View Full Version : A funny Story

11-15-2006, 08:17 PM
This story came from a great old guy name Al on a fly fishing forum that i am a part of. please enjoy the humor in it.

Get a cup or glass
But do not drink and read. Stuff will come out of your nose.

Subject: A funny story

Three nights ago I decided it was time to lube my defense gun. So, I headed down to the basement to get all the necessary goop.

As I walked toward the cabinet, a whimpering sound came from the furnace. I've heard furnaces clunk, click, and whoosh, but never whimper. So, I stopped to listen. Sure enough, it whimpered again. When I rapped my knuckles on the side, I heard the unmistakable sound of tiny feet.

Upstairs to call my brother-in-law, who works for a heating and A/C company.

"Jon, I've got a critter in my furnace. What should I do?"

"Get it out of there."

Free advice is worth the price.

Tools in hand, and a pair of heavy gloves along in case of rabid attack, I began removing various pieces of sheet metal and ductwork.

When I removed the 8" flue pipe from the furnace, a gray squirrel dropped out, hitting the bridge of my foot on its descent. Startled, I jumped back. Equally startled, Buddy the Squirrel scurried into the next room, where all the broken furniture, stereos and VCR's sit, waiting for me to fulfill my promise to fix them "someday." Clearly, he wasn't going to be found in that jungle.

I told my wife to keep the basement door closed, then put the furnace back together again and, tired from two hours of ductwork and rodent-driven apprehension, headed off to sleep, assuring my wife I'd get a live trap in the morning.

True to my promise, I set up the trap. My wife got peanuts and carrots for the bait. She also neatly cut some peanut butter sandwiches into eight squares (how come I don't get this kind of treatment?). What she would not do was the laundry, which had been piling up in the chute; she wasn't going down in that basement until the threat level was back to White.

Buddy didn't like the trap, although he somehow managed to snag some food out of it.

I opened a basement window to give him a way out but, with temps outside in the teens, Buddy opted for the warmth of the furnace. The only result of opening the window was to freeze the water in the pipes running up to the kitchen.

Day Two: back to the hardware store for some industrial-strength poison and some rat traps. I suspect Buddy may have been a seasoned repeat offender, because he didn't touch any of it.

This morning, sometime before dawn, I awoke to the sound of my wife screaming, even louder than the last time she saw me naked. Grabbing flashlight and .45 from the nightstand, I scrambled down the stairs to rescue her from whatever thugs had invaded the house.

No thugs, but Buddy the Squirrel had found a way upstairs. He and Zach the Dog were engaged in some kind of barking and shrieking standoff over in the corner. Zach's an indoor dog and, while he had a size advantage over Buddy, he doesn't have the "street fighting" mentality that the squirrel no doubt did. Nor did he have rabies (yet). So, it was Zach or Buddy.
Besides, my patience was at an end, as was my supply of clean underwear.

Training my flashlight on Buddy, I aimed the pistol at his midsection. (For you technical types, Center of Mass on a squirrel is probably 1/2 MOA).

Under flashlight illumination, Federal Hydra-Shoks produce an effect similar to what I vaguely remember psychedelics to be like. At first I saw nothing but white, then the entire room was bathed in a bright, multi-colored glow. Something like an illuminated kaleidoscope. The sound in my ears was like an interminably-sustained high note from a Fender Stratocaster. My wife was yelling something, but I was busy trying to decide whether this New Woodstock experience was annoying or pleasurable.

Now, I get along famously with all my neighbors, except the B*tch next door. Our relationship makes GW and Saddam look like frat brothers. Our houses are just twenty feet apart, and she takes her barking dogs out as early as 4 am, which is usually when I'll call the cops.

So, I have no doubt it was her phone call that caused the sea of red and blue flashing lights in front of my house.

I'd been able to hear the sirens, and I heard some kind of voices outside, but the Stratocaster kept me from understanding.

After years of marriage, wives develop a way of communicating with husbands who can't or won't listen. "They want you outside!" she barked. "Get out there before they come in and shoot all of us!"

I obliged, and opened the front door, at which time Zach the Dog decided he'd had enough. He raced past me to the Sane Outdoors, with my wife in hot pursuit. I yelled to the police, "it's okay! She's a non-combatant."
I've no idea why I used that term but, in the long history of police paperwork, I'd bet this is probably the first time the words "squirrel," "fox terrier," and "non-combatant" were used in a single report.

Standing before me was a police officer who, if not for the badge, would have looked every bit like a very large Marine, complete with the "shaved sidewall" haircut. As I eyed him up, he looked me over: skinny legs spattered with Buddy blood, wearing just my last clean pair of shorts, pillow hair, and pupils probably the size of quarters.

"Have you been drinking, sir?" Officer Sidewalls asked.

Ever since I was a kid, I've had the nasty habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

"No," I replied, "but this sure seems like a good time to start."

When Officer Sidewalls finally allowed me to unclasp my hands and step away from the wall, I decided that humor was probably not his strong suit.

It was also about then that my vision cleared, and I realized that I hadn't shot Buddy the Squirrel. I'd exploded him. Little bits of Buddy guts were splattered on the sides of the end table where he'd been. The floor was a jumble of fur and unknown viscerals. Buddy's furry tail was near an overturned vase, which got me to thinking about creating some kind of trophy. His eyes were still open, and his yellow rodent teeth sort of reminded me of Gary Bussey from "Lethal Weapon."

Officer Sidewalls wasn't as interested in Buddy as I was, though. He wanted some answers. After some lengthy discussion, he became sympathetic to my rodent plight, promised no charges, and left to write the report of his career.

Meanwhile, my wife had recovered Zach the Dog.

And, in just two hours or so, I'd be able to go to the hardware store to get some True Value SquirrelGutsRemover, as well as some wood putty and stain for the hole in the floor.

Life was good once again.

Sitting here now, I can reflect on what I learned: a wire grate on top of the chimney is a good thing; joking with an officer responding to a "shots fired" call is not a good thing; squirrels are smarter than people; the .45 ACP is vastly underrated as a varmint round; and the New Woodstock experience is indeed annoying.

But, I wonder: would it be over the top to introduce a few mice into the house of the B*tch next Door?

hope you enjoyed this.

ol Al

Hope yall enjoyed this


Medula Oblongata
11-15-2006, 09:34 PM
I actuall had a similiar experience recently, only it was a pussum in my attic...

Shot the bugger with a 22 Aguila Super Colibri (for you that are not versed in Aguila ammo, the Colibri and Super Colibri are 22 shorts with 20 grain projectiles that are fired with nothing more than the priming compound. The Colibri <which means "Hummingbird" in spanish> is 300 fps, and the Super Colibri is 500 fps) and for a moment I thought he was dead.. Until I grabbed him by his very large and muscular tail..

Now even though I was a Boy Scout some years ago, and I do try to "always be prepared," in short, I wasn't. I had forgotten that "playing possum" was a term used to describe what this, well, possum was doing.. He was playing dead in hopes that I would leave him alone. When I grabbed him, however, all bets were off. Apparently all the Super Colibri just made him angry when it struck his head and did not penetrate.

So there I am with an uber angry possum who has my hand ensnared in his tail. So doing the only thing a macho man of my stature can do when his hand is being crushed in a file-like vise.. I screamed like a little girl. Now this was apparently the right thing to do, as a shrill liberal "what about the children" scream seemed to scare the crap out of him (and onto my boot) and he let go. Only thing is, I had left the ladder to the attic down in the garage. So I carefully walk over the ceiling joists to the ladder to discover that the possum and my two miniature daschunds were in a pissing contest.. My dogs were at least, as they pissed themsevles in fright.

So I let out another blood-chilling libtard screech of "fire!" hoping that the libs were right.. Apparently they were. Nobody pays attention to "rape," "help," or "theif," but when you neighbers hear that your home might be burning down, and judging by the noise inside, it may be, they come over to help in a hurry.. That is to say a lawn chair came crashing through the window into the garage followed soon after by copious amounts of chilled water from the garden hose..

Now the possum takes this chance to make a break for the relative safety of the attic, the dogs run out side, and there I am freezing and soaking wet, bloody hand, with a rifle, trying to explain what happened to my neighbor (who happens to not only be the captain of the neighborhood watch, but THE captain of the local fire brigade...

Now at this point, the fire truck rolls up with its obligatory police escort, so we go out to explain that I wasn't yelling "fire" as in my house were alight, but that I was involved in community theatre where we were practicing a scene from "The secret life of Walter Mitty," where the main character's being executed by firing squad...

Suddenly the cop that responded thinks he's the next Leonardo DiCaprio, or some other such hack, and demands the right to audition for the lead role of Walter Mitty... Now I'm standing there with icicles forming on my nose, dogs running up and down the street, a rifle in my hand.. And mama possum comes down from the attic with her cub in mouth...

I told the cop not to worry, she's completely trained and is in fact part of the ensamble. So for 45 minutes while my pregnant wife nails a piece of lumber over the broken window and mops up the water, I audition the next wannabe Dolph Lundgren.. Two hours later I'm proud to say I have the lead for my new play.. Now all I have to do is convince the community theatre to lend me the space for my December release...

I've learned my lesson though... Next time I'll use the .338 RUM (supressed, of course, with a taped-on two liter bottle stuffed with wet rolls of toilet paper) and make sure its dead, and instead of yelling "fire," I'll simply scream "thats MY purse!"

11-15-2006, 10:00 PM
rotfl x2

11-15-2006, 11:10 PM
Wow... just... wow. :)

11-16-2006, 09:50 AM
That was two great stories. The best part is how funny they are now, but not a bit funny when they are happening.