOMERS MUST WEAR PROPER UNDERGARMENTS!!!!!!
Oh gawd....
Blue, you never said whether you enjoyed the job, or not ... ;D ;)
Now if THAT isn't an awkward moment, then i've never had one! LOL.
Breandan, I hope like hell, for all the future generations bereft of a significant quantity of literary talent, that you are in some way an author. Or at least a journalist, for the current generations...
Because that was the single most epic read I've had in a long time!
Quote from: RSLeask on June 15, 2009, 12:54:22 PM
Breandan, I hope like hell, for all the future generations bereft of a significant quantity of literary talent, that you are in some way an author. Or at least a journalist, for the current generations...
Because that was the single most epic read I've had in a long time!
He
is a really good story teller, but I think he's been in the Military, and is planning to be a Law Enforcement Officer as a Civilian.
Take Care,
David Baldock
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 15, 2009, 12:41:36 PM
Now if THAT isn't an awkward moment, then i've never had one! LOL.
HAHA, you have no idea!!!!
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 01:44:45 PM
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 15, 2009, 12:41:36 PM
Now if THAT isn't an awkward moment, then i've never had one! LOL.
HAHA, you have no idea!!!!
You could, next time, ask "one hand or two?" If they give you the same question back, reply "does it take one hand or two to cover it up...?"
Any man that says three is a liar or should be in porn...
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 15, 2009, 02:13:57 PM
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 01:44:45 PM
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 15, 2009, 12:41:36 PM
Now if THAT isn't an awkward moment, then i've never had one! LOL.
HAHA, you have no idea!!!!
You could, next time, ask "one hand or two?" If they give you the same question back, reply "does it take one hand or two to cover it up...?"
Any man that says three is a liar or should be in porn...
*giggles*
One hand or two???
*feel free to renmail me your response LOL*
Na :D just a band-aid and a rubber band for him... ;)
*blinks*
Oh cow...
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 11:36:20 AM
Thusly, the rule of Blue came into effect- WHEN BEING MEASURED OR FITTED FOR CUSTOM LEATHERWORK, ALL CUSTOMERS MUST WEAR PROPER UNDERGARMENTS!!!!!!
Oh gawd....
And what bloody fun is that?? :o
It totally would have been fun.... if it were a Scotsman that I had taken a liking to.
Although, the view from that angle is less than desirable. Turn it around and we'll see...
Sounds like a challenge ... ;)
Honey, with me, EVERYTHING is a challenge...
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 02:57:36 PM
*blinks*
Oh cow...
My friend, Broadside, seems to be telling tales about me, lass. Broadside & meself go back quite a ways and always like giving the other a hard time.
This year looks to be shaping up nicely, so far. ;D
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 05:05:19 PM
Honey, with me, EVERYTHING is a challenge...
And please, for everyone elses sake, don't challenge her.
Quote from: eloquentXI on June 15, 2009, 05:34:31 PM
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 05:05:19 PM
Honey, with me, EVERYTHING is a challenge...
And please, for everyone elses sake, don't challenge her.
Bad things happen, eh?
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 15, 2009, 05:37:07 PM
Quote from: eloquentXI on June 15, 2009, 05:34:31 PM
Quote from: blue66669 on June 15, 2009, 05:05:19 PM
Honey, with me, EVERYTHING is a challenge...
And please, for everyone elses sake, don't challenge her.
Bad things happen, eh?
It's all a depends on perspective, my friend. :P You'll learn to know when to take cover and when its alright.
LMAO!! You may have the right of it, lass. I have found that ALL women can be dangerous...
Depending on perspective. :)
blue66669-
OH LORD! I would have died right there. It'd be bad enough if he had actually been WEARING proper undergarments. But stark weed puller? Thats one crazy beast of a story!
Hmmmm.... I'm giving this some thought. Many o' mine either incriminate someone here on this bonny forum or would risk causing th' thread t' get moved to John's Inn...
I'm with Molden, the cleanest story I have is about being towed into Excal the last year it was really Excal at one in the morning with a friend. Not even a broken down car kept us from faire :D
Quote from: Molden on June 15, 2009, 07:19:52 PM
Hmmmm.... I'm giving this some thought. Many o' mine either incriminate someone here on this bonny forum or would risk causing th' thread t' get moved to John's Inn...
LOL, just try t' incriminate me darlin.... just try...
blue - that one takes the cake! All I can say is "Ewwwwwww."
When one says "family jewels," I take that literally. Family, not any stranger wandering around. :-\
I'm all about going "commando" but i've found that people get more curious as they drink more... i try to wear something under my kilt, at least at TRF. I don't want to scare the women folk or make men jealous. ;D
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 16, 2009, 07:15:14 AM
I'm all about going "commando" but i've found that people get more curious as they drink more... i try to wear something under my kilt, at least at TRF. I don't want to scare the women folk or make men jealous. ;D
Three Hands? :o ;) ;D
Quote from: dbaldock on June 16, 2009, 07:43:31 AM
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 16, 2009, 07:15:14 AM
I'm all about going "commando" but i've found that people get more curious as they drink more... i try to wear something under my kilt, at least at TRF. I don't want to scare the women folk or make men jealous. ;D
Three Hands? :o ;) ;D
Then i'd be a liar by me own words... 2 1/2. LOL.
Quote from: RSLeask on June 15, 2009, 12:54:22 PM
Breandan, I hope like hell, for all the future generations bereft of a significant quantity of literary talent, that you are in some way an author.
As a hobby, yes, but sci-fi mostly. I do some articles here and there for professional and cultural interests, but that's about it. Usually its because I procrastinate too much, but my wife and others have threatened me with dire bodily harm if I don't publish the trilogy I am working on now, so I am the victim of gunboat motivation ;D
And now, I embarrass and incriminate a few folks 8)
Three years ago I brought a TV with a built-in DVD player out to the blacksmith shop to entertain us after hours. One of the videos I brought happened to be a Happy Tree Friends (http://happytreefriends.atomfilms.com/) compilation. During a post-demo break, I pulled Mark back into the back room to show him one of the shorts. At first, he had a puzzled expression on his face, wondering why I was showing him a kiddy cartoon... then the carnage began. This sparked a wildfire infection of Happy Tree Friends fandom throughout the entire crew of the forge and all the neighboring shops.
Two weekends later, after the fireworks on Saturday night, I ducked back into the back room to get my change of clothes and head into the shower. Now, before I ducked back in, Mark had produced a gigantic two-liter bottle of plum Saki. Five minutes later, as I gathered my clothes, I suddenly heard the entire crew of the forge, broom-maker booth, and a few other assorted folks singing the Happy Tree Friends theme song. I poked my head out back to discover that the bottle of Saki was completely empty, both plums in it had been fished out and eaten, and there were ten very sauced people dancing and singing the song. And this was
before heading out to Patrons.
Needless to say, the night ended with Mark, Sharon, and a few others achieving epic levels of inebriation that would've killed lesser mortals, all accompanied by the high-pitched singing of that bloody theme song. ;D
Not at TRF, but the OLD Excal-
So, Mitch and i are cooking up some grub after a day inside- we're just minding our own business when out of NOWHERE this dude in monks robes shows up, plops down a 12pack of Michelob Ultra, and walks away...
The legend of the Beer Fairy lives!
(this was the same weekend we woke up thinking someone was robbing our camp but it turns out some poor drunk kid had gotten lost and decided to hug our hibachi to keep warm...)
And now, for one of the classics: The Tale of the Atlantean Tent and Flying Drunkards ;D
Back in '98, in November, there was what could only be described as a torrent of biblical proportions. This was the weekend that DPS came out and ordered a mandatory evacuation of the faire grounds due to flooding. Well, not wanting to be arrested or drown, we decided to pack up camp and head back to Corpus Christi. As one might imagine, there were a few snafus.
You see, I had celebrated the nuptuals of my first marriage that day (and the events of the day pretty much foretold the rest of that stormy marriage, just as the wondrous day of my second marriage foretold the joy I have now), and my brothers had gone forth and become rather inebriated. Actually, that is being both kind to them and misleading to you... they engaged in the tractor-pull of hardcore drinking binges, and were forced to give wide berth to any open flames or cigarettes lest the alcohol vapor exuding from their pores cause them to spontaneously combust. The second ingredient in this recipe for amusement was the state of our camp. Our tents had collapsed under the drenching they had received, and had done so into the knee-deep river of mud that flowed through them. Thankfully, we had emptied them early in the day, so only the tents had been the victims of liquefaction. To appropriately set the scene, the row we were camping on had become a river as water flowed from the road through Participants to the EB downhill towards the rapidly growing lake at the treeline. Our tents had been caught in that flood, and as I waded through the water, I was amazed that it not only had a current- much like the fast-moving shallow river it was- but a surprisingly strong one.
And now, we bring it all together.
I foolishly enlisted the aid of the career alcoholics I call brothers, and their role model Ken, to assist me in trying to rescue our tents from a watery grave. I did not think that it was possible to make the situation worse, and drown the tents even more, but after an hour there was nary a scrap of tent to be seen, and one forlorn pole sticking up from the water like a last defiant spire of a drowned monument was all that marked their final resting place. At this point, the order became mandatory, and we were told to get the hell out, no arguments. Somehow this inspired my dear beloved brother Marty to leap backwards through the air into Ken's arms with a laughing cry of "CATCH ME! WHEEEE!", followed by a splush (not quite a splash due to the mud content of the now thigh-deep water). I turned to see marty laying on his back in the water-mud laughing and flailing as if making snow-angels, and saw a frantically waving hand emerge from the water beside him, accompanied by a torrent of mead-scented bubbles.
We pulled my sauced brother up, but could not find Ken. Somehow, he had shifted under the water, but was mired in the mud and unable to pull himself loose. We grabbed his hand as it came back up and pulled, and with a sound I can only describe as pornographically grotesque he splorched to the surface, a rust-red mud golem of drunken glory. Thus began the haggling, threats, pleas, and rock-paper-scissors games to decide who's car mud-boy was going to ride in. In the end, it was decided that he be hosed off and stuffed in Marty's car, as he was the party responsible.
We never did recover the tent. I did come back later and found where it was, the tip of a pole sticking up from the hard-baked ground, but I figure it will give some future archeologist something to ponder ;D
LMAO! :D Your talents are wasted doing anything other than writing, my friend!
LOL ;D :o Please keep the stories coming.
Quote from: Fraser of Lovatt on June 25, 2009, 01:34:36 PM
LMAO! :D Your talents are wasted doing anything other than writing, my friend!
I am pondering writing a book:
Confessions of a Rennie: Tales of the Renaissance Faire Circuit That Can Now Be Printed As the Statute of Limitations Has Expired ;)
i like it! I'd pay to read some of the goings-on at Faire. Might find myself mentioned a time or two. ;D
agreed! i was thinking there needs to be a book about the 'rennie experience' ;D
Would we really want the 'Danes to know what goes on behind the scenes? It might end up like a cockroach invasion. Of course i was a 'Dane once myself but...
Speaking of statutes of limitations...
This one occurred on the long, boring trip up from Corpus Christi again. We left late on a Friday night in my truck, laden with all of the assorted odds-and-ends of a renaissance faire trip, with one unusual addition: a large bag of old bottlerockets that were left over from the previous year's 4th of July. We had decided to cut through Rockport and take Hwy 35 up instead of going out to 77/59, so it was almost one solid trip of backwoods empty highway. Martin and I switched out driving, and I climbed into the bed of the truck with a lighter... yes, we can see where this is going.
Inspired by sleep deprivation and the terminally altered state of the ADHD mind, I decided to turn my truck into an ad-hoc Avenger (that's the anti-air missile-launching Humvee variant we use) and grabbed a handful of rockets with a gleeful giggle. The first one I lit and launched straight up. As soon as it cleared the cab of the truck, 75mph wind shear snatched it and banked it off at a crazy angle, sending it corkscrewing off into the night sky. The second one I launched rearward, only to watch it nosedive into the road and skitter down it like some sort of Soviet rocket-snake experiment. This sparked an idea- I knew that fighters drop their missiles seconds before they launch, and that the missile was already traveling at the velocity of the fighter, adding it's own rocket thrust to this speed, so I wanted to see what happened when you did the same with a bottle rocket dropped over the side of a truck now going 80 aiming it forward.
The result was a driver- unaware of my actions- who damn near wrecked the truck as a mini-missile streaked past his face and detonated just in front of the vehicle, and a giggling pyrotechnomaniac in the truck bed grabbing a handful of rockets to light simultaneously. This continued for several miles, and now that Martin was aware of what I was doing he found it highly amusing, and I decided to try to take aim and actually hit things with the rockets. So, taking careful aim at a fast-approaching speed limit sign that had the audacity to suggest we were going far to fast with it's puny velocity suggestion, I lit and let fly. Now, I have to take a moment to ponder the wonders of geometry and physics, especially as they pertain to the wondrous phenomenon of the ricochet. Far be it for me to question science, but- barring the act of a divine power who found the results highly amusing- I have to question the probability of a rocket fired from a moving vehicle striking a speed limit sign in just the right way at just the right angle to deflect it back towards said vehicle at just the right rate of speed for it to explode on the windshield. At any rate, the resulting blast left Martin flash-blind and the windshield covered in sooty bits of detritus. Enter Near-Death-Experience #6 for that trip ;D
The final rocket fired was one that I had aimed at another sign up ahead (ah, Pavlov, you would've had such a hard time with me, for I learned naught from experience at that age). It lit, I waited till the fuse was almost in the rocket, and I released it. It flew straight and true, but alas, my aim was slightly off. As it neared the sign, I realized it was only going to nick it, and nick it the poor ill-fated pyrotechnic device did. This sent it corkscrewing off crazily across the highway... where it detonated about a foot in front of the windshield of a parked sheriff's deputy's car. To his credit, my brother was well-trained and had quick reflexes. As soon as he saw the letters "SHER..." illuminated by the blast, he killed the lights, gunned the engine, and shot out of their driving by whatever nightvision the Gods of eyesight had blessed him with, while I dropped back into the bed of the truck, simultaneously giggling (yeah, I think I was the control group for Darwinism in my youth) and wondering what the local jail food would taste like. Three miles later and no bubblegum machine* following, Martin kicked the lights back on and we merged into the now-increasing traffic to pretend like we were normal people. Adrenaline kept us awake until we reached faire, where we promptly passed out on the ground in our sleeping bags. Ah, memories.
*checks statute of limitations again*
Yep, memories :D
*bubblegum machine- slang for the lit-up lightbar on top of a patrol car
:D!!! You are about to earn a new name... Breandan the Bard!
*slapping knee*
My brother reminded me of this one, so I will tell it in all of it's grotesque glory. However, it is named the Port-a-Potty Of Doom for a reason, so be ye fairly warned...
We arrived at the participants entrance late one Friday night on opening weekend back in '94, only to find our passes had not been left for us, and the rather surly ogre at the back gate informed us in a chewing-tobacco-spittle-laced tirade to remove ourselves from his presence, that we would not be allowed to leave a driver's license behind and send one of our members to retrieve the passes, and that we had best be on our way before he got angry. I am glad to say that said individual was never seen again on faire grounds, as he had the manners of a boor and the hygiene of a rabid fecalpheliac baboon. That rant aside, we were forced to find alternate lodging in Patrons.
Now, we we were tired, had endured another of our epic trips up from Corpus Christi- this one involving a hypervelocity sleep-deprivation-spawned mouse (which is another story entirely), and a plastic bag of death (which is yet another story that would get us locked up in a padded room wearing hug-me jackets)- so, we parked at the first available spot and dumped our sleeping bags onto our tarp on the ground, no tent. Along the way up, however, we had stopped at a truck stop that shall remain nameless (however, tis on 59 between Victoria and Sugarland) where we had foolishly eaten some of the local cuisine. My brother being the more daring, had three breakfast taquitos and a corn dog to my cheeseburger, and had- as one might expect- been visited by the food poisoning fairy.
As luck would have it, our journey had ended with our encampment being a stone's throw from a port-a-potty, which Marty made prolific and copious use of throughout the evening. I shall spare the audience the details of the noises that emerged from said tabernacle-of-excretion except to say that at some point I swear it sounded like an octopus trying to wrestle with a bobcat in a tub filled with jello and whoopie cushions. I covered my head and tried to sleep. Alas, twas not to be. At around 0330, some poor soul- besotted out of his mind by pre-opening ritual binge-drinking- chose to use that particular port-a-potty. In my half-asleep state, I heard the creaky springs of the door as it opened, the slam of the door shutting... and a sudden and quite loud scream of "OH MY GOD!!!!", promptly followed by the sounds of the door being thrown open and someone running and retching simultaneously. Marty did not wake to this, which proved to be his downfall the next morn.
Dawn woke us with it's demonic sadistic little fingers of light stabbing through our eyelids. When we could suffer the noise of waking hangovers-on-feet and the stabbing of the Day Star's daggers of light no longer, we arose. Marty stumbled to the port-a-potty and opened the door, stepped in, and literally fell backwards out of it and crab-crawled away from it so fast my drill sergeants at Fort Benning would've wept with pride. He got back to the camp, shaken and somewhat green of tinge, and asked what the hell happened in there. I pointed at his backside and said "You unleashed the seventh, eighth, ninth, and the unexplored, undiscovered TENTH levels of hell, followed by a legion of shyte demons from Tarterus out of your backside, defiling the heretofore undefilable, and couldn't even give humanity the decency of a courtesy flush since it was a portajohn. The CDC is on it's way to declare your arse a superfund biohazard site and begin cleanup."
I had no sooner finished chastising my younger brother than another poor soul walked into the port-a-potty. Like knowing bystanders who had seen a bomb in a building, we rushed towards the doomed man yelling "NO! DON'T GO IN THERE!"... alas, too late. With results identical to the night before, including the appeal to a higher power at the top of his lungs, the man stumbled from the port-a-potty gagging and running for the treeline by the train tracks, though whether to finish his business in communion with nature, or throw himself onto the tracks in the hopes of a merciful demise that would erase what he had just witnessed with all of his senses I know not. We tacked a note on the door labeling it the "Port-a-Potty Of Doom! Do Not Enter!" and left for the back gate, where we found our passes waiting (finally), and entered, holding to plausible deniability of any further events involving the portal to Golgoth we left behind.
STOP! LMAO! I NEED TO BREATH! :D
Oh dear God say it aint so!!!!!!!!!!!!! That has got o be one of the funniest things I have heard in a long time.
Wow. It is never ending... I bet they had to completely demolish that portapotty.
What a story! Well told Breandan! LOL!
not sure if I can mention wolf runs here, but when you run into me, ask me about the incident involving a flashlight, John (not saying which one), and a lot of reflective metal in... interesting... places ;D
LOL! Will do Breandan! Wolf runs! One is described in Ray St Louis book, Road Dog Diary. Good read for faire lovers!
And now, I tell on all of us in the forge...
Last year, we were doing a triple-strike. Now, a triple strike is where the master smith is holding a piece that he needs a lot of metal moved on, and doesn't have a power hammer available, so he has two to three other smiths- preferably big, burly lads- wielding sledge hammers strike in sequence according to his hammer blows. He guides us by where and how hard he hits, and we follow suit with 20 lb sledges. This one involved me, Patrick, and Stephen striking a chisel being held by Mark as we cut a piece for a demo. I was lead, so when Mark hit the chisel, I brought my hammer down, then Patrick, then Stephen, then back to Mark, all in rapid succession so that the next man's hammer blow fell less than half a second after the previous. It takes practice, and can get dangerous, especially when distractions are involved.
And oh what distractions...
During one of the short breaks between the strikes, I looked over into the audience to notice a very lovely young brunette with a body that would make sculpters leap with glee, and looks that would turn the head of even a dead man. Beautiful was her face, lovely her legs, shapely her body, and her bosom... sonnets could be written ranging from the romantic to the carnal about those graceful and full curves. The low-cut v-neck shirt she was wearing didn't hurt, either. Well, Patrick and Stephen noticed my gaze- probably because I was slack-jawed and making a noise akin to "b-wuh....", and likewise joined me in a moment of religious reflection as we thanked the many Gods we pray to between the three of us for the glory that they graced our world with. Then, it was back to striking.
Now, I am not a puritanical man by any stretch of the imagination (as Mark delights on informing anyone who asks), but I do try to stay focused on my work. So, I can honestly say that it was an accidental glance up as I was striking that just happened to coincide with Our Lady of the Immaculate Cleavage bending over to pick something up off the ground. Mark's hand payed the price. A glancing blow followed by a grunted "ow!" got me back on track, but Patrick- next up to strike- glanced to see what had caused me to miss my mark. A second, louder "ow!" joined the first. Then Stephen glanced... another "ow!"
It seems that whatever was troubling the young lady on the ground was being right recalcitrant, as she bent even further over and was moving her hand about quickly, which resulted in a particularly hypnotic jiggling pattern that I would swear could be used by the CIA to coerce information out of a eunuch. The result was a particular disturbing shift from the usual pattern of strikes- *bang!* (Mark's hammer) *WHANG! WHANG! WHANG!* (our hammers in succession)- to something more like *bang!* *WHONK! "OW!" WHAP! "OW" CRUNCH! "OW dangnubbit!"* At this point, Mark looked up at us and saw all three of us staring towards the audience while swinging our hammers, dazed happy looks on our faces. He grunted out a "Hey!", snapping us back to attention. Mollified that we had nearly mangled our friend, we went back to our task with renewed focus. Mark, however, looked over to see what we had seen, and was blessed with the glories of womanhood on display in the front row. We suddenly found ourselves trying to chase a weaving and wobbling chisel- not an easy task when wielding 20 lb sledges, to say the least- but the rhythm had changed to *bang!* *WHONK! "wow..." WHAP! "wow..." CRUNCH! "wow..."*
The moral of the story is two-fold: always have your strikers stand with their backs to the audience, and nothing eases pain like epic breasts ;D
:D Your talents are wasted swinging a hammer, my friend.
I do say that I have to agree with that.
it's not my fault I missed, I was distracted by boobie magic! Tis like fairy glamour, only prettier :D
One thing I love about Scarborough is it's NEVER the same. Something crazy is always bound to happen.
This was at Scarborough this past year. As with North Texas weather in the spring we had a good downpour early in the day which kept most folks away from the Faire. Only us hardiest who didn't mind the mud attended.
The area where the young ones try to whomp each other off logs with sponge swords was one large cauldron of mud and the young man working the section was bored out of his gourd.
Afternoon gave way to sunshine. It also brought two intoxicated young ladies to the new mud-pit. The young lad stood (with a few of us lucky ones who were in the right place at the right time) stunned as these two stripped down to their lacey boy-short undies and t-shirts and then proceeded to wrestle in the mud. One of the gals was not only taller but also outweighed her petite and timid opponent by ~20lbs. So we were amused to see the large gal go down in the mud with a large "Spluuut" sound as her smaller friend proved to know the laws of physics better. However the new mud queen was not happy. Her pint size adversary could tell and offered an apologetic; "Ohmagawd. I'm sooooooooooooooo sorry". The larger gal stood up and stuck out her arms and charged the smaller gal like a linebacker. Once again the smaller and more agile gal simply stood to one side and the mud-queen went "spluut" into the mud again. Only this time face first completing her mud bath front to back and head to toe. The smaller gal was getting worried about what wrath she might face. So as a peace offering she offers a lovely swan dive into the deepest part of the mud and is also covered head-to-toe. They then embrace in playful wrestling.
About the same time my brain tells me 'Hey stupid...shouldn't you be getting pictures?' Someone yells FEMALE MUD WRASTLING! OVER HERE! Wives were left at shops, girlfriends abandoned at food stands and all males came to see. Unfortunately the two gals gathered their clothes and sprinted off. Wrong time to get a case of shyness if you ask me!
lessee....
*checks statute of limitations*
Nope, the rest of the stories will have to wait a bit :D
It's 1980, my second time at faire and my first time to camp. I've hitched a ride with a "buddy" that another SCA'er had arrainged for me. I've had a fantastic day of working the games, and enjoying the day. After gate close and night has fallen I've found myself very tired after doing "adult" things such as ogling the women dancing at the bon fire and getting sips of Revenge (Loki).
So I stumble back to the tent that I was to share with my "buddy", only to find it not only occupied, but very carnally busy, as my tentmate had obviously found his one night soulmate. All my clothes, belongings, spare change and food was in some way involved in the throws of what sounded like their athletic attempts to "get to know each other". Not knowing how to find anyone else that I might know there, never having seen or heard anything like this (first hand, at the tender age of 15), I stood there. For what seemed like an hour. Stunned. Confused. Curious. Horny. Til she squeeled for what was probably the 19th time, and the occupants of the surrounding tents started yelling for them to HOLD IT DOWN!!! The angry yells brought me back to my senses.
Not knowing what else to do, I wandered back into the faire grounds, trying to wrack my brains to think of a place that I could lay my head, under cover. The open air chappel had only just been built and I knew that it at least had benches that I could lay on. So that's where I headed to. Anyone else ever tried to sleep on a concrete bench? In November? Yes. It's cold. So that lasted all of about 5 minutes.
Leaving the chappel, I figured that I might just spend the night, enjoying the grounds all to myself. First stop on the way to an all night walk about? The privy. After shaking the dew from the lilly, it occured to me that I had, in the past, had occasion to sleep sitting up. Like that time I had had one too many margarittas and had tried desperatly not to throw up everything I had eaten for the previous 2 weeks.
So I check out each stool to find the cleanest one, cover it in as much toilet paper as I can reel off, and try to settle in while trying to forget where I was sitting.
Anyone ever spent much too long sitting anywhere, on anything? Yeah. I couldn't feel my legs either, when I woke up for what must have been the hundredth time. Dead from the weed puller down. An anesthesia couldn't have done a better job. What body part do you need to use to get up from a seated position? Right; your legs. I was seriously screwed. Following that realization, I spent what must have been several hours trying to hoist, wiggle, wriggle, beg God, and shift my dead weed puller off that toilet. Being a teenager (meaning not much more intelligent than my shoes) I didn't realise that when the feeling did finally come back I really should have made every attempt to be seated on the floor because when the feeling did come back like a freight train, that's where I landed. First was the pain, and I would have been happy enough had it only just remained as pain. But no, I've never been lucky enough for bad things to remain, simply enough, bad. Because, in this situation what follows after the pain? The tingles. You know the feeling; the one when your foot falls asleep and then "wakes up". From the weed puller down.
It's pre-dawn. You can (almost) smell the morning air, past the smell of the over used urinalls. I've spent the better part of the night trying to move my legs between each sob. No one has come in to find me sitting on the floor. Not yet, anyway. I've managed to get most of the feeling back into my legs and weed puller. I'm moving my legs without too much cringing.
Stumbling from the mens room to the camp site, I arrive at the tent just in time for my tentmate and his "new best friend" to emerge. She smiles shyly and scampers off. He's got that Cheshire cat, $hit eating grin on his face.
I still hate him.
He's got that Cheshire cat, $hit eating grin on his face.
"Haste makes waste, so I rarely hurry."`~Cheshire Cat
Doesn't sound like your friend was in a hurry either...
If you see either of these men walk up to your campsite...
(http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v376/231/73/202802601/n202802601_30656814_1363.jpg)
invite them in so they may share your rum, stories with you, wakarimasu ka?
(maybe not the one on the right...never trust a contact juggler with your rum)
Good Lord! Man the barricades! Hide the loki and the women! TO ARMS.. TO ARMS! BLADES OUT! Repel the invaders!
*just kidding* :D
No, my friend....You have the wrong strategy. Use the women ARMED with Loki as barricades...they would never make it past the fortifications.
Lol... right?! :D Stop by McLotofus, hail the camp and be made welcome...
I shall take you up on that offer sir, and bring my Lady with me..she will be the one wearing all the sexiness like it was 1599...Wish to meet the rest of the clan as well, what with as much as they post on these forums. Also need to track down this Messyn McCleavage from the McCleavage clan....for obvious reasons.
I meant to ask, and sorry to take away from the topic...put it back on track after this digression...Are there any other Clan Mackenzie folk out there? Hit me with an aye if you are....
Mean this as actual blood clan
(http://hphotos-snc1.fbcdn.net/hs157.snc1/5848_521021942719_202802601_30921365_7493937_n.jpg)
Means, I shine, not burn...I'm sure Breandan might the origin of that phrase
When you come by our camp, ask about The Order of Culloden Moor....
Should there be ominous and foreboding music playing in the background whilst other people who know what this vague and cryptic sentence portends wrack their hands in glee?
*edit* After searching around, I found the historical preface for what you said..aye, I shall definitely ask for them. I am on the lookout for my clans abroad...I'm half german, scottish, irish (those can be switched, doesnt matter), and a palty amount of cherokee...Galloway, Martin, Mackenzie, Clark, Carlock (german), McGowan....its like looking for a Smith, Jones, or James...(which sadly is the last name my family married into 50 years back, otherwise I would be a Martin.) This history lesson and further digression from topic brought to you by a very bored adult.
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. :)
Quote from: dobbydog on August 28, 2009, 10:30:36 AM
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. :)
:D
It's only Riot's Disease when the computer (or someone's face) gets sprayed accordingly LOL!
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.
I get in trouble when I hijack threads like this.
Quote from: Rapier Half-Wit on August 29, 2009, 12:08:59 PM
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. :)
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
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.
(http://ciarraide.org/pics_n_such/forge_ouchy.jpg)
"Mmmm.... smells like bacon!" ;)
BACON!