No Seatbelts, No Bicycle Helmets
June 11th, 2009 at 8:15 pm by Cranky… and there was this.
Wow, how times have changed.
UPDATE!!
Sometimes something so cool comes through the comments that it must be promoted to the post. Speaking of bygone eras, our friend 11B40 shares his experiences.
11B40 Says:
Greetings:
Even though I grew up in the Bronx in the afterglow of WWII, I was always more inclined to the cowboy ways. I had the twin Fanner Fiftys cap pistol rig which was, unfortunately, one of the banes of my dear mother’s existence.
One day she took me and my sister to the movies, twin-features in those days. The second movie was “The Charge at Feather River”, not only an oat-burner, but a 3-D oat-burner. I was allowed to wear my rig but was warned against bringing any caps. In one of the very few failures of my mother’s eternal vigilance program, she forgot the body cavity search and I managed to secret two full rolls on my person. During the intermission, I went off to the lavatory and loaded up.
The highlight of the movie for me was the, you guessed it, “The Charge at Feather River”. The besieged cowpokes and calvary were attacked by the ferocious, in those days, pre-native Americans. In unison, they loosed their arrows and spears which, through the miracle of 3-D, seemed to come pouring out of the screen directly at me. What’s a boy-cowboy to do but to lay down his caps to protect his mother and sister and self. However, before I could get off even a handful of shots, my mother had re-established her normal level of control of both my property and me.
Later that evening, my mother came into my room with that twinkle in her eye which meant that “Your father wants to talk to you in the living room.” Denotations aside, the obvious connotation was that parental supervision had been kicked up a notch to the ultimate level. When I arrived in the living room, my father was involved with his evening beer, cigarette, and newspaper. I sat as quietly as possible on the couch. My father lowered his broadsheet and gave me his sternest look. He then began his pre-waterboarding days interrogation.
“So,” my father began, “your mother took you to the movies this afternoon.” “She did, I replied as my father’s look told me that that was all the answer required. “And, she let you take your six-guns.” Again, only the “She did.” “But, she told you no caps.” Once more, the “She did” as the in-terror-gation proceeded along its course. “And, you took them anyway.” A quick switch to an “I did.” “And, you shot them off in the theater.” Again, an “I did” followed by a failed attempt to begin a litany of excuses for my actions.
“So,” my father began as he took a Lucky Strike pause, “How many Injuns did you kill?” You see, there are things that fathers know that mothers will never understand.
June 12th, 2009 at 2:18 pm
Greetings:
Even though I grew up in the Bronx in the afterglow of WWII, I was always more inclined to the cowboy ways. I had the twin Fanner Fiftys cap pistol rig which was, unfortunately, one of the banes of my dear mother’s existence.
One day she took me and my sister to the movies, twin-features in those days. The second movie was “The Charge at Feather River”, not only an oat-burner, but a 3-D oat-burner. I was allowed to wear my rig but was warned against bringing any caps. In one of the very few failures of my mother’s eternal vigilance program, she forgot the body cavity search and I managed to secret two full rolls on my person. During the intermission, I went off to the lavatory and loaded up.
The highlight of the movie for me was the, you guessed it, “The Charge at Feather River”. The besieged cowpokes and calvary were attacked by the ferocious, in those days, pre-native Americans. In unison, they loosed their arrows and spears which, through the miracle of 3-D, seemed to come pouring out of the screen directly at me. What’s a boy-cowboy to do but to lay down his caps to protect his mother and sister and self. However, before I could get off even a handful of shots, my mother had re-established her normal level of control of both my property and me.
Later that evening, my mother came into my room with that twinkle in her eye which meant that “Your father wants to talk to you in the living room.” Denotations aside, the obvious connotation was that parental supervision had been kicked up a notch to the ultimate level. When I arrived in the living room, my father was involved with his evening beer, cigarette, and newspaper. I sat as quietly as possible on the couch. My father lowered his broadsheet and gave me his sternest look. He then began his pre-waterboarding days interrogation.
“So,” my father began, “your mother took you to the movies this afternoon.” “She did, I replied as my father’s look told me that that was all the answer required. “And, she let you take your six-guns.” Again, only the “She did.” “But, she told you no caps.” Once more, the “She did” as the in-terror-gation proceeded along its course. “And, you took them anyway.” A quick switch to an “I did.” “And, you shot them off in the theater.” Again, an “I did” followed by a failed attempt to begin a litany of excuses for my actions.
“So,” my father began as he took a Lucky Strike pause, “How many Injuns did you kill?” You see, there are things that fathers know that mothers will never understand.
June 12th, 2009 at 2:27 pm
That was excellent. If it was a post on another blog, I’d link it. Can I move it out of the comments and into the post itself?
June 12th, 2009 at 3:31 pm
Greetings:
It hasn’t been on any other blog. Feel free to relocate it.
June 14th, 2009 at 9:49 am
That was wonderful 11B40.
OsamaHusseinIslamObama 2012′
(the terrorist/pirate/media choice)
-It’s never too early to campaign-