- Joined
- Oct 24, 2002
- Messages
- 59
I apologize for not contributing to this forums knife content lately. My short spell in a minimum security prison taught me a couple things: 1) The foods not too bad, but the lack of Internet access sure impacts a persons quality time, and 2) Practicing drop latch openings with a balisong in a crowded elevator was probably not a very good idea. Oh well, live and learn, right?
Anyway, a couple of days after I got out, I discovered Marty rooting through my box of old sporting goods equipment that I keep in the garage. The box is full of interesting things I have bought over the years during my fruitless search for some sport that didnt draw rounds of laughter from those watching me play. Its not that I am particularly awkward or anything. Its just that I can only do one thing at a time well. You know, like walk, or chew gum, but not both simultaneously. Unfortunately most sports require a person to do many things at once. For example, throw me in a pool and my freestyle arm stroke is a thing of beauty to behold. So what if I cant kick my feet at the same time, or if I do my arms stop moving and I tend to go in circles or sink to the bottom, and forget about throwing in a turn at the end of the lane. I still have scars from that little exercise, and besides lifeguards must keep notes and share with one another or something because every time I try to visit a swimming pool these days the guard tells me they accidentally added too much chlorine and the pool is closed. When I ask them what about all those people still in the pool they just say they were already in the water when the accident occurred and its too late for them. Go figure.
Anyway, when I asked Marty what he was looking for he turned and practically shouted with enthusiasm, I thought of a sport you could probably do, Kliffy.
Now Marty has always been one of my biggest supporters. After all, it was he who tried to teach me golf, and he never even complained when the proctologist removed that golf ball. I guess he should have known better than to moon his old boss just as I tried to tee off, but then he probably thought it was okay since he was standing behind me. He should have known better than that. So it was with some skepticism that I asked, And what sport would that be, Marty?
Knife pitching. Marty winked and smiled, You throw a pretty mean knife, so I invented a game you should really like.
My mind recalled the Mumbly Peg debacle from my youth, and how my high school friends would affectionately call me Slothfoot whenever I took off my left shoe and sock.. I dont know, Marty, I countered, Remember our knife throwing test last year?
Martys face reddened as the memory came thundering back. We had bought a set of professional throwing knifes from an old circus performer who had decided to retire and move to some country lacking an extradition agreement with the USA. Being avid knife testers we decided to see how well these knives worked. We threw at boxes, trees, old cars, watermelons, and the neighbors shed (well, only once before he came out and told us to leave, which we did, and he didnt even need that shotgun). After awhile we both became quite proficient at throwing those well-balanced beauties, so much so, that we thought ourselves good enough to attempt the circus performers trick of throwing at a woman attached to a rotating wheel. One problem surfaced. We couldnt find a woman willing to help us with our test. Of course, I had immediately thought of Martys wife, Prudence.
Kliff, youre a bigger moron than I thought. I wouldnt let you throw a party, much less a knife, anywhere around me, Prudence said, displaying once again her glass half empty attitude. And Marty, she added, just wait till you get home. I have a pie pan with your name on it for even allowing Mr. Kliffnuts here to ask me in the first place. She pointed her finger at me when she said Kliff and then moved it to her head and made little circles with it when she said nuts. I dont see how Marty can live with that woman.
Without a human volunteer, Marty and I were forced to improvise. I ran upstairs and from the back of my bedroom closet pulled out an old gag gift someone had given me years ago, long before I had married Bunny. When I attached it to my bicycle pump and added air it quickly began to resemble a woman, one with medium length blond hair, which coincidentally matched the hair on Prudences lumpy head.
Thats a porno doll, Marty almost shouted. Where did you find that?
Shhhhh! I said. Bunny might hear you. I finished filling Hildy with air until she plumped up nice and firm with that familiar look of astonishment on her face, you know eyes and mouth wide open. Come on, lets attach her to the wheel.
Soon Hildy was firmly tethered in place, and with a little shove I sent her whirling round and round. Both Marty and I stepped back with throwing knives in hand. Okay, Marty, now the trick is to miss her. Just pretend shes a real woman.
I took the first throw and stuck my knife right below that glorious little, er, I mean right below her crotch. Good throw, Kliff. Marty said. He raised his arm and made a toss at the spinning doll, but alas his aim was not so accurate, and the knife struck a little higher, puncturing the doll in a very inconvenient location. The puncture did two things. As the air escaped it made a loud squealing sound not unlike the screech a cat makes when you step on its tail, or a woman might make it you were to say, stab her. The release of air pressure also created a jet like effect that caused the doll to wiggle and dance as if it were, well, alive. Just at that moment my wife Bunny walked out to see what we were up to. Thinking back on it now I can see where she might have thought we had actually tied Prudence to the wheel, which explains why she passed out in the driveway.
The cover up, er, clean up was a hasty affair, but by the time Bunny regained consciousness the doll was gone and the hypnosis sessions since then seem to have stopped her bad dreams, but then I digress. This post was about knife pitching, right?
Anyway, not to be deterred, Marty grabbed the following items from my sports equipment box: A football helmet and shoulder pads, catchers vest and shin guards, baseball bat, and some ski goggles. He then trotted out to my backyard, dropped the equipment in a pile and then paced off 15 yards, at the end of which he scraped a line in the dirt. Stand here. Marty told me, pointing at the line hed made. He then ran over behind the garage and retrieved a large piece of plywood on which he had painted a bulls eye target. He set up the plywood where he had dropped the equipment so that the bulls eye faced me. From the pile he grabbed the shin guards and put them on, and then the vest, and so on until nearly every inch of his body was covered with some kind of protective equipment. He walked over and handed me three of the throwing knives we had obtained from the circus performer. These are the rules, he said. You throw the knives at the bulls eye while I try to hit them with the bat. If you can stick the knives three times Im out and its your turn to hit. If I swing and stick a knife in the bat then I get a home run and one point.
I immediately saw the genius in his idea. Wow, thats sounds cool, I said, really impressed. Youre right, I think I can do this one.
Marty ran back, picked up the bat, and then stood in front of the bulls eye off to one side, while I toed the mark and prepared to pitch a knife. In my best imitation of Roger Clemens I wound up and let the knife go. It sailed past Marty and hit the bulls eye. Steeerike one, I shouted. He hadnt even swung the bat.
Okay, give me another one, Marty said with a wink. I was just sizing you up on that one.
Once again I went into my motion and flung the blade in Martys direction. This time he swung, but the knife whizzed past clean and hit the bulls eye right next to my previous throw. Steeeeeerike two, I said.
Marty just grunted, nodded his head, and signaled me to throw again. I wound up and put some heat on it. Marty took a major league swipe at the silver missile and with a loud clink he connected. Now when Marty conceived this new sport he had only considered three possibilities: the knife would stick in the plywood board, stick in the barrel of the wooden bat, or in the case of a bad pitch, the knife might hit the batter, hence all the protective gear covering Martys body. The possibility he did not consider was the one where the batter hit the knife and instead of it sticking in the bat, it rebounded off in some unpredictable direction. As we all know these things sometimes happen during knife tests, and while all of us should try and prepare for unknown consequences by taking extra safety precautions lack of foresight often leaves us with little reminders of our fallibility. In this particular case a little forethought would have probably revealed that the pitcher needed protective gear too. As a closing note, and in keeping with my positive attitude, I would like to say that throwing knives dont penetrate nearly as deep as one might expect, perhaps owing to their tip heavy profile, and the bone in my right, lower leg.
As I said, don't try this at home.
Anyway, a couple of days after I got out, I discovered Marty rooting through my box of old sporting goods equipment that I keep in the garage. The box is full of interesting things I have bought over the years during my fruitless search for some sport that didnt draw rounds of laughter from those watching me play. Its not that I am particularly awkward or anything. Its just that I can only do one thing at a time well. You know, like walk, or chew gum, but not both simultaneously. Unfortunately most sports require a person to do many things at once. For example, throw me in a pool and my freestyle arm stroke is a thing of beauty to behold. So what if I cant kick my feet at the same time, or if I do my arms stop moving and I tend to go in circles or sink to the bottom, and forget about throwing in a turn at the end of the lane. I still have scars from that little exercise, and besides lifeguards must keep notes and share with one another or something because every time I try to visit a swimming pool these days the guard tells me they accidentally added too much chlorine and the pool is closed. When I ask them what about all those people still in the pool they just say they were already in the water when the accident occurred and its too late for them. Go figure.
Anyway, when I asked Marty what he was looking for he turned and practically shouted with enthusiasm, I thought of a sport you could probably do, Kliffy.
Now Marty has always been one of my biggest supporters. After all, it was he who tried to teach me golf, and he never even complained when the proctologist removed that golf ball. I guess he should have known better than to moon his old boss just as I tried to tee off, but then he probably thought it was okay since he was standing behind me. He should have known better than that. So it was with some skepticism that I asked, And what sport would that be, Marty?
Knife pitching. Marty winked and smiled, You throw a pretty mean knife, so I invented a game you should really like.
My mind recalled the Mumbly Peg debacle from my youth, and how my high school friends would affectionately call me Slothfoot whenever I took off my left shoe and sock.. I dont know, Marty, I countered, Remember our knife throwing test last year?
Martys face reddened as the memory came thundering back. We had bought a set of professional throwing knifes from an old circus performer who had decided to retire and move to some country lacking an extradition agreement with the USA. Being avid knife testers we decided to see how well these knives worked. We threw at boxes, trees, old cars, watermelons, and the neighbors shed (well, only once before he came out and told us to leave, which we did, and he didnt even need that shotgun). After awhile we both became quite proficient at throwing those well-balanced beauties, so much so, that we thought ourselves good enough to attempt the circus performers trick of throwing at a woman attached to a rotating wheel. One problem surfaced. We couldnt find a woman willing to help us with our test. Of course, I had immediately thought of Martys wife, Prudence.
Kliff, youre a bigger moron than I thought. I wouldnt let you throw a party, much less a knife, anywhere around me, Prudence said, displaying once again her glass half empty attitude. And Marty, she added, just wait till you get home. I have a pie pan with your name on it for even allowing Mr. Kliffnuts here to ask me in the first place. She pointed her finger at me when she said Kliff and then moved it to her head and made little circles with it when she said nuts. I dont see how Marty can live with that woman.
Without a human volunteer, Marty and I were forced to improvise. I ran upstairs and from the back of my bedroom closet pulled out an old gag gift someone had given me years ago, long before I had married Bunny. When I attached it to my bicycle pump and added air it quickly began to resemble a woman, one with medium length blond hair, which coincidentally matched the hair on Prudences lumpy head.
Thats a porno doll, Marty almost shouted. Where did you find that?
Shhhhh! I said. Bunny might hear you. I finished filling Hildy with air until she plumped up nice and firm with that familiar look of astonishment on her face, you know eyes and mouth wide open. Come on, lets attach her to the wheel.
Soon Hildy was firmly tethered in place, and with a little shove I sent her whirling round and round. Both Marty and I stepped back with throwing knives in hand. Okay, Marty, now the trick is to miss her. Just pretend shes a real woman.
I took the first throw and stuck my knife right below that glorious little, er, I mean right below her crotch. Good throw, Kliff. Marty said. He raised his arm and made a toss at the spinning doll, but alas his aim was not so accurate, and the knife struck a little higher, puncturing the doll in a very inconvenient location. The puncture did two things. As the air escaped it made a loud squealing sound not unlike the screech a cat makes when you step on its tail, or a woman might make it you were to say, stab her. The release of air pressure also created a jet like effect that caused the doll to wiggle and dance as if it were, well, alive. Just at that moment my wife Bunny walked out to see what we were up to. Thinking back on it now I can see where she might have thought we had actually tied Prudence to the wheel, which explains why she passed out in the driveway.
The cover up, er, clean up was a hasty affair, but by the time Bunny regained consciousness the doll was gone and the hypnosis sessions since then seem to have stopped her bad dreams, but then I digress. This post was about knife pitching, right?
Anyway, not to be deterred, Marty grabbed the following items from my sports equipment box: A football helmet and shoulder pads, catchers vest and shin guards, baseball bat, and some ski goggles. He then trotted out to my backyard, dropped the equipment in a pile and then paced off 15 yards, at the end of which he scraped a line in the dirt. Stand here. Marty told me, pointing at the line hed made. He then ran over behind the garage and retrieved a large piece of plywood on which he had painted a bulls eye target. He set up the plywood where he had dropped the equipment so that the bulls eye faced me. From the pile he grabbed the shin guards and put them on, and then the vest, and so on until nearly every inch of his body was covered with some kind of protective equipment. He walked over and handed me three of the throwing knives we had obtained from the circus performer. These are the rules, he said. You throw the knives at the bulls eye while I try to hit them with the bat. If you can stick the knives three times Im out and its your turn to hit. If I swing and stick a knife in the bat then I get a home run and one point.
I immediately saw the genius in his idea. Wow, thats sounds cool, I said, really impressed. Youre right, I think I can do this one.
Marty ran back, picked up the bat, and then stood in front of the bulls eye off to one side, while I toed the mark and prepared to pitch a knife. In my best imitation of Roger Clemens I wound up and let the knife go. It sailed past Marty and hit the bulls eye. Steeerike one, I shouted. He hadnt even swung the bat.
Okay, give me another one, Marty said with a wink. I was just sizing you up on that one.
Once again I went into my motion and flung the blade in Martys direction. This time he swung, but the knife whizzed past clean and hit the bulls eye right next to my previous throw. Steeeeeerike two, I said.
Marty just grunted, nodded his head, and signaled me to throw again. I wound up and put some heat on it. Marty took a major league swipe at the silver missile and with a loud clink he connected. Now when Marty conceived this new sport he had only considered three possibilities: the knife would stick in the plywood board, stick in the barrel of the wooden bat, or in the case of a bad pitch, the knife might hit the batter, hence all the protective gear covering Martys body. The possibility he did not consider was the one where the batter hit the knife and instead of it sticking in the bat, it rebounded off in some unpredictable direction. As we all know these things sometimes happen during knife tests, and while all of us should try and prepare for unknown consequences by taking extra safety precautions lack of foresight often leaves us with little reminders of our fallibility. In this particular case a little forethought would have probably revealed that the pitcher needed protective gear too. As a closing note, and in keeping with my positive attitude, I would like to say that throwing knives dont penetrate nearly as deep as one might expect, perhaps owing to their tip heavy profile, and the bone in my right, lower leg.
As I said, don't try this at home.
