Island Of Misfits

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This should go viral. I have seen it before, but did not help get it around.

There also a video of him saying the same thing.

1624797837725.png
 
Unca Walt said:
What's elephant ears ???
Click to expand...
It's like a Indian (feather, not dot) flat bread, deep fried and covered in sugar, honey, cinnamon, and anything else that tickles your fancy. I've seen people drizzle chocolate on 'em. A little sweet for me, but once a year is fine.
 
82F @ 53% RH, gorgeous, 6 mph wind, and predicted to reach 116F.

112 yesterday and the hottest day on record in OR, with today projected to be hotter.

Good food, times, and people at a dinner party in Beaverton.
 
Hippie420 said:
It's like a Indian (feather, not dot) flat bread, deep fried and covered in sugar, honey, cinnamon, and anything else that tickles your fancy. I've seen people drizzle chocolate on 'em. A little sweet for me, but once a year is fine.
Click to expand...
Holy Cakes, Hips!

You just added to my Bucket List!

Lest you think my BL was meh, I've hand-fed sharks on CNN, rode in a sum-barine, been on an A/C, piloted a commercial jet with passengers aboard (TINS), looped a Cessna 152, have more than 1000 hours SCUBA (Atlantic/Pacific), rescued a gorgeous (topless) lady from drowning, (eat your fargin heart out, @Big! :) Flew a dead-stick plane to a perfect landing with only 5 hours solo, and shiite like that.

Now comes the most important part of this post. I ask thee --





Can you tell when Unca is as high as a lady giraffe's genitals. <-- I'm a fargin wordsmith. I can dance all around some helpless AI. ;)
 
Unca Walt said:
Holy Cakes, Hips!

You just added to my Bucket List!

Lest you think my BL was meh, I've hand-fed sharks on CNN, rode in a sum-barine, been on an A/C, piloted a commercial jet with passengers aboard (TINS), looped a Cessna 152, have more than 1000 hours SCUBA (Atlantic/Pacific), rescued a gorgeous (topless) lady from drowning, (eat your fargin heart out, @Big! :) Flew a dead-stick plane to a perfect landing with only 5 hours solo, and shiite like that.

Now comes the most important part of this post. I ask thee --





Can you tell when Unca is as high as a lady giraffe's genitals. <-- I'm a fargin wordsmith. I can dance all around some helpless AI. ;)
Click to expand...


Only in your wildest dreams!!!???
 
Thou speakest to moi, churl?

Being of unsound mind and a pieced-together bod (show ya that if ya ask nice) I grant a one-off. Very rare. Better'n well done.

Read a Bucket List Checked Item and weep snot for not having the chance...

Rootin’ With The Hawgs

Unca Walt​

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.

“Ah, 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 80. 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.
 
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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, 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.

_______________________________________________________________________

Bottom line, son: I wuz truin'. Want to learn how to fly? ALWAYS accept "TINS"
 
Unca Walt said:
Holy Cakes, Hips!

You just added to my Bucket List!

Lest you think my BL was meh, I've hand-fed sharks on CNN, rode in a sum-barine, been on an A/C, piloted a commercial jet with passengers aboard (TINS), looped a Cessna 152, have more than 1000 hours SCUBA (Atlantic/Pacific), rescued a gorgeous (topless) lady from drowning, (eat your fargin heart out, @Big! :) Flew a dead-stick plane to a perfect landing with only 5 hours solo, and shiite like that.

Now comes the most important part of this post. I ask thee --





Can you tell when Unca is as high as a lady giraffe's genitals. <-- I'm a fargin wordsmith. I can dance all around some helpless AI. ;)
Click to expand...
When you do the north face of K2 naked without O2 bottles, come back and talk to me.
 
(*sigh*) Some folks MUST be shown. Please note, Hips, the above posted article was not written yesterday.

Here is the CNN story. I will tell you for the very last time: when you see TINS, that is my word (and many other GI's). Teasing, of course, is acceptable and unlimited.

But an honorable person would see that if there is written proof available, TINS means just that.

You are not there. Fix it. And read this and tell me if you think it was written since I mentioned it in my checked-off Bucket List. Yes or No, Buster.


This... Is CNN!

ã Unca Walt
​
Right off, I could see this was going to be a good day. I tell myself this same mantra every time I go down to the dock where Captain Charlie’s Shenandoah picks me up, and I see that there are small craft warnings on the Intracoastal.

And this time I said it twice. For it is a poorly kept secret, Gentle Reader, that Your Humble Obedient &tc. is desperately prone to seasickness. It is a weakness for which, unlike my weakness for beautiful redheaded barbarian ladies, I am not proud. While we are on the subject of those lovelies, I might as well report that mine, The Fabled PC, was snug abed. She had mumbled something into her lacy pillow about it being bad luck to watch the takeoff or whatever, and I could go on down to the dock alone. She would suffer my absence with some more nonnie-nonnie.

She can be so noble sometimes.

But now, as I looked up toward Lake Boca from the dock, my eyes were leaking tears in the rushing wind. Whitecaps formed from shore to shore in the Intracoastal. I said the mantra for the third time. I didn’t do it after that -- I didn’t want to wear the batteries out.

A panel truck pulled up beside me, and the CNN crew got out. CNN? Oh. Yeah. It seems that they had heard of Captain Charlie’s exploits from a newspaper in Texas, of all things, and they had arranged to do a “shoot” of Your Humble Obedient &tc. feeding the sharks off of Delray Beach.

It is something we do each week. But this time, CNN wanted to record it for the delectation of the civilized world. The cameraman was a big, hulking brute with a face like muted thunder. He looked like he ate the furniture for breakfast. But the guy that was going to be filmed diving with us was so handsome, he made me glad that the Fabled PC was not here.

Nobody seemed to notice the howling wind except me while we waited for the Shenandoah to crunchsmashcrash into the dock. Ah well...

Soon we were all aboard, and the African Quee -- I mean the Shenandoah began chugging out to sea, with Charlie kicking the boiler every now and then. Sure enough, ten minutes along the coast, I began to feel the need to call for “Earl!”.

In fact, everybody did -- except Captain Charlie and the hulking cameraman, who was chewing some dried beef red-hots for a mid-morning snack. The aroma of those things even in normal conditions would give a hyena a fit of the dry heaves, but he was looking extraordinarily tough and superior. I thought regretfully to myself, “If I had killed him twenty years ago, I’d be getting out of prison about now.”

Then Captain Charlie announced over the PA system (he loves to use it, and will accept any excuse, even though he could just turn around and talk to everybody), “OK, folks, we are here. It’s time to suit up and go gettem!”

Since I had just that moment finished calling for dinosaurs, I was in that blessed state of grace where one has about five minutes before one begins to die again. I happily begin to put on my flippers and tank.

Hulking Brute Cameraman nudges my shoulder. I look up.

“Where’s the cage?” He is looking all over the Shenandoah, which I had tidied up to the point where it resembled a delicatessen that had been looted by a Viking raiding party.
“What cage?” I honestly didn’t know what he meant.

“The shark cage.”

“We don’t have one.”

“Whaddayamean, ‘We. Don’t. Have. One!’’ He looked about to see if I was serious. I must have been, because I was sitting on the transom in my bathing suit, flippers, mask, and scuba tank.

“But that mesh armor stuff ain’t all that good, and it don’t pertect yer head n’ stuff.”
“We don’t use armor. Just bathing suits.”

“You. Don’t. Use. Armor...” the sweat on his brow was a bright yellow, “You. Don’t . Use. A. Shark. Cage.” He had a funny way of speaking.

“You got it. No bang sticks or other stuff either. Let’s go.”

“Gleek. Glik.”

At this point, Super Handsome, the other CNN guy, sez to Hulking Brute, “Ahhh... Brutus… I’m going to stay on board. You can get all the film you want of me back on shore where it’s safe… I mean, where I can interview the surviv-- I mean, the Shenandoah crew.”

Brutus (I might have known that was his moniker) looks at me like I was made of nitroglycerin and blasting caps and says in a suddenly tiny voice, “Are you really going in the water out here to feed sharks by hand, wearing just what you are wearing?”

“Yup.” I was really enjoying this. “Nothing to worry about. I have a sign printed in ‘shark’ tattooed in infra-red all down my body. It says, ‘Don’t Eat This Guy, He Tastes Awful Please Eat The OTHER Guy’. Nothing to worry about.”

I distinctly heard him mumble, “Prob’ly ain’t no sharks down there. It’s a put-on.” And other things. I heard something about “cab driving” and “momma”.

Anyway, the first twinges of my imminent fall from anti-seasickness grace were becoming apparent. So, I grabbed the guy, and over we went.

Sixty feet down, the clear water on the beautiful reef was densely populated with grunts and things. I immediately nailed one hapless little guy with my pole spear.

True to form, the sharks appeared from nowhere. I pulled the wounded grunt off of the prongs, and tossed him six inches up. A humongous Caribbean Reef shark came straight in at me, and inhaled it. I turned around to see if the cameraman had gotten to the bottom yet, and saw the lens of the camera six inches over my shoulder. He had gotten a superlative shot. My attitude toward him changed instantly. Scared he might have been, but he was right there, doing a professional job.

For forty minutes, I had sharks all over me. Fortunately, they can read their own language, and none bothered to taste me. Then it was time to go back up. The biggest shark came back one last time, and I took my regulator out of my mouth and blew him a kiss for being so nice.

Back on the Shenandoah, the cameraman was absolutely hyper.



“That was fantastic! I wanna do it again! And I wasn’t scared at all! On the way down, I thought that this was my last day, but once the sharks came, it was fun!”

This is the reaction we always get from the folks we take down. Charlie and Your Humble Obedient &tc. were grinning like we had both just gotten fresh lobotomies. It is a pleasure to see someone that you have made that happy.

Super Handsome interviewed us for two hours back at the home port of the Shenandoah (Charlie’s house). The Fabled PC demurely stood behind the camera, beaming with pride at her soon-to-be-temporarily-famous spouse.

So look for the CNN special in November. I think you will know which one, because they’ll start it out with Voice-Of-God James Earl Jones saying

“This.........is CNN. And Unca Waltie.”
 
67F @ 73% RH, double gorgeous, 4 mph wind, and predicted to plunge to 97F today, after new record of 116F yesterday.

Power grid overloaded by air conditioners and 13,000 without power, MAX shutdown, and highways buckling at the expansion joints, requiring closures. Fire danger is extreme, and all July 4th fireworks banned.

A couple early dog walks, but mostly we just hung around inside in front of the fans and read or napped. Today I plan to work at getting a haircut.
 
One mo' thang, Hips: The piloting of the passenger plane? No article written about that for obvious reasons, but I will take the time to 'splain to you how that could possibly have happened.

A LOOONG time ago, when I still had hair, I got my Private Pilot's License. I went further and got my IFR rating. <-- That means they can paint the windows, and you can still fly the plane to its destination by instruments alone.

My Beautiful Scottish Witch and Your Humble Obdn't &tc were going to Jamaica from Floriduh. Forty-some years ago. I won't tell you the airline. But as we were boarding, I saw the door to the cockpit was open. This was before all the bullshiet of today.

I pulled out my brand-new, shiny IFR Pilot's License and handed it to the pretty flight attendant and asked her if it would be OK for me to go "drool on the instruments". My actual quote.

She said, "I'll check and see."

Ten seconds later, Brian, the pilot (no last name) waves me in. We talked for several minutes while I gaped in amazement: The instruments could have been removed from a Cessna 152 and put in this monster plane! They were identical. TINS. I gawped while he grinned.

Of course, there were other, truly unknown thingies -- radar alt -- yada.

The plane was near filled when Brian says: "Hey, Walt, would you like to fly up here with us?"
I spun around so fast and told my Precious Darling she was on her own and I'd meet her in Jamaica, that Brian and my Witch busted out laughing.

So the pretty flight attendant lowered the jump seat. I thought they were just sorta small folding chairs. Nope. Quite comfy.

Anyway, we took off and headed for Cuba. After about ten miles, Brian says: "Would you like to get some multi-engine jet time?"

I woulda given my left nut and a year in he_ll for that! So Brian got up, and I sat down.

Here is the next sequence: There were love-bugs all over the window. Brian told me to do an airliner turn (that is a real thing all pilots learn no matter what planes they fly) to "that there rain cloud". I did, and it was an instant car wash. Fargin kewl.

He let me pilot the plane all the way to base-leg in Jamaica.

And: TINS.
 
Unca Walt said:
(*sigh*) Some folks MUST be shown. Please note, Hips, the above posted article was not written yesterday.

Here is the CNN story. I will tell you for the very last time: when you see TINS, that is my word (and many other GI's). Teasing, of course, is acceptable and unlimited.

But an honorable person would see that if there is written proof available, TINS means just that.

You are not there. Fix it. And read this and tell me if you think it was written since I mentioned it in my checked-off Bucket List. Yes or No, Buster.


This... Is CNN!

ã Unca Walt
​
Right off, I could see this was going to be a good day. I tell myself this same mantra every time I go down to the dock where Captain Charlie’s Shenandoah picks me up, and I see that there are small craft warnings on the Intracoastal.

And this time I said it twice. For it is a poorly kept secret, Gentle Reader, that Your Humble Obedient &tc. is desperately prone to seasickness. It is a weakness for which, unlike my weakness for beautiful redheaded barbarian ladies, I am not proud. While we are on the subject of those lovelies, I might as well report that mine, The Fabled PC, was snug abed. She had mumbled something into her lacy pillow about it being bad luck to watch the takeoff or whatever, and I could go on down to the dock alone. She would suffer my absence with some more nonnie-nonnie.

She can be so noble sometimes.

But now, as I looked up toward Lake Boca from the dock, my eyes were leaking tears in the rushing wind. Whitecaps formed from shore to shore in the Intracoastal. I said the mantra for the third time. I didn’t do it after that -- I didn’t want to wear the batteries out.

A panel truck pulled up beside me, and the CNN crew got out. CNN? Oh. Yeah. It seems that they had heard of Captain Charlie’s exploits from a newspaper in Texas, of all things, and they had arranged to do a “shoot” of Your Humble Obedient &tc. feeding the sharks off of Delray Beach.

It is something we do each week. But this time, CNN wanted to record it for the delectation of the civilized world. The cameraman was a big, hulking brute with a face like muted thunder. He looked like he ate the furniture for breakfast. But the guy that was going to be filmed diving with us was so handsome, he made me glad that the Fabled PC was not here.

Nobody seemed to notice the howling wind except me while we waited for the Shenandoah to crunchsmashcrash into the dock. Ah well...

Soon we were all aboard, and the African Quee -- I mean the Shenandoah began chugging out to sea, with Charlie kicking the boiler every now and then. Sure enough, ten minutes along the coast, I began to feel the need to call for “Earl!”.

In fact, everybody did -- except Captain Charlie and the hulking cameraman, who was chewing some dried beef red-hots for a mid-morning snack. The aroma of those things even in normal conditions would give a hyena a fit of the dry heaves, but he was looking extraordinarily tough and superior. I thought regretfully to myself, “If I had killed him twenty years ago, I’d be getting out of prison about now.”

Then Captain Charlie announced over the PA system (he loves to use it, and will accept any excuse, even though he could just turn around and talk to everybody), “OK, folks, we are here. It’s time to suit up and go gettem!”

Since I had just that moment finished calling for dinosaurs, I was in that blessed state of grace where one has about five minutes before one begins to die again. I happily begin to put on my flippers and tank.

Hulking Brute Cameraman nudges my shoulder. I look up.

“Where’s the cage?” He is looking all over the Shenandoah, which I had tidied up to the point where it resembled a delicatessen that had been looted by a Viking raiding party.
“What cage?” I honestly didn’t know what he meant.

“The shark cage.”

“We don’t have one.”

“Whaddayamean, ‘We. Don’t. Have. One!’’ He looked about to see if I was serious. I must have been, because I was sitting on the transom in my bathing suit, flippers, mask, and scuba tank.

“But that mesh armor stuff ain’t all that good, and it don’t pertect yer head n’ stuff.”
“We don’t use armor. Just bathing suits.”

“You. Don’t. Use. Armor...” the sweat on his brow was a bright yellow, “You. Don’t . Use. A. Shark. Cage.” He had a funny way of speaking.

“You got it. No bang sticks or other stuff either. Let’s go.”

“Gleek. Glik.”

At this point, Super Handsome, the other CNN guy, sez to Hulking Brute, “Ahhh... Brutus… I’m going to stay on board. You can get all the film you want of me back on shore where it’s safe… I mean, where I can interview the surviv-- I mean, the Shenandoah crew.”

Brutus (I might have known that was his moniker) looks at me like I was made of nitroglycerin and blasting caps and says in a suddenly tiny voice, “Are you really going in the water out here to feed sharks by hand, wearing just what you are wearing?”

“Yup.” I was really enjoying this. “Nothing to worry about. I have a sign printed in ‘shark’ tattooed in infra-red all down my body. It says, ‘Don’t Eat This Guy, He Tastes Awful Please Eat The OTHER Guy’. Nothing to worry about.”

I distinctly heard him mumble, “Prob’ly ain’t no sharks down there. It’s a put-on.” And other things. I heard something about “cab driving” and “momma”.

Anyway, the first twinges of my imminent fall from anti-seasickness grace were becoming apparent. So, I grabbed the guy, and over we went.

Sixty feet down, the clear water on the beautiful reef was densely populated with grunts and things. I immediately nailed one hapless little guy with my pole spear.

True to form, the sharks appeared from nowhere. I pulled the wounded grunt off of the prongs, and tossed him six inches up. A humongous Caribbean Reef shark came straight in at me, and inhaled it. I turned around to see if the cameraman had gotten to the bottom yet, and saw the lens of the camera six inches over my shoulder. He had gotten a superlative shot. My attitude toward him changed instantly. Scared he might have been, but he was right there, doing a professional job.

For forty minutes, I had sharks all over me. Fortunately, they can read their own language, and none bothered to taste me. Then it was time to go back up. The biggest shark came back one last time, and I took my regulator out of my mouth and blew him a kiss for being so nice.

Back on the Shenandoah, the cameraman was absolutely hyper.



“That was fantastic! I wanna do it again! And I wasn’t scared at all! On the way down, I thought that this was my last day, but once the sharks came, it was fun!”

This is the reaction we always get from the folks we take down. Charlie and Your Humble Obedient &tc. were grinning like we had both just gotten fresh lobotomies. It is a pleasure to see someone that you have made that happy.

Super Handsome interviewed us for two hours back at the home port of the Shenandoah (Charlie’s house). The Fabled PC demurely stood behind the camera, beaming with pride at her soon-to-be-temporarily-famous spouse.

So look for the CNN special in November. I think you will know which one, because they’ll start it out with Voice-Of-God James Earl Jones saying

“This.........is CNN. And Unca Waltie.”
Click to expand...






I know who this is. Way to familiar.... name change?
 
trillions of atoms said:
I know who this is. Way to familiar.... name change?
Click to expand...

no need for a name change , Unca Walt is a famous author/adventurer/IBM Engineer/catches rattlesnakes with his bare hands and decapitates them/mercenary/pilot/Captain/and is married for a 100 years to a magic red headed witch

Unca Walt taught Chuck Norris all he knows about self defense

the alphabet soup spy agencies call Unca frequently to see if his mind is still right or if he needs any help moving his furniture around
 
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