OT: The Because I Never Start Threads Thread
10-15-2003, 04:23 PM
#1
Thinking outside da' bun...
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OT: The Because I Never Start Threads Thread
I dont know why, but I hardly ever start a thread. Perhaps I lack the confidence, perhaps I have nothing remotely good to say. Im not a good conversation starter. I like to freelance and respond to others. Today Im turning over a new leaf however because I have a lot on my mind. Bear with me compadres, this might hurt a little. In no particular order:
- The impending Elise in the states has me practically holding my wad in anticipation. Unless I tail off my $300 crack habit or start trouserwhoring down at the local bus station, I dont think Im going to be able to afford it. But then again...
- Right off the bat, Im going to admit I hate anybody who owns a car worth equal to or greater than the average home mortgage in America. I dont hate them because I think they are wasteful or that I think we should tax all those rich bastards because "they dont need all that money". Im just pretty much jealous. I like to peruse the 996TT forum and pretend Im one of those guys having a migraine over whether to go with the $8,000 carbon fiber wing, or the $12,000 aero kit. Ah hell you only live once you know, if it were me Id get both.
- Is it just me or did that nincompoop who got his hands on that Cubs foul ball last night in the stands look exactly like ******* Focker.
- Is there another GTG for the SW Ohio groupies soon????
- Normally I wash my cars by hand but since the 951 is going under the paint can in another summer or so, paint care isnt at a super premium right now so I ran it through the car wash on Saturday. The teenage punk who wiped it down signaled when it was done and said "Hey there, whats up cue-ball." Needless to say I spent the next 20 minutes pointing out every water drop and spot on my windows.
- I hate winter and 6pm sundowns. Why cant we spring forward twice a year and always have 8-9pm sundowns. I really dont care if I lose two hours off my life every year because of it. My organs do not understand the concept of time anyway. They just know its 6pm, I have outside stuff to do, and cannot do them.
- I love those art supply stores with all those colored pencils and chalk and water colors and special acid free paper and all that stuff. I have no artistic ability, but I can appreciate the mojo thats happening in there and it makes me feel good.
- Porsche needs some new models. Man. Remember the good old days. 944s, 928s, 911s, turbo cabs, targas, 951s. All we have now is Boxster, 911, Cayenne. And since the Boxster looks so damn much like a 911, we're really talking about two distinct models. We need a mid-engine coupe, a front engined turbo, and a performance GT. Problem was, 928 sales were awful because for the same price you could get a 911 Turbo. So people just got the 911 Turbo. You need to undercut 911 prices to make it work because people who want a 911 are not going to be swayed by a cheaper Porsche in the lineup anyway.
- The impending Elise in the states has me practically holding my wad in anticipation. Unless I tail off my $300 crack habit or start trouserwhoring down at the local bus station, I dont think Im going to be able to afford it. But then again...
- Right off the bat, Im going to admit I hate anybody who owns a car worth equal to or greater than the average home mortgage in America. I dont hate them because I think they are wasteful or that I think we should tax all those rich bastards because "they dont need all that money". Im just pretty much jealous. I like to peruse the 996TT forum and pretend Im one of those guys having a migraine over whether to go with the $8,000 carbon fiber wing, or the $12,000 aero kit. Ah hell you only live once you know, if it were me Id get both.
- Is it just me or did that nincompoop who got his hands on that Cubs foul ball last night in the stands look exactly like ******* Focker.
- Is there another GTG for the SW Ohio groupies soon????
- Normally I wash my cars by hand but since the 951 is going under the paint can in another summer or so, paint care isnt at a super premium right now so I ran it through the car wash on Saturday. The teenage punk who wiped it down signaled when it was done and said "Hey there, whats up cue-ball." Needless to say I spent the next 20 minutes pointing out every water drop and spot on my windows.
- I hate winter and 6pm sundowns. Why cant we spring forward twice a year and always have 8-9pm sundowns. I really dont care if I lose two hours off my life every year because of it. My organs do not understand the concept of time anyway. They just know its 6pm, I have outside stuff to do, and cannot do them.
- I love those art supply stores with all those colored pencils and chalk and water colors and special acid free paper and all that stuff. I have no artistic ability, but I can appreciate the mojo thats happening in there and it makes me feel good.
- Porsche needs some new models. Man. Remember the good old days. 944s, 928s, 911s, turbo cabs, targas, 951s. All we have now is Boxster, 911, Cayenne. And since the Boxster looks so damn much like a 911, we're really talking about two distinct models. We need a mid-engine coupe, a front engined turbo, and a performance GT. Problem was, 928 sales were awful because for the same price you could get a 911 Turbo. So people just got the 911 Turbo. You need to undercut 911 prices to make it work because people who want a 911 are not going to be swayed by a cheaper Porsche in the lineup anyway.
10-15-2003, 04:33 PM
#2
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Well now there is one hell of a first initiated post.. good stuff,
I hate to bring it up but please Tell me ya offered to place yer boot in the hole of the Teen that called ya a "Que Ball" if not I understand..I guess all ya have to do is consider the source of the comment and let it go.
Hey if you are looking for a Great New Porsche.. get your hands on a stripped out GT3...
Back to the topic of your 1st post..
It was a good read..
not bad.. not bad at all..
Slan..
Sean
I hate to bring it up but please Tell me ya offered to place yer boot in the hole of the Teen that called ya a "Que Ball" if not I understand..I guess all ya have to do is consider the source of the comment and let it go.
Hey if you are looking for a Great New Porsche.. get your hands on a stripped out GT3...
Back to the topic of your 1st post..
It was a good read..
not bad.. not bad at all..
Slan..
Sean
10-15-2003, 04:34 PM
#3
Nerd Herder
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- Is it just me or did that nincompoop who got his hands on that Cubs foul ball last night in the stands look exactly like ******* Focker.
- Is there another GTG for the SW Ohio groupies soon????
2 of the best observations I have seen in a while..
#1. YES
#2. A very good question..
Thanks for posting UD!
- Is there another GTG for the SW Ohio groupies soon????
2 of the best observations I have seen in a while..
#1. YES
#2. A very good question..
Thanks for posting UD!
10-15-2003, 05:26 PM
#7
Race Director
I used to raise chickens back when I was a lad. It was my first business, an idea of Mom & Dad's, and a good one, too. I learned all about business basics -- they loaned me money for the chicks and feed, and provided a place for my 40 white leghorns, the "small" chicken coop on our property. It was called that because we had a "large" one too, which at one time housed 200 constantly pooping chickens. I was 10 years old then, and I guess you could say that I lived on a small farm, with its two pastures, barn and woodshed being a home to anywhere from 10 to 20 black angus cattle. But we never thought of it as a REAL farm because we also had one of those, an 80-acre beef cattle farm about a 20-minute drive away, which also served as headquarters for my Dad's excavating business.
Anyway, the purpose of having the chickens was to sell the eggs. I would feed and water them daily, gather the eggs, clean the eggs, weigh the eggs, put them into cartons and sell them throughout the neighborhood on my little 3-speed bicycle. Some of the neighbors bought a dozen or two every week, and others stopped by when they saw my "EGGS 50 cents/DOZ." sign out front.
Eventually, I got all the start-up costs paid off and began actually making a little profit. I think this took something like three years. A year or so later, the chickens began to "molt", and their egg production began to slow. What was 40 eggs a day became a dozen, then down to about one a day. About this time, Mom & Dad took over the costs of feeding the worthless fowl.
And so it was that one night at dinner, Dad says, "Why don't you go down and shoot all those chickens next time you get the chance?" I nodded in agreement, always willing to shoot at things with my .20-gauge Winchester single-shot even though it kicked like a mule and always left a huge bruise on my shoulder. Dad's request was forgotten for a couple of days. Then one afternoon, with my parents gone, I was getting stoned down in the woodshed with my neighbor John Warthog. John lived up the road on a REAL farm, a huge dairy farm with hundreds of head of milk cows, which is what you'll usually find on huge dairy farms. But the real story at Pleasant View Dairy was the not the cows, but the Warthogs whom owned it.
John's grandfather, "Pop", was senile long before I was born, and only went downhill from there. The worst nightmare was getting stuck behind him on the way home from church -- he would drive his Jeep pick-up 10 MPH down the center of the road, oblivious to any honking, yelling, or ill-advised attempts at passing him. Blind in one eye to begin with, he had no business behind the wheel of ANYthing. When he died around 1970 or so, we felt a sense of relief more than anything.
John's dad was a gregarious sort, a funny and upbeat fellow who won my admiration by buying a brand-new Olds Vista Cruiser every two years. They switched to Cadillacs later, after some of the kids moved out. But John's dad, Chris, had this horrible, disfiguring "birthmark" over half his face. What it looked like was a huge purple scab, but if you knew him, you just got used to it. It was part of the Warthog Legacy: They all had some sort of birth defect or another, or got disfigured before adulthood somehow. Even Mrs. Warthog was obese, with a major, I mean MAJOR, case of "lazy-eye syndrome". Then the kids:
First there was Nick, a bizarrely huge fellow who crashed so badly while bicycling that he had to have a series of pins permanently installed in his ankle, scuttling what surely would have been a successful wrestling career. Then Sandra, the only girl in the family, and as far as I can tell, pretty normal. Then came John, Pat and Roger, all three of which had horrible speech defects, some of which went away as they got older. John, the one my age, was just goofy. Pat managed to lose a front tooth in a sledding accident, then lost an eye when someone nailed him with a water balloon from a moving car in the high-school parking lot. Roger had the worst speech of all, sounding something like Dino the Dinosaur, only less comprehensible. I don't know if he ever got better or not.
There are different theories about the Warthogs, some think "Pop" had some bad genes or something, but I suspect in-breeding.
Anyway, John and I are smoking dope in the woodshed one sunny afternoon when I remember that I was recently ordered to shoot the chickens. All right! I run to the house and grab my .20-gauge and a box of shells.
John and I decided to take turns: One would chase the chickens out of the little chicken-coop and into the open chicken-yard, where the other would blast away with the shotgun. Now, remember, John and I are 15 or 16 now, John's blonde hair is beyond shoulder-length, and my frizzy brown mess is halfway down my back. We are blowing away chickens while shouting and hooting and running around with stoned glee.
We forgot about the new neighbors maybe 200 feet away from the chicken yard, the Mosleys, a nice Mormon family whom had moved in a few months earlier. There was Mr. Mosley, a gruff-looking sort who looked a lot like a PE teacher; Mrs. Mosley, a pretty mom; Brett, who you may remember from story #3 but whom we hadn't really met yet (who would later shoot himself Hitler-style); his sister Shawna, who was pretty and would later get pregnant at 15; and young Todd Mosley, I guess we'll never know how he turned out.
Anyway, when John and I pause for a moment in our chicken-massacre frenzy, we look up and there they are: all five Mosleys, looking at us, all lined up behind the glass door in their family room, and in order from tallest to shortest: Mr., Mrs., Brett, Shawna, and young Todd. They are all staring in disbelief at two apparently crazed pot-head hippies blowing away two or three chickens at a time with a .20-gauge shotgun! We laugh even harder as we corner and finish off the last of the freaked-out squawking birds, each shotgun blast sending a huge mass of feathers into the air!
By the time we got done, the Mosleys had drawn their curtains.
Maybe they thought they were next.
Anyway, the purpose of having the chickens was to sell the eggs. I would feed and water them daily, gather the eggs, clean the eggs, weigh the eggs, put them into cartons and sell them throughout the neighborhood on my little 3-speed bicycle. Some of the neighbors bought a dozen or two every week, and others stopped by when they saw my "EGGS 50 cents/DOZ." sign out front.
Eventually, I got all the start-up costs paid off and began actually making a little profit. I think this took something like three years. A year or so later, the chickens began to "molt", and their egg production began to slow. What was 40 eggs a day became a dozen, then down to about one a day. About this time, Mom & Dad took over the costs of feeding the worthless fowl.
And so it was that one night at dinner, Dad says, "Why don't you go down and shoot all those chickens next time you get the chance?" I nodded in agreement, always willing to shoot at things with my .20-gauge Winchester single-shot even though it kicked like a mule and always left a huge bruise on my shoulder. Dad's request was forgotten for a couple of days. Then one afternoon, with my parents gone, I was getting stoned down in the woodshed with my neighbor John Warthog. John lived up the road on a REAL farm, a huge dairy farm with hundreds of head of milk cows, which is what you'll usually find on huge dairy farms. But the real story at Pleasant View Dairy was the not the cows, but the Warthogs whom owned it.
John's grandfather, "Pop", was senile long before I was born, and only went downhill from there. The worst nightmare was getting stuck behind him on the way home from church -- he would drive his Jeep pick-up 10 MPH down the center of the road, oblivious to any honking, yelling, or ill-advised attempts at passing him. Blind in one eye to begin with, he had no business behind the wheel of ANYthing. When he died around 1970 or so, we felt a sense of relief more than anything.
John's dad was a gregarious sort, a funny and upbeat fellow who won my admiration by buying a brand-new Olds Vista Cruiser every two years. They switched to Cadillacs later, after some of the kids moved out. But John's dad, Chris, had this horrible, disfiguring "birthmark" over half his face. What it looked like was a huge purple scab, but if you knew him, you just got used to it. It was part of the Warthog Legacy: They all had some sort of birth defect or another, or got disfigured before adulthood somehow. Even Mrs. Warthog was obese, with a major, I mean MAJOR, case of "lazy-eye syndrome". Then the kids:
First there was Nick, a bizarrely huge fellow who crashed so badly while bicycling that he had to have a series of pins permanently installed in his ankle, scuttling what surely would have been a successful wrestling career. Then Sandra, the only girl in the family, and as far as I can tell, pretty normal. Then came John, Pat and Roger, all three of which had horrible speech defects, some of which went away as they got older. John, the one my age, was just goofy. Pat managed to lose a front tooth in a sledding accident, then lost an eye when someone nailed him with a water balloon from a moving car in the high-school parking lot. Roger had the worst speech of all, sounding something like Dino the Dinosaur, only less comprehensible. I don't know if he ever got better or not.
There are different theories about the Warthogs, some think "Pop" had some bad genes or something, but I suspect in-breeding.
Anyway, John and I are smoking dope in the woodshed one sunny afternoon when I remember that I was recently ordered to shoot the chickens. All right! I run to the house and grab my .20-gauge and a box of shells.
John and I decided to take turns: One would chase the chickens out of the little chicken-coop and into the open chicken-yard, where the other would blast away with the shotgun. Now, remember, John and I are 15 or 16 now, John's blonde hair is beyond shoulder-length, and my frizzy brown mess is halfway down my back. We are blowing away chickens while shouting and hooting and running around with stoned glee.
We forgot about the new neighbors maybe 200 feet away from the chicken yard, the Mosleys, a nice Mormon family whom had moved in a few months earlier. There was Mr. Mosley, a gruff-looking sort who looked a lot like a PE teacher; Mrs. Mosley, a pretty mom; Brett, who you may remember from story #3 but whom we hadn't really met yet (who would later shoot himself Hitler-style); his sister Shawna, who was pretty and would later get pregnant at 15; and young Todd Mosley, I guess we'll never know how he turned out.
Anyway, when John and I pause for a moment in our chicken-massacre frenzy, we look up and there they are: all five Mosleys, looking at us, all lined up behind the glass door in their family room, and in order from tallest to shortest: Mr., Mrs., Brett, Shawna, and young Todd. They are all staring in disbelief at two apparently crazed pot-head hippies blowing away two or three chickens at a time with a .20-gauge shotgun! We laugh even harder as we corner and finish off the last of the freaked-out squawking birds, each shotgun blast sending a huge mass of feathers into the air!
By the time we got done, the Mosleys had drawn their curtains.
Maybe they thought they were next.
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10-15-2003, 05:41 PM
#9
Drifting
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UD, I was already wondering if you had stopped posting altogether ... nice to see such a comeback 
Tifosiman - I'm not sure I get the point of your post, but it was certainly entertaining
Tifosiman - I'm not sure I get the point of your post, but it was certainly entertaining
10-15-2003, 06:29 PM
#14
Thinking outside da' bun...
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Originally posted by esanmiguel
Is that you on your Avatar? Dude, wear some glasses and you would look like Moby.
Is that you on your Avatar? Dude, wear some glasses and you would look like Moby.
10-15-2003, 06:30 PM
#15
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Re: OT: The Because I Never Start Threads Thread
Originally posted by UDPride
Porsche needs some new models
Porsche needs some new models
uh...YES
911
cayenne
928 replacement
944/951 replacement
now regarding the boxster, they could go a few ways:
1. more power, not more than a few $k more expensive (turbo model anyone?)
2. make it cheaper, MUCH lighter, or offer a lightweight cheap bare bones model
3. replace it with a small lightweight mid-engine sports coupe to put out a pure mid-engine sports car
did i just repeat one of those...?