Crazy Stories of Faire, Redux?

[Breandan]

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

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 

[Tipsy Gypsy]

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 .

[PyroMaster]

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.

[LadyShadow]

That is a good squirrel story.  It would be interesting to see this squirrel and hear about future attempts to catch it.

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

You could set up a "surprise" for him... something nice with a mercury rocker switch.


BOOM

[Breandan]

I think I speak for all concerned on that half of faire when I say "DO NOT GIVE THE PYROMANIACS ANY IDEAS!" 

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

You might have something there... LOL.

[Broadside]

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.

[Laird Fraser of Lovatt]

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?!? 

[Broadside]

DOing well.. Just getting things ready for hell to start I mean rehearsals.

[Tipsy Gypsy]

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://www.fark.com/farq/about.shtml

[Sitara]

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.

[Broadside]

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://www.fark.com/farq/about.shtml

They were bigger.

[Breandan]

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 

[Blue66669]

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....