OleReynard
Well-known member
Hey @barefrog good to see you
-
As of today ICMag has his own Discord server. In this Discord server you can chat, talk with eachother, listen to music, share stories and pictures...and much more. Join now and let's grow together! Join ICMag Discord here! More details in this thread here: here.
The Original O'l Farts Club.
- Thread starter Putembk
- Start date
Well no infection is a good thing. I’m sure it’s gonna take a while but you must be doing something right.
I have no ailments except my strangulated hernia...had surgery 3 years ago, no mesh, and I get really bad pain for a few seconds now and again. It's like my guts and muscles got all cut up and well there's still a little uncomfortableness every once in a while. The surgeon wanted me back to reconnect the stomach muscles but fuck that. Not going back. I throw up sometimes. Damn hernia almost killed me.
Dime
Well-known member
Go there,get it done once and for all
Welcome to Shouldice Hernia Hospital, The Global Leader in Non-Mesh Hernia Repair.
For over 70 years, we have been the only licensed hospital in the world dedicated to repairing hernias. More than 98% of our cases are performed with our natural tissue technique...without the use of mesh.
www.shouldice.com
Well, heck... rooting through old magazine articles I wrote back in The Olden Days, I found this one also:
The brand-new day broke through the dark. Through the window near my bunkbed, I could see that it was windy out, and chilly, with a hint of rain at the edges. It was the kind of day that makes for ruddy cheeks and green grass. My trouble is that I believe ruddy cheeks are for girls, and green grass is for cows -- and I’m happiest when I’m good and stinking hot.
"Ahh, lookit the blustery weather,” Charlie offered from the bunk across the way, “makes you feel good to be alive.”
“When it’s like this, I don’t feel either.” I was starting off cranky. We were in the bunkhouse on Brahma Island, which is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in the United States. We were going wild boar hunting this morning, and I was a little bit in the hole with the thought of mucking about in a cold, evil swamp when I really wanted to muck about in a hot, yummy swamp. Oh, well, here we were, out in the edges of Yeehaw Junction... it had to be more comfortable than being up to my gizzard in that blue snow which caused me such icy wretchedness on Mt. Everest in Colorado. Hawg huntin’ is more temperate than elk huntin’, if for no other reason than that the clever beasties are considerate enough not to climb mountains and live in sub-zero misery.
Charlie and Himself had arrived the day before. The previous day’s exploits could be summed up as a learning experience. We learned that the huge guide, who went by the name “Snake” was crazy. And that while it was a relatively simple matter to shoot a hawg, getting a trophy boar was a different matter entirely.
We had spotted a dozen or more of our quarry, but none of the size and ferociousness we lusted for.
Little did I realize that today was to be The Day.
Delicious smells were coming from the huge bunkhouse kitchen, where Doug- The-Cook was preparing great masses of concentrated cholesterol. Since it is a well-known, proven scientific fact that vacation calories and fats do not ever stick to the human body, I found myself eagerly wolfing down humongous clots of sausage, eggs, grits and white gravy (poured all over the hot muffins). A mere half-gallon of coffee, and I was ready to whip my weight in butterflies.
“Want some more coffee, Walt?” Charlie had the big pot in his clutches, waving it at me.
I declined politely; I had enough caffeine in me to make my hands shake like Marcel Marceau on crack.
“Well then,” rumbled Snake’s freight-train voice, “let’s go git us a big hawg.”
The truck awaited us outside. It was a sort of pickup truck on steroids. It had a big cage in it to hold the dogs, and a bunch of gunracks on the cab roof. The tires were about chest-high, and the bumpers would not have been out of place on an Abrams M-1 Main Battle Tank.
We climbed on.
Well, as an average, we climbed on. Charlie leaped on, and I sort of creaked on. I find it annoying that Charlie is two years older than I am, and he jogs. He’s as fit as a flea. Now, me... I’m 70. That’s not old, if you’re a tree. But I’ve had somewhat rougher mileage -- my bod looks like it was put together on a government contract out of scrap parts. But I’m not old. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am. I don’t want to pick on Charlie just because he’s so healthy. Well, not much, anyway. I always say that if you can’t say something good about someone, sit right down here by me.
The two dogs were yelping for joy at the prospect of going hunting. They raced each other to get into the cage in the truck.
A great lurch, and we were off.
It is now time to step aside, so to speak, and explain the concept of wild boar hunting on Brahma Island.
The first thing you should know is that wild boars have no natural enemies. That means that they are not necessarily afraid of you. Keep that in mind.
There are two options: You can ride around, looking far ahead through the brush and trees to spot the critturs. Or, when the vegetation gets really heavy, you can stop the truck, and let the dog run around sniffing through the palmettos. Either scenario generally has the same result -- the dog winds up chasing the boar (which can run amazingly fast) until the boar gets really annoyed, and turns at bay. This is a critical time, for the dog is really stupid. Or brave to the point of recklessness.
The dog will continue to bark, and charge at the boar, distracting it from the approach of the truck. The hunter piles off of the truck, and gets over near enough to the boar for a clear shot before it finally decides to make muttburgers out of its pestering canine tormentor. This is tricky, because the boar may just decide to suddenly ignore the dog and make peopleburgers out of the guy with the rifle.
We had decided by rock-paper-scissors that it was my “up” this day. That meant that Charlie would be my backup, whose job it would be to drop the boar if it began to eat me if I missed my shot.
We rode around uneventfully for a while, and then Snake decided to let the dog check out an isolated patch of palmetto. We all got out of the truck to watch Ole Blue go to work.
Bingo!
A basso profundo grunt came from the palmetto clump just as Ole Blue poked his nose in. With frenetically insane barks, O.B. flushed the monster from its hidey-hole.
Unfortunately, the inconsiderate beast ran directly out of the far side of the clump, and headed at high speed for the deepest jungle on the island with the maniac dog at his heels. Snake, Charlie, and Your Humble Obedient followed around the palmetto clump.
Normally, the only part of me that runs is my nose (or my stockings, when I’m in drag), but this was an emergency. As Snake shouted over his shoulder, “If he gets into that jungle, he may kill the dog before we can get anywhere near him!”
The jungle that Snake was referring to looked like something out of the original King Kong movie. We watched the mismatched pair disappear into it. Snake was nearly out of sight by the time I wheezed up to the edge of the incredibly dense palmetto. It was so thick, I could not see my own feet, and I could just make out parts of Snake, who was standing about ten feet ahead of me.
The dog kept up its frenzied barking.
I could hear a sudden, loud crash-rustle of palmetto fronds, and suddenly the dog gave a high-pitched squeal and went silent.
Snake cussed. We pushed into the palmettos as fast as we could. I couldn’t see a thing, and was now just following the sound made by the big guy ahead of me. I began to think about those huge rattlesnakes that were in all the photos around the bunkhouse. They lived in this very stuff. Eek. Eek.
The dog started barking again. Relief.
Snake was suddenly there. He grabbed my shoulder and whispered fiercely:
“He’s right up ahead, if you duck down low, you can see him. Go in an git him! Quick! Before he kills Ole Blue!”
There was nothing for it. I believe in the philosophy that no man can be sure of his courage until the day of his death, but I was too much caught up in the hunt to be rational and seriously consider the insanity of just what I was about to do. Besides, the secret to the greatest enjoyment of life is to live dangerously.
The Fabled PC puts it differently. She says that when I am between two evils, I like to try out the one I’ve never done before. And I am not afraid of dying – I just do not want to be there when it happens.
So I offered up a prayer that all rattlesnakes would take a short vacation, and got down on my stomach to begin crawling toward the racket. Charlie helped my state of mind enormously by offering the whispered observation:
“Geez, Walt, I can’t see any part of you at all past your waist.” His foot was touching mine as he spoke. “I can’t give you any backup.”
Oh. Fine.
The din was deafening. When the boar gruntsquealed, the palmettos shook. The crazy dog was barking itself into psychosis. I was shaking like an aspen leaf, and without even aspen their leaf to do it.
Then I saw it.
Well, I saw the ear. The ear was huge. It was about 7 or 8 feet away. Lessee now... the dog’s mayhem was coming from a little to my right... that means the boar was facing it. If I could see an ear, that meant the rest of the boar was... over there.
I brought the rifle up. It rattled a palmetto frond.
And everything changed.
The boar turned on me at full speed. The time it took to travel about 1½ body lengths was about a fifth of a second. My finger squeezed the trigger convulsively.
The boar contacted the end of the rifle barrel just as the rifle went off. I felt a short, bright pain by the bridge of my nose and eye. It was the boar’s razor tusk.
Then Snake was there, and the nutty dog was ripping at the dead boar’s ear in a righteous indignation.
I was bleeding like (you should pardon the expression) a stuck pig. Charlie handed me his handkerchief. He looked at the tableau.
“Wow! That’s as close as you can get! Great shot!”
Little did he know that I never shot intentionally, all I did was sort of spasm at the right split-second. Snake handed me a bottle of ardent spirits from the truck.
I took a shaky much-needed pull, then another. All I could think of to say was, “The reason why I like to drink: when I’m thirsty, is to cure it; when I’m not... to prevent it.”
I think next time Charlie and I go out, we’re going to try rhinoceros wrestling -- or maybe bobbing for cobras... you know, something a little tamer.
Rootin’ With The Hawgs
© Walt C. Snedeker
© Walt C. Snedeker
The brand-new day broke through the dark. Through the window near my bunkbed, I could see that it was windy out, and chilly, with a hint of rain at the edges. It was the kind of day that makes for ruddy cheeks and green grass. My trouble is that I believe ruddy cheeks are for girls, and green grass is for cows -- and I’m happiest when I’m good and stinking hot.
"Ahh, lookit the blustery weather,” Charlie offered from the bunk across the way, “makes you feel good to be alive.”
“When it’s like this, I don’t feel either.” I was starting off cranky. We were in the bunkhouse on Brahma Island, which is the largest fresh-water-surrounded island in the United States. We were going wild boar hunting this morning, and I was a little bit in the hole with the thought of mucking about in a cold, evil swamp when I really wanted to muck about in a hot, yummy swamp. Oh, well, here we were, out in the edges of Yeehaw Junction... it had to be more comfortable than being up to my gizzard in that blue snow which caused me such icy wretchedness on Mt. Everest in Colorado. Hawg huntin’ is more temperate than elk huntin’, if for no other reason than that the clever beasties are considerate enough not to climb mountains and live in sub-zero misery.
Charlie and Himself had arrived the day before. The previous day’s exploits could be summed up as a learning experience. We learned that the huge guide, who went by the name “Snake” was crazy. And that while it was a relatively simple matter to shoot a hawg, getting a trophy boar was a different matter entirely.
We had spotted a dozen or more of our quarry, but none of the size and ferociousness we lusted for.
Little did I realize that today was to be The Day.
Delicious smells were coming from the huge bunkhouse kitchen, where Doug- The-Cook was preparing great masses of concentrated cholesterol. Since it is a well-known, proven scientific fact that vacation calories and fats do not ever stick to the human body, I found myself eagerly wolfing down humongous clots of sausage, eggs, grits and white gravy (poured all over the hot muffins). A mere half-gallon of coffee, and I was ready to whip my weight in butterflies.
“Want some more coffee, Walt?” Charlie had the big pot in his clutches, waving it at me.
I declined politely; I had enough caffeine in me to make my hands shake like Marcel Marceau on crack.
“Well then,” rumbled Snake’s freight-train voice, “let’s go git us a big hawg.”
The truck awaited us outside. It was a sort of pickup truck on steroids. It had a big cage in it to hold the dogs, and a bunch of gunracks on the cab roof. The tires were about chest-high, and the bumpers would not have been out of place on an Abrams M-1 Main Battle Tank.
We climbed on.
Well, as an average, we climbed on. Charlie leaped on, and I sort of creaked on. I find it annoying that Charlie is two years older than I am, and he jogs. He’s as fit as a flea. Now, me... I’m 70. That’s not old, if you’re a tree. But I’ve had somewhat rougher mileage -- my bod looks like it was put together on a government contract out of scrap parts. But I’m not old. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am. I don’t want to pick on Charlie just because he’s so healthy. Well, not much, anyway. I always say that if you can’t say something good about someone, sit right down here by me.
The two dogs were yelping for joy at the prospect of going hunting. They raced each other to get into the cage in the truck.
A great lurch, and we were off.
It is now time to step aside, so to speak, and explain the concept of wild boar hunting on Brahma Island.
The first thing you should know is that wild boars have no natural enemies. That means that they are not necessarily afraid of you. Keep that in mind.
There are two options: You can ride around, looking far ahead through the brush and trees to spot the critturs. Or, when the vegetation gets really heavy, you can stop the truck, and let the dog run around sniffing through the palmettos. Either scenario generally has the same result -- the dog winds up chasing the boar (which can run amazingly fast) until the boar gets really annoyed, and turns at bay. This is a critical time, for the dog is really stupid. Or brave to the point of recklessness.
The dog will continue to bark, and charge at the boar, distracting it from the approach of the truck. The hunter piles off of the truck, and gets over near enough to the boar for a clear shot before it finally decides to make muttburgers out of its pestering canine tormentor. This is tricky, because the boar may just decide to suddenly ignore the dog and make peopleburgers out of the guy with the rifle.
We had decided by rock-paper-scissors that it was my “up” this day. That meant that Charlie would be my backup, whose job it would be to drop the boar if it began to eat me if I missed my shot.
We rode around uneventfully for a while, and then Snake decided to let the dog check out an isolated patch of palmetto. We all got out of the truck to watch Ole Blue go to work.
Bingo!
A basso profundo grunt came from the palmetto clump just as Ole Blue poked his nose in. With frenetically insane barks, O.B. flushed the monster from its hidey-hole.
Unfortunately, the inconsiderate beast ran directly out of the far side of the clump, and headed at high speed for the deepest jungle on the island with the maniac dog at his heels. Snake, Charlie, and Your Humble Obedient followed around the palmetto clump.
Normally, the only part of me that runs is my nose (or my stockings, when I’m in drag), but this was an emergency. As Snake shouted over his shoulder, “If he gets into that jungle, he may kill the dog before we can get anywhere near him!”
The jungle that Snake was referring to looked like something out of the original King Kong movie. We watched the mismatched pair disappear into it. Snake was nearly out of sight by the time I wheezed up to the edge of the incredibly dense palmetto. It was so thick, I could not see my own feet, and I could just make out parts of Snake, who was standing about ten feet ahead of me.
The dog kept up its frenzied barking.
I could hear a sudden, loud crash-rustle of palmetto fronds, and suddenly the dog gave a high-pitched squeal and went silent.
Snake cussed. We pushed into the palmettos as fast as we could. I couldn’t see a thing, and was now just following the sound made by the big guy ahead of me. I began to think about those huge rattlesnakes that were in all the photos around the bunkhouse. They lived in this very stuff. Eek. Eek.
The dog started barking again. Relief.
Snake was suddenly there. He grabbed my shoulder and whispered fiercely:
“He’s right up ahead, if you duck down low, you can see him. Go in an git him! Quick! Before he kills Ole Blue!”
There was nothing for it. I believe in the philosophy that no man can be sure of his courage until the day of his death, but I was too much caught up in the hunt to be rational and seriously consider the insanity of just what I was about to do. Besides, the secret to the greatest enjoyment of life is to live dangerously.
The Fabled PC puts it differently. She says that when I am between two evils, I like to try out the one I’ve never done before. And I am not afraid of dying – I just do not want to be there when it happens.
So I offered up a prayer that all rattlesnakes would take a short vacation, and got down on my stomach to begin crawling toward the racket. Charlie helped my state of mind enormously by offering the whispered observation:
“Geez, Walt, I can’t see any part of you at all past your waist.” His foot was touching mine as he spoke. “I can’t give you any backup.”
Oh. Fine.
The din was deafening. When the boar gruntsquealed, the palmettos shook. The crazy dog was barking itself into psychosis. I was shaking like an aspen leaf, and without even aspen their leaf to do it.
Then I saw it.
Well, I saw the ear. The ear was huge. It was about 7 or 8 feet away. Lessee now... the dog’s mayhem was coming from a little to my right... that means the boar was facing it. If I could see an ear, that meant the rest of the boar was... over there.
I brought the rifle up. It rattled a palmetto frond.
And everything changed.
The boar turned on me at full speed. The time it took to travel about 1½ body lengths was about a fifth of a second. My finger squeezed the trigger convulsively.
The boar contacted the end of the rifle barrel just as the rifle went off. I felt a short, bright pain by the bridge of my nose and eye. It was the boar’s razor tusk.
Then Snake was there, and the nutty dog was ripping at the dead boar’s ear in a righteous indignation.
I was bleeding like (you should pardon the expression) a stuck pig. Charlie handed me his handkerchief. He looked at the tableau.
“Wow! That’s as close as you can get! Great shot!”
Little did he know that I never shot intentionally, all I did was sort of spasm at the right split-second. Snake handed me a bottle of ardent spirits from the truck.
I took a shaky much-needed pull, then another. All I could think of to say was, “The reason why I like to drink: when I’m thirsty, is to cure it; when I’m not... to prevent it.”
I think next time Charlie and I go out, we’re going to try rhinoceros wrestling -- or maybe bobbing for cobras... you know, something a little tamer.
I have had five hernia repairs , mesh , 3 by the military and two civilian operations….my side hurts every day….who gives a shit?…not the military that is for damn sure
wanna see what grassshoppers do to cannabis?…this is why one needs either 50 chickens or a big greenhouse
they girdle the branches , strip all the bark off….death follows
wanna see what grassshoppers do to cannabis?…this is why one needs either 50 chickens or a big greenhouse
they girdle the branches , strip all the bark off….death follows
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Yes agreed - but when I tell her at 8am - to be ready by 11am - 3 hours is plenty enough time to throw some gym togs on - comb her hair - and be ready on time - it's not as if she's going to some sorta state banquet - and needs to do hair and makeup etc - jeez -
Someone here on Icmag told me about some poor guy with like 5 hernias and he's in so much pain he has a corncob pipe continuously going with weed in it even when driving
not opposed to the idea
I watch this channel and 3 other exercise channels every other day for my work out routine
Punctuality - an endangered concept - and if you try and instill it within a young person/son daughter - they behave as if you were from the Waffen SS - Islamic battalion - with insinuations of dictatorial behaviour - cheeky kids -Yes agreed - but when I tell her at 8am - to be ready by 11am - 3 hours is plenty enough time to throw some gym togs on - comb her hair - and be ready on time - it's not as if she's going to some sorta state banquet - and needs to do hair and makeup etc - jeez -
I learned about punctuality - by doing an early morning paper round - from 10 years old - I had to be at the newsagents on the Ewell Road - bang on 5.30am - 7 mornings every week - so had to be at least conscious by 5.00am - brush teeth - throw clothing on - and get on me bicycle - rain 🌧 - wind - snow
- or sunshine 
- usually leaving home when it was pitch dark - before dawn - most all of the year - and cycling to the newsagents shop - to collect a very heavy bag of newspapers and magazines - to deliver by 7.30am - giving me enough time to get home - eat some breakfast - clean up and change into school uniform - then cycle to school for 8.30am start Kids can't get jobs as newspaper delivery operatives no more - so they tell me - the paper - newspaper is apparently a very endangered thing - so not many people want one every morning to read at breakfast - it's all online - at the touch of a smart phone screen -
That's a good looking project, you did a fine job on the rails and posts and the balustrades leave room to see through. Looks sharp!
Same here. I use to like looking at the Sunday paper.Punctuality - an endangered concept - and if you try and instill it within a young person/son daughter - they behave as if you were from the Waffen SS - Islamic battalion - with insinuations of dictatorial behaviour - cheeky kids -
I learned about punctuality - by doing an early morning paper round - from 10 years old - I had to be at the newsagents on the Ewell Road - bang on 5.30am - 7 mornings every week - so had to be at least conscious by 5.00am - brush teeth - throw clothing on - and get on me bicycle - rain 🌧 - wind - snow
Kids can't get jobs as newspaper delivery operatives no more - so they tell me - the paper - newspaper is apparently a very endangered thing - so not many people want one every morning to read at breakfast - it's all online - at the touch of a smart phone screen -
I guess that we are witnessing change - in that a thing (newspapers) - that we have taken for granted as a useful and entertaining object for well over half a century - is fast becoming a thing of the past -
- I feel sorry for newspapers -
- 'Who wants yesterday's papers? - who wants yesterday's news?'
- Official lyrics version below -
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Fake news.....Punctuality - an endangered concept - and if you try and instill it within a young person/son daughter - they behave as if you were from the Waffen SS - Islamic battalion - with insinuations of dictatorial behaviour - cheeky kids -
I learned about punctuality - by doing an early morning paper round - from 10 years old - I had to be at the newsagents on the Ewell Road - bang on 5.30am - 7 mornings every week - so had to be at least conscious by 5.00am - brush teeth - throw clothing on - and get on me bicycle - rain 🌧 - wind - snow
Kids can't get jobs as newspaper delivery operatives no more - so they tell me - the paper - newspaper is apparently a very endangered thing - so not many people want one every morning to read at breakfast - it's all online - at the touch of a smart phone screen -
Yeah - but ya have ta be able to sort the wheat - from the chaff - not all news is propaganda
- yet -
