“You should be more concerned,” Lenz said as I fitted the saddle on Graymire.
“Do you know anyone who can tell me who hired Skrael sell-swords?”
“No.”
“Then for the moment, I’m going to keep going with our current plans.” I climbed into the saddle and adjusted my surcoat. I wasn’t armored, as the first event had no requirement for it.
“Don’t ride off without me,” Lenz said, heading over to his horse.
“All right, Lenz,” I said. Selecting a lance from a rack, I moved out into the courtyard and waited for Lenz to mount up. We rode together to the lists as the early light of dawn fell upon the city.
“You’re still too nonchalant.”
“If there is nothing I can do, why should I wreck myself being distressed over it?”
Lenz mulled this over as we greeted the guards and passed into the lists. The stands were not as crowded as they had been for the ceremony. In the open field, the attendants were affixing metal rings by ribbons to posts and stands to either side of four lanes. This event was the most casual of the formal events, ranking just above the charity tilt for the non-contestants. Requiring only a horse and a lance, it also had the most participants. How I’d been slotted into the morning of day one was beyond me, but I didn’t care. A young man in a cream colored jerkin approached. Around his neck was a cord bearing the scales of Azerion. Whether he was a sworn priest or not was unimportant. It marked him as an adjudicator of the games.
“Are you sure you want to use that horse?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Because we’re not going to change the height of the targets to accommodate an unusually tall mount.” He gestured to the field. “You’ll be at a disadvantage relative to riders with shorter horses.”
“So be it,” I said. He was right, of course, the objective was to catch as many rings on your lance as possible and bring them to the arbitrators. The more you had to angle the lance down, the more likely you were to lose rings you’d already caught. Those that fell off were not counted, only those delivered.
“You must stay at a gallop and go down each lane only once, in the direction indicated by the signs,” the arbitrator said. “Of course, you do have to wait until the lanes are clear.” I nodded and waited as the attendants finished tying slipknots in the ribbons to release them from the frames when the ring got snagged. Walking Graymire to a good spot to build up speed, I looked at the adjudicator. Once the last attendant was clear, he motioned towards me, and I spurred Graymire into a gallop. He might be the bastard of a feral sire, but his dam was a Ritterblume Destrier, and he leapt into a thundering speed in the blink of an eye. I speared as many of the first lane’s rings as I dared. The course was just a serpentine through the lanes, and we banked through the sharp turn at the end of the barrier. As I lowered the lance to skewer the first of the rings in the second lane, several I’d collected slid off the tip. Cursing myself, I missed the one I’d tried to snag. I didn’t miss all of them, and rounded the next barrier with more than I’d started the second lane with. I rode the last two more conservatively, but did not let Graymire slow.
“You should have changed horses.” Otto Hackenhof had arrived while my attention was focused on the task. I rode past him and dumped my collected rings in the box next to the adjudicator.
“If this is meant as a test of skill at arms, I should use the horse I rode into battle on,” I said.
“It’s a sport,” Otto said. “Otherwise, keeping them on the lance wouldn’t matter.”
“Then I will be easy for you to beat.”
“You’re not the one to beat, Castor is.”
“Oh?” Lenz asked, suddenly interested.
“Ritterblume is famed for raising horses and horsemen,” Hackenhof said, “I made a point of getting up this early so I could see what you could do.”
Lenz took the slack out of his posture and took a more nervous grip on his lance.
“You’ve done this exact thing countless times,” I said.
“I know,” Lenz said, though he didn’t sound as confident as he should have.
As I looked for a good spot to wait for Lenz, I noticed the adjudicator keeping a separate tally by ribbon color. Looking back over the lanes, I saw that each height and side had a different color ribbon. Each one would have a different point value based on difficulty. After doing some figures, the adjudicator handed a slate to the nearest attendant. That slate bore a rendition of the Raven Coast Roc on it and the number twenty-four. It ended up hanging behind the royal booth on a frame tracking the results. As the first to run, I had my moment in first place.
Lenz knocked me out of the top spot with a run worth a hundred and six. Hackenhof had the courtesy to be speechless as we rode away from the lists.
***
I could only guess that fencing had such a prominent position within the tournament because of Hengist’s passion for swordplay. The ceiling of the venue chosen soared high overhead. The ribs of the vaults interwove to such an extent that they almost mimicked the branches of a forest canopy. The spaces under the arches were filled with glass panes, spilling a vast amount of sunlight into the chamber. The span of ceiling between the vault ribs was plastered, presenting a contrast between the white and the sandy hue of the stone. With blond wooden flooring, the room was bright, almost as illuminated as if we were outside. Tiers of benches lined the long sides of the hall, and a board bearing the brackets of the competition had been erected at one end.
Looking among the brackets, I tried to find the Raven Coast Roc. I spotted the Ritterblume horse flowers first. It was on the opposite side of the board, very far from where I was placed. My first opponent was a Banik. For a brief moment I thought it was Lothar, but the mark of distinction told me it was Andrei. Poor bastard. He might have lasted to the second round if he’d drawn Ritter. Given what I’d seen of Andrei’s skill level, Lothar really shouldn’t have let him enter. I took my seat on the front bench and took out a book. I garnered quite a few stares, but I pointedly ignored them and focused on reading.
I’d barely gotten to the point where Reginald Booker described how he’d been conscripted into the Atlorian Army when the adjudicator stepped into the middle of the floor. It would probably be a bad idea to ignore what he had to say. The adjudicator was a gray-haired man with a blunt face and a nose that had been broken at least once. He waited for everyone to quiet down before speaking.
“Just so no one is confused, this is Valayan Fencing. One-handed blades only. All bouts are to first blood from the torso. To prove that no hidden armor or padding is being worn, contestants are to fight bare-chested.”
Inwardly, I scowled at that, as I disliked being shirtless.
“Inflicting injury beyond the necessary cut or the incidental and accidental will result in immediate disqualification. Should we run out of sunlight before all bouts are concluded, we will reconvene at midday tomorrow. The bell will toll the beginning and end of all bouts.” To demonstrate the sound, the attendant by the bell struck it once. The low, resonant note was loud enough to carry over any voices in the room. I started to reach for my book again but was stopped by the next declaration. “First match is Lord Andrei Banik versus Erbprinz Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim.”
With a sigh and the crackle of static, I pulled my shirt off and strode to the middle of the room. Andrei already had his blade out and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His lanky build had the pallor of someone who did not routinely have to deal with the sun. Though I was likely the same hue. As the adjudicator stepped out of the lane, I drew my sword.
“Where would you like your scar?” Andrei asked.
Though the overconfident remark raised an eyebrow, I did not comment. Instead I brought my sword up in a salute. After a few awkward glances, Andrei returned the gesture. I snapped into a low guard and waited. The bell tolled and Andrei lunged. It was over almost immediately. I sidestepped the blade, swatted it clear and drew a shallow gash across his left pectoral. Andrei hissed in pain and stepped back as the bell rang again, almost catching the last echoes of the previous note.
“First blood to Prince Kord.”
I saluted again. Andrei returned the gesture, his eyes burning with resentment and humiliation.
“Where would you like your scar?” Lothar hissed as his son headed for the stands. “What sort of way to open a match is that? You deserved this lesson in humility.”
Making sure my sword was clean, I sheathed it and returned to the comforting embrace of my shirt. Steel rang against steel and mingled with the tolling of the bell as I continued with Booker’s account of the Atlorian invasion of Ormoranor. Reginald Booker had a great deal of factual knowledge, and was fastidious about detail, but was prone to tangents and letting his mind wander. My own interests were frustrated by the lack of attention he paid to the Ormoran wizard who’d been among the fleet contesting the Atlorian landing. In the midst of his account of the first land battle, I heard my name again. Marking my spot I turned my attention back to the present.
Once again bereft of a shirt under the scrutiny of hundreds, if not thousands of eyes, I took my spot in the middle of the room and drew my sword. The second name called twisted a knife of dread in my gut. “His Majesty, King Hengist the Third.” The King of Zesrin had a build fit for sculpture and his blade moved with a practiced ease that looked almost lazy as he took up a position opposite me. I traded a salute and assumed the same low guard posture I had with Andrei. My face was impassive, but there was an incessant worry gnawing on the back of my mind about how painful or bloody the cut was going to be and how ugly a scar it would leave. All the more reason to keep my shirt on in the future. Hengist extended his sword in a ready stance that probably had some effusive name in Valay.
At the sound of the bell, Hengist struck. I parried the almost cautious probing attack and its follow-ups, trying not to present an obvious opening. He was right to be cautious. I had the superior reach, and he’d have to find a good way through before committing too fully. Hengist’s footwork was stiff, formal, as if he’d spent more time reading up on swordsmanship than on practicing it. He wasn’t being cautious – he was fighting from conscious memory. I switched from a defensive posture and pressed an attack. His eyes widened as I sped up. Three rapid feints flustered Hengist and had his sword too far away to parry the slash that drew a line of red across his overly toned middle.
A collective gasp filled the room as I stepped back and raised my sword in salute.
Staring down at the blood beading up from either side of his navel, Hengist was quiet for a long moment. Long enough for trepidation to creep into me. Was it bad form to beat the host at his own event? Had there been an unvoiced expectation that I was supposed to let him win?
Hengist collected himself and looked to the bellman. “Well?”
The bell tolled.
“First blood to Prince Kord.”
Hengist returned my salute and we headed to our seats. I picked up Booker’s account and his relatively detached analysis of the stratagem his commander had employed. From an academic standpoint the plan had been quite sound. Reginald had less than flattering remarks when he switched to the discussion of why it failed. The trap had been reliant on a company of irregular conscripts breaking or being overrun to draw the Ormoran army into being enveloped. As one of those in that company, Booker was quite happy to have ruined it by not dying. Instead of destroying the Ormoran army, the Atlorians ended up merely driving it off. Without any of their cavalry landed yet, they had no means to pursue when the enemy took to rout. It was still a victory as they secured the harbor and brought the rest of their forces ashore. It just left them fighting several more battles against the same foe later on.
The day would have been more pleasant if my reading were not repeatedly interrupted by more bouts with people who were annoyingly less adept than I would have expected of tournament competitors. I should have been knocked out of the contest long before I got to the account of the siege of the keep at the edge of the Warpwood. The Atlorians took it by sneaking in through a drain in the dead of night and opening the gates from the inside. I hadn’t recognized several of my opponents, and didn’t really care once the fight was over and it turned out I was not the one bleeding. I did notice that my interruptions were growing more frequent.
“Burgraf Eckart Rappe von Schlauburg versus Erbprinz Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim.”
I sighed and rose to stand opposite my opponent. Eckart Rappe was a wiry, rakish looking man with black hair and a very unsettled expression. He looked downright worried as he returned my salute. I assumed my usual low guard posture and waited. Eckart took up his own ready stance. The bell tolled. We continued to wait, each expecting or hoping the other would make the first move. Seeing the reticence in Rappe’s gaze, I gave him a feint to get the fight going. Steel rang briefly, but he took a step back rather than riposte. Feeling the restless annoyance of the crowd, I took the initiative and attacked. Rappe was viper-quick, but sloppy, and prone to extraneous motion. I was not as fast, but much more economical with my movements. Having taken his measure, I began working to dissect his defense.
I wasn’t prepared when the blow landed. A bad parry by Rappe nearly drove my sword tip into his throat. I drew back in time to only leave a gouge in the flesh over his collarbone. My heart pounded in panic at the thought that I’d come a hair’s breadth from killing this man. He’d noticed how narrow the gap had been and was trembling as the bell tolled and first blood called. I forced my breathing to steady and set my blade back in its scabbard. My turn towards the bench was halted as the Adjudicator called out.
“Our final match is-”
I froze quite literally mid-stride.
“Erbprinz Kord Grosz von Karststadt-Salzheim versus Erbgraf Lorenz Castor zu Ritterblume.”
Turning slowly, I found Lenz taking up a position opposite me.
“Really?” I asked. “It’s the two of us?”
“So it seems,” Lenz said.
“I was expecting to lose by now.”
“You’ll lose, all right, but you’re not going to let me win. When I beat you, it’s going to be for real. Got me?”
I raised my blade in salute. “You have had more rest since your last fight,” I said.
Lenz returned the gesture. “Enough banter.”
The bell tolled, and steel sang as we collided. We’d fought this fight so many times that I knew before he began to move where Lenz’s blade was going to be. A subtle shift in stance or posture loudly announced the next fraction of a second’s motion of his sword. We’d trained against each other so much that reflex had been honed to the point that the space between us was a blur of silver. Each clash had so little time to fade that the sound was like a disharmonious orchestra. Our fight slithered back and forth along the floor as we successively ceded ground to avoid being forced into the razor-filled air between us. The strumming note of my pulse hammered against the ragged draws of my breaths as my focus narrowed to Lenz and the fully sharpened edges racing about patterns burned into my muscle memory. Real swords were lighter than practice swords, and our usual frenetic exchange whipped about blindingly.
The burn of exertion began to cook its way through my arm against the torrent of adrenaline racing through my veins. My world narrowed to nothing but myself, Lenz, and the fight we had fought virtually every day since we could pick up a stick. In terms of skill, we were tied at the hip, but I was still that one iota faster. The slip was not a misstep of fatigue, but a literal loss of traction. Sweat left on the floor boards made Lenz’s foot slide just a little further than he expected. The shudder through his stance as he adjusted his balance was the only opening I had. I cleared his blade and stabbed forward, slicing along the side of his ribcage.
I flinched back as if I’d been the one cut. The blood welling up from the wound was more copious than I’d intended. Though far from life-threatening, in the moment it felt like I’d opened a geyser in my brother’s side. Breathless, Lenz clutched the source of the meager trickle and stepped back as well. He raised his sword in salute. Somewhat off-kilter, I returned the gesture to the toll of the bell.
“Well,” Lenz said, short of breath, “You didn’t let me win.”
“You all right?” I asked.
Lenz laughed. “We’ve hurt each other worse than this over the years.”
Before any more words were exchanged, Hengist was between us. Grabbing my wrist, he lifted my sword arm high into the air.
“Our champion, ladies and gentlemen!” Hengist bellowed. His next word was a quiet aside. “Good thing you won, otherwise my loss might have been embarrassing.”
Much to my surprise, the crowd cheered.
Lenz hobbled off to where the surgeon sat, preparing a needle and thread. Once Hengist released me, I sheathed my blade and headed in the same direction. Soren and Ritter beat me to the spot. Lenz lay on a table, and glanced up at me.
“You know what you can do instead of standing there, fretting?” Lenz said. The surgeon had washed out his wound with rectified spirits and was in the process of closing it with small, neat stitches. He was a small man with a withered face with eyeglasses perched near the tip of his long nose. Somewhere behind me, Rappe and the last fighter Lenz beat battled it out to see which of them got third place.
“What?” I asked.
“You can finally admit that you might actually be good with a sword.”
“What?”
“I know you, you’re on the verge of telling someone that you’re only ‘okay’ or ‘mediocre’ as a swordsman. If we’re evenly matched, what does that say about me? Worse, what are you saying about everyone else who competed today? So unless you plan to keep insulting a lot of people…” Lenz left the sentence hanging.
I glanced towards the floor for a moment. “I’m sorry that I’ve been habitually thoughtless with my commentary.”
“I wasn’t trying to guilt you into an apology,” Lenz said.
The surgeon clipped off the thread and set aside his needle. Lenz sat up as the surgeon picked up bandages and began applying them over the stitched wound.
“So now what?” I asked.
“I beat you in the Imperial Longblade.”
“I’m still not going to just let you win.”
Lenz grinned. “It wouldn’t be a win if you did.”
If you want your own copy, the whole book is available from Amazon in eBook, Paperback, and Hardcover variants.
… No footnotes? Maybe I should have Dug make some commentary on the Ormoran war…
I love the descriptions of Kord’s reading between bouts. Years ago I used to imagine that Northwestern football players, their team usually languishing in the basement of the Big Ten, would eagerly rush back to the bench to study when pulled from the field.
I’m not too familiar with the at-game study habits of college sportsball players.
Thanks, UCS. Enjoyable, as always.
I need a sword.
Just remember – it’s best to practice with a dull blade to minimize visits to the emergency room.
Practice alone first.
I have been swinging one my whole life.
Here: https://www.engineersupply.com/SitePro-22-Inch-Heavy-Duty-Machete-with-Wood-Handle-with-Leather-Sheath.aspx?variantId=1cd2f7bd-8b1c-4b24-9f7e-fc6e2d497f48
I think you can get it $10 cheaper on Amazon. Make sure you get the same one. Of the options choose 28″. The longer blade helps keep blackberry thorns out of your knuckles.
The factory edge on all cutting tools is worse than shit. If you spend less than an hour sharpening it, you didn’t do it right. It should be able to shave hair off of the back of your forearm just like a razor.
Start with a fine tooth file. Make the angle so that you have filed a flat angle about 1/3 of an. inch back. From there I have a flat board with 3 grits of progressively finer grits glued on it. #600, #1000 and #3000. When you are finished the edge should be mirror smooth and will shave hair or slice a tomato effortlessly.
* Metallurgist tip: If you use a power tool and see sparks you are ruining the temper. Stop doing that.
*Stumpy’s knife rules: Always make your strokes away from the edge, make sure the edge is away from your flesh. Never cut towards any part of yourself. This cannot be overstated.
When not in use keep the blade in the scabbard.
Aim ALL of your swings past the target and into the ground. This way you will not split your foot or kneecap. Swing down and away from yourself or others, aim at the ground. As you swing away from yourself pull the handle towards yourself. It’s not an axe. Axes are for chopping. It is a knife, knives are for slicing. Swing away but pull towards yourself. It will make a nice long forceful slicing arc that ends in the dirt.
With an edge like that the blade is going through anything less than 3″ and hit the ground. Smaller things 1″ or less barely takes a flick of the wrist. Make sure anyone around you is 4 reaches (arm plus blade) away from you. It isn’t uncommon for a slight miss, tired arm, sweaty hand to fly out of your grip. Nobody wants to be in front of a flying razor blade.
Dead man’s rules – Most blade fights end with both combatants dead. Especially sword fights. If you do get to walk away you will be bleeding.
If you are having fantasies about glorious, amazing sword or knife fights, go watch it in a movie. The real thing will give a person nightmares for life.
Stick to those dastardly weeds and be safe. Good Lord maybe I shouldn’t tell y’all shit like this.
I forgot to mention that it also makes an excellent pizza cutter.
“It should be able to shave hair off of the back of your forearm just like a razor.”
I don’t put a razor edge on a chopping tool like a machete. I always figured that was too fragile and not really needed for cutting woody items.
When the Altar Boys were young, I got them some short machetes. If they got too rambunctious in the house during summer vacation (I worked from home way back then), I’d send them out with the machetes to chop some buckthorn in our back yard.
I never sharpened it for them because I was more worried about them cutting themselves than I was about their success at getting rid of the buckthorn. My goal was to get them out of the house, not to remove the buckthorn.
Machete
RC: It makes a world of difference and once you use one you will never go back. It is like learning to saw correctly (straight strokes let the weight of the saw do the cutting, dont lean into it)
It takes the struggle out of the job.
“If you spend less than an hour sharpening it, you didn’t do it right.”
get a Tormek, 15 minutes tops. and that’s assuming you’ve never used it before, if you have it set up and know what you’re doing 5 minutes tops.
to your point below pizza cutters don’t need/shouldn’t be that sharp.
Don’t forget armor.
2 things I learned from the previous post:
1. Asses have gotten much bigger since way back then.
2. Even ‘dirty’ songs/music videos were pretty damn tame by today’s standards
🤨
Check out NAs musical selection in the previous post.
I was otherwise occupied during the previous post – you expect me to travel back in time now?
Yes we do.
Topic-adjacent: some fun facts about why fencing (with swords) is called fencing.
Cool. Thanks!
I did kinda wonder why we didn’t make any barricades in fencing class.
You did, but with only one pale moving about.
Pale – A fence made of spikes surrounding a safe area. It was whitewashed for preservation and so that silhouettes of invaders could be seen more easily at night. They still use them in Africa but made of dense hedges of thorns.
This is where the word ‘impale’ comes from and the word ‘pale’ meaning color or hue. Also where the expression ‘beyond the pale’ – outside the safe area comes from.
Everything is written down, you just have to learn how to read it. All of our history is preserved in language even if we dont know it.
Finally remembered the documentary that this chapter reminded me of.
Reclaiming the Blade. Narrated by John Rhees Davies. It’s quite good.
That looks really interesting! And it’s on Prime. Thanks!
It is. It came out in 2009(?), and has lots of movie history in it as well as Lord of the Rings actors.
Also also: in that trailer you get to see, very briefly, the author Sydney Anglo, whose book The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe is also quite good, with lots of illustrations for potato heads like me.
I chose to drive through Clemson on move-in weekend apparently. 🛑
Beautiful town, though.
How was the time spent with your gentleman caller?
Very nice! We had a good lunch and conversation. Got to pet his doggie (not a euphemism, you preverts). He holds open doors and shit – not used to that. 😊
EGGSCELLENT!
Ok, petting his doggie might not be a euphemism, but what about holding open doors?
Got to pet his doggie
Seems only fair that you should now let him pet your kitty.
“He holds open doors and shit – not used to that.”
Maybe it’s just growing up when I did (70s)/where I did (small town Texas), but that just goes without saying. What the hell?
I’d say about 98% of men don’t remove their hats while eating. It rises to 100% for cowboys.
We learned that at home, Hobbit. When you come in the house you doff your hat, if you sit down to eat you can hang it on the back of the chair, is possible.
I do wear a hat when I’m shopping in the winter though.
“Cover off while inside, maggots!”
Clemson should be named “Colhoun” after the actual source of the money.
It’s irritating to southern hillfolk to see something named after English when it should be / could be avoided.
Never forget to remind Clemson types that it was originally modeled after the school we now call Mississippi State.
A Duel. Although Kord is moar slenderer and suave and deboner.
Thank you TPTB for pushing back the time a bit more for the weekly horrorscope.
Alatriste is on yootoob. Wonderful. Viggo Mortenson plays a soldier who is now a mercenary captain, fighting in the 17th century wars. As I understand it, the early modern warfare and historical dueling are pretty accurate.
Thanks for the story.
It seems a little incomplete…
I am enjoying the journey.
Kord needs a Gazoo?
I’ve missed several parts.
“Where would you like your scar?” Lothar hissed as his son headed for the stands. “What sort of way to open a match is that? You deserved this lesson in humility.”
Yes he did. And I expect we won’t see the last of his son.
Hengist seems like too good of a sport.
What do you mean?
He seemed to take his loss too well for his position.
On the other hand, since I’ve missed several parts, maybe there is something about his character I don’t know.
This is his second scene, it’s meant to help establish his character.
I’m late to the party, but I think that OMWC should call any squeeze he has Tomb Raider. With such a low chance of success why bother learning their names or giving them a nickname? If you absolutely have to, I guess you could number them. TR 1, TR 2, etc.
That is the approach my friend in high school took with their cats. They lived on a busy road and the cats tended to end up as roadkill, so they decided to just call them cat. And to keep them straight cat 1, cat 2. There was one, Cat 12, that lasted a good six years or so before going missing.
Why didn’t you throw them into traffic so they stopped killing cats?
NewWife recently asked how many lawyers there were,
and I had to confess “five”
I’ve got a huge weakness for smart girls*, but trying to wrangle some 35-year-old who is consumed with having to decide whether she is going to finally have kids and with whom to have them is not the fun sexy time it sounds like
* the computers put me with them, cut me some slack
Bob. We should call her Bob. Then we can all say “what about Bob?”
My good friend does the same thing, every one of his cats has been named “Kitty”. He figures that’s easier for everybody.
Looked on YouTube for some sharpening tutorials. There is a shit-ton of dumbassery going on there.
dumbassery
NewWife knows that, when she is watching Alone…highly trained experts!!!1!, when I start to whimper it means someone is about to chop off his own fecking thumb
Yep.
See my knife rules above. See also ‘no sparks’.
Edge is hardened, body of the blade springy. Grinding and making sparks ruins the temper of the edge. The life of any blade is the number of sharpening it takes to wear away the hardened edge metal. After that you might as well sharpen butter. Clue: The edge material starts to gall – smear – instead of leaving a smooth surface.
“someone is about to chop off his own fecking thumb”
it happens, its really not that big of a deal, and you normally only do it once or twice,
Why there is The Hyperbole. Tell us Sir about power tools.
In HS I worked part time in a hardware store. It was almost guaranteed that all of the old men coming in to buy blades for rotary tools (table saws and such) were missing fingers.
My shop teacher in junior high cut his thumb off on the table saw right in front of us.
It made an impression.
Christ. I see why they wanted to keep Kamalamadingdong hidden. She is a straight up Soviet style marxist. Apparently Walz is head over heels in love to communist china…and has been handing out free ‘little red books’ for years.
How the fuck did this happen to my country? I know…just like it happened to all of the others. We will never be rid of envy. Everybody will forever seek to live at the expense of everyone else.
my country?
you really answered it yourself: Everybody
Harris and Walz aren’t the problem: your neighbors are
the problem isn’t the posers…it’s the factions making excuses for them
you just don’t understand
But then Biden withdrew, and, in a flash, the unconscious transference dynamic of the presidential election was radically reversed. The race is no longer between two flawed father figures. It is now a contest between an impulsive and aggressive father archetype and a very different archetype: the strong, no-nonsense, but compassionate working mother figure.
So Medusa disguised as Hestia. I think I get it just fine.She needs to work on her game a bit. The mad cackle and wild eyes are what I call a tell. It is a pure spider to the fly campaign.
I’m not surprised, power tools eat fingers. Work with them long enough and its’ gonna happen. It’s just not that big a deal, I wager none of those old carpenters ever gave their missing digits a second thought. I know a painter who cut the tip of his pointer finger off at a 45° and claims he likes it that way because he can get into inside corners better when smoothing caulk.
Paging PBB…
Unrelated knife news- about a month ago I got a Kershaw auto OTF.
Loving it. It takes and holds a good edge.
$250 for a pocket knife??? you baby headed people are cray cray.
Calm your tits.
I’ve wanted one for years and it was an early birthday present to myself.
I’ve owned a Gerber Mark 1 for 40 years
I don’t know why
Buck knife when deer hunting. At least 40 years now.
The same Buck Hunter as my primary hunting knife since ~1976. It also was on my web gear in the Army for 30 years. I still use it for my field/primary knife. I also have an assorted of skinning and flensing knives for turning animals into meat.
I have a KABAR, a Gerber Mark I and a Mark II, and other straight blades from my Army days. I had my Mark II on my web gear during an exercise when my Platoon Sgt told me, “That is a nice knife LT and probably not cheap. In Vtn and now I carry a bayonet. It can be issued and if I break it, I can always get another from the arms room.” I purchased a bayonet at a surplus store and used that knife from then out when I wanted something more than my folding hunter. The FH still has the 10 blasting cap sheath that has worked for me since 1982.
For sailing I have a Sheffield. It holds an edge well, has an eye for tightening/loosening shackle pins, and a partial serration for cutting mantled lines.
I carried an aircrew knife for several years then switched to a M7 so I’d have a bayonet. Never cared much for the bulk of the M9 and its sheath. Really wish I’d ordered an Ek before they went under. Those were nice knives. Liked those better than the more popular Randall Made knives, which are nice.
MY NAME IS FIRSTHOLIO. I NEED FIRSTS FOR MY FIRSTHOLE.
Hi UCS,
I’m not reading your weekly installments because I actually bought your book a while ago, but have been too busy lately to read much. Looking forward to it…
It is a good read, I’m almost done with my copy…
Get up at get at it, you people!
☕🌄🎩
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GXKg0sNTKXE
🎶🎶
You’re not the boss of me.
https://www.wfmz.com/news/area/lehighvalley/lehigh-county/allentown-area/fired-allentown-middle-school-teacher-prevails-in-federal-trial/article_03f7d210-5d74-11ef-8589-1340729fc1c8.html
I would have been ok adding a zero to the school board member personal fines.
I would have prefered higher personal liability for the people who made the decisions.
Defamation shouldn’t be a crime and you should be able to fire anyone at any time for any reason.
It’s not a crime, it’s a civil tort.
Shouldn’t be that either.
So you have no recourse when someone’s lies cause you economic damage?
Nope, people can lie about you, if your reputation isn’t strong enough to over come falsities then that’s a you problem.
There shouldn’t be government schools, either.
@Mr Bole – There is no circumstance in which your approach does not simply empower bad actors.
@Hype
“you should be able to fire anyone at any time for any reason.”
Unless you have a contract with them saying otherwise…
“Fluehr alleged the district also violated Moorehead’s rights under the teacher’s union collective bargaining agreement when it suspended him without cause for seven months before ultimately firing him.”
And unless you are a government entity. I don’t think the government should be able to fire/hire based on personal politics. Of course, the government should also be much smaller.
“Unless you have a contract with them saying otherwise…”
fair enough, breach of contract is a thing, the school should buy out his contract plus legal expenses (within reason) and that’s that.
suh’ fam
whats goody
Good morning, homey, U, and Sean!
How goes?
Well, thanks! A nice, quiet weekend, and, I hope, not too stressful a work week ahead. How about you?
Of my to-do list, all I got done was the laundry.
At least I have clean clothes.
That’s about all I got done, too.
👔👖🧦
I managed to get laundry done, grass cut, oil changed, two breakfasts with Tres ver 2.0, and now I’m enduring safety training in a stinkin’ refinery.
I’m already ready for another weekend.
Is it considered rude to not pay attention to the other competitors?
Probably.
What does he get for winning?
A supply of Lee press-on nails?
Did you have something to say?