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Old Guy

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Old Guy last won the day on November 12 2017

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About Old Guy

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    The Old Spec-5
  • Birthday 02/27/1947

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    Columbia Falls, MT

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  1. Old Guy

    Wednesday

    We're doing okay here in Montana. 404 total cases, 7 deaths, currently about 275 people are recovered or recovering. There are some advantages to living in a large, sparsely populated state. My wife tells people we didn't have to change anything to be in isolation. :) OG
  2. Okay, there's something wrong here. Stans claims to be mentally fine. Donnie, have you noticed any other unusual posts from this possible imposter? OG
  3. Old Guy

    Tuesday

    All the cities along the Gulf Coast DID shut down their beaches, except for the morons in Panama City. My sister-in-law lives there. The idiots probably figured to cash in with all the other beaches closed. What they got was near-riots and had to call out the cops to handle the situation. THEN they closed the beach. But not before all those student imbeciles may have exposed themselves and the police officers to CV. A real win-win deal. Figure on it. People are going to be stupid and others will pay for it. We do have much going for us, though. Imagine how this would play out if we still had to do face-to-face banking and couldn't pay most of our bills electronically. Heck, in most major cities you can order your groceries online and have them delivered. My daughter in Denver does just that. She has a compromised immune system and doesn't dare go out. She sanitizes any groceries or other stuff they have delivered. We live in interesting times. OG (still here in Montana)
  4. Another lost sheep. Takes one to know one, y'know. I may have to start checking in more often. OG
  5. Bloody hell! Maine and Rommel on the same thread! I suspect evil warlord doings. OG
  6. At least two men from my home town went ashore in the second wave on Omaha Beach. On, WO3 Manfred Kliev, was killed later in Vietnam, the other, Larry Fonner, suffered from various ailments stemming from his combat across Europe. Larry died some years ago. WW2 vets are becoming rare. Honor those we have left. They and their Allied comrades truly saved the World. OG
  7. Old Guy

    New Deck

    We get lots of hummingbirds here in Montana. I have at least 6 drinking from our feeder. They're cool little birds. But no heated bird bath here. OG
  8. We already got you a snazzy flight jacket, Donnie. All you have to do is put it on and settle back in your easy chair . . . and dream . . . Second Lieutenant Donster made a slight adjustment to one engine, then settled back to enjoy a quiet ride in his A-20 back to Port Moresby. The interphone was quiet, mainly because his gunner, Private Fick, had screamed some nonsense about an attack by armed purple elephants and bailed out shortly after takeoff. Fick suffered from various forms of mental instability, caused mainly by drinking too much of the hooch brewed up by the Aussie ground crews. Donster smiled at the thought of Fick standing in front of the unit CO, trying to explain this latest event. Suddenly, the instrument panel blew apart, accompanied by a bright flash. Bits and pieces struck Donster in the chest and head. There was a loud bang, followed by several others. The A-20 lurched to the right. A dark shape zipped past not more than ten feet above his canopy. Something wet flowed down over his face and goggles. Blood! My God! I'm bleeding! This will ruin my snazzy flight jacket! He shoved the goggles up so he could see. Several large aircraft loomed up, head on. Japs! Bombers! He grabbed for the control yoke, but the planes roared by and out of view before he could try to evade them. God! Luck is still with me. I hope. With trembling fingers he inspected the front of his flight jacket. The news was not good. There were holes in the soft leather, holes wet with blood. Anger flared. Bastards! I'll get them for that! He grabbed the wheel and started a hard turn to the right. Just then, the right engine burst into flames. All thoughts of revenge vanished. Quickly, he shut the engine down and pulled the extinguisher. The flames died down for a few seconds, then flared anew. Damn. Shoving the nose down, Donnie looked for a place to crash land . . . or bail out. He saw nothing but green jungle and water. There was a narrow beach. Too narrow to land on. He'd have to ditch in the ocean as close to shore as he could. The left engine lurched to a stop. No choice now. For perhaps thirty seconds everything went Donnie's way. The fire went out and the A-20 glided smoothly toward the water. Then he noticed the fins moving lazily around, just off the beach. Sharks! A sick feeling enveloped him. Goddamn sharks. My snazzy jacket is already torn and bloody. Now it's going to end up as shark shit. Then, hope filled his heart again. Surely this was just a dream. Any second he'd wake up. Any second. . . . . OG
  9. I think I parachuted into that same tree! Shooting down the attacking fighter after your crash is a classic. I did that several times in War Thunder. Haven't been able to end up in the right circumstances in this game. Yet. OG
  10. Fick, you forgot to say "Honest" or "Trust me." OG
  11. Hah! I forgot about Spaceball One. That would have served to let everyone know what DH had really been doing with his so-called life. OG
  12. It was just the kind of bar he was looking for. The sign above the door hung askew. Two drunks lay on the cracked and broken sidewalk. A cold wind pushed fitfully at Fick's thin jacket. Trash lay piled in odd corners. He stepped over one of the drunks and went inside. The room lay cloaked in shadow. Fick stood for a moment, savoring the rancid mix of waterfront mixed with stench of cheap beer and vomit. It reminded him of his favorite dive in Kiel, when he ran a couple girls back in the thirties. “Looking for someone?” The speaker slouched on a stool at the end of the bar. “Ja, needz visky.” The man stood up and moved behind the bar. “What'd he say?” His question was directed toward a bright green and red parrot occupying a large cage hanging over one end of the bar. “Give him a boilermaker, Sidney.” rasped the parrot. Fick stared at the parrot for a long moment, then shrugged and took a stool. A shot glass and mug appeared in front of him. The whiskey burned as it went down. He gasped and sipped the brew. The beer was even worse than the whiskey, but it was cool and obviously heavy on the alcohol. He wiped his mouth. “Zankz. Chust ze zing fer zirzty man.” Sidney shook his head. “Run that by again.” Before Fick could reply the parrot chimed in. “He said thanks.” With a bored lift of one shoulder the bartender sauntered back to his position at the end of the bar. He filled a cup from a coffee carafe and began working at a crossword puzzle. Silence settled over the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light Fick noted several hunched figures at tables in the back. None moved or spoke. Occasionally Sidney would mutter something and make a few marks on the puzzle. The parrot seemed to be imitating a statue. Thus passed an hour or more. Fick was long used to nursing a drink for as long as possible, having always been somewhat light on funds, even in his days as a pimp. Finally, as he finished the last of the beer, the bartender stood up. “Want another?” Fick replied in his best Germlish. Again the words seemed to make no sense to the barkeep. “Just a beer,” said the parrot. A fresh beer appeared before Fick. He studied the parrot. Birds, generally, were of little interest to the former SS thug. Except to eat. This one, however, piqued his curiosity. He turned and asked Sidney what the bird's name was and how he'd come to live over the bar. “I don't know what language you're speaking, friend. I thought I'd heard them all.” The parrot made an exasperated sound. “Same old questions, Sid.” He turned a malignant eye on Fick. “Call me Ishmael.” “Izzmaal,” murmured Fick. The name meant nothing to him. Literature wasn't a topic of discussion in his circles. “As to how I came to live here, it's none of your business.” Fick nodded and turned back to his beer. Whatever curiosity he had died as the result of a short attention span, product of too many shots and beers. Conversation expired. Sidney returned to his puzzle. Someone in the back cut a fart, eliciting bored laughter. Fick worked on the alleged barley-based brew. As he neared the bottom of his drink the door creaked open and a squat figure lurched in. With a maniacal laugh and a torrent of squeaks the thing waddled to the bar and laboriously clambered on to a stool. A skeletal fist thumped the bar, accompanied by more painful squeaking. Sidney slowly approached. His caution was due to the anomalous appearance of the creature. It appeared to be clad in a heap of burlap bags. Well worn bags. Tatters and strings stood out in all directions. A partly burned leather helmet sat atop what was probably a head. Bulbous eyes stared madly from scorched goggles. “Any idea what he's saying?” asked the bartender. Fick nodded. Itchie Crotchie's Germlish was barely understandable, laced as it was with pungent Asian expletives, some of which Fick thought he understood. “Visky. Gif visky. Bik visky.” Before Sidney could respond, the parrot explained. “Whiskey. A large glass. Better put it in a mug. Make it the cheap stuff.” “Okay.” Sid retrieved an unmarked jug from under the bar and poured a chipped mug full. Itchie clasped it with both hands and slurped noisily. “Who's paying?” asked Sidney. Fick stared meaningfully at Itchie, to no avail. The little shit just sat there, slugging back booze and mumbling to himself. With a sigh, Fick opened his wallet and extracted a sheaf of bills. Sidney sorted through the pile until he found a few twenty dollar bills. “I'll let you know when these run out.” “Ja,” agreed Fick. Before he could ask for more beer the parrot spoke up. “Give the jerk another boilermaker. He's gonna need it.” Fick frowned at the bird. Questions faded as Sid placed another shot and beer on the bar. Fick tossed back the whiskey. It didn't burn nearly as bad this time. A couple sips into the beer he remembered the bird's warning. As he began mumbling a question the door slammed back against the wall admitting a swirl of chill air and a large black helmet with legs. Even the parrot was struck dumb. Sid eased off his stool and reached for the sawed-off shotgun he kept under the bar. Itchie gibbered some nonsense between slurps, lost to anything other than the strange shapes that slithered and slid between the few nodes of life in his diseased brain. Fick swung slowly on his stool. Helmet Legs shoved the door shut and stomped toward the bar. “How they hangin', Fick?” “Mein Gott! Dark Helmet!” Fick lapsed into confused mumbling. “Beer, barkeep!” cried DH. He turned around, displaying a well-known beer company logo. “I'm your new sales rep! A round for the house.” Itchie got a fresh mug. The shapes in back roused for free beer then lapsed into their customary inertia. Fick had another boilermaker lined up behind the beer he was still working on. Even the parrot got a saucer of beer. DH settled in behind a tall, frosty mug of something Fick suspected was a lot better than what he had. The thought vanished down into the sticky muck. He was used to subsisting on the dregs. Curiosity, that stranger to Fick's life, bloomed again, like a bad weed. “I thot du vas vorkingk vor ein Emperor.” He was fairly certain DH would understand the Germlish. “The Emperor is dead,” said the parrot. “Nein!” wailed Fick. “Nein!” He lapsed into a Germlish monologue familiar to all barflies. Sidney looked at Dark Helmet, then at the parrot. “What's he going on about now?” “Nothing that makes sense,” explained DH. “He's drunk.” “Who's this Emperor?” asked Sidney. “Nobody important,” said the parrot. “An evil overlord who imagined himself a cut above the rest.” “That's baloney.” Sidney laughed and shook his head. “Okay. Don't tell me.” The parrot sipped the last of his beer. “Doesn't matter anyway, Sid. The Emperor is dead.” Dark Helmet nodded. His helmet clanked on the bar. “True. He's dead.” Lifting his mug, DH saluted the parrot. “I could use a . . . bird like you. The pay is good.” “Thanks. No. This place suits me.” Itchie emitted a low moan and toppled off his stool. A sodden thump announced his arrival on the stained wood floor. “Another one bites the dust,” muttered DH. He slid to the floor and slipped out the door. No one except the parrot noticed him leave. Fick staggered out before the ambulance arrived, still mumbling a confused line of nonsense. When Itchie had been hauled away Sidney anxiously surveyed the room. “The helmet clod is gone,” said the parrot. “So is that kraut drunk.” “Damn! Helmet guy didn't pay for the round.” “That ain't all, Sidney. Those twenties you got from the kraut are counterfeit.” Sid collected glasses and mopped at the counter. He waxed philosophical. “Don't matter. When Benny hears about it they won't last long. It's not like they'll be hard to find.” The parrot shuddered. “Benny's not a nice . . . ah . . . whatever he is.” “Dragons are like that.” Sidney sighed and went back to his crossword. End
  13. I was there in 67-68. Everybody listened to AFVN. I think a lot of guys had radios capable of picking up the BBC World Service and stations out of Japan, but I'm not sure. OG
  14. Then there's this one . . .
  15. This was one of our theme songs in Vietnam. The video is pretty good. Accurate portrayal of a combat assault. Plus, the helicopters have the doors off. Only Hueys carrying generals and other staff morons had the doors on.
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