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Eric

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We had these, a long long time ago:

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They'd put your eye out.  Or chip a tooth.  It'd even shoot pennies, ricocheting down the hallway.

When my daughters were little,  I saw them at the store (like they needed the eye put out, or their teeth chipped)

It wouldn't even shoot one foot.

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When I was little (England?  England had the the best toys),  I had a tiny revolver.  The cylinder would flip open and it held one slug.  You'd jam the slug-tip into a potato, slam it shut and put a cap in it.

It would sting like hell.

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2 minutes ago, Huaco Kid said:

When I was little (England?  England had the the best toys),  I had a tiny revolver.  The cylinder would flip open and it held one slug.  You'd jam the slug-tip into a potato, slam it shut and put a cap in it.

It would sting like hell.

You weren’t supposed to shoot your self, dummy. 

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1 minute ago, Eric said:

You weren’t supposed to shoot your self, dummy. 

We all had one.

Like the Civil War,  you got one smart shot off at your friends, and then you all stood around, furiously reloading, waiting to take another wet, stingy one in the cheek.

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4 minutes ago, Huaco Kid said:

We all had one.

Like the Civil War,  you got one smart shot off at your friends, and then you all stood around, furiously reloading, waiting to take another wet, stingy one in the cheek.

We used to shoot bottle rockets at each other, using pieces of scrap conduit as a launch tubes. I can’t believe we never hurt each other much. 

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We never had such sophisticated toys.  Well many of us didn't.  But we all had .22 rifles.  A bunch of us would go shooting together from about 10 years old on through the years.

We found an old abandoned Police shooting range that was now being farmed.  the block house for ammunition storage was still intact but without a window,  It was very small with one door that was a sheet of steel maybe 1/4 inch thick with one small window.  the building was very small but made of poured concrete.

One Summer afternoon we were all bored with nothing more to shoot at.  So, we took turns getting into the block house one at a time and the other shooting the hell out of the building.  I remember being flattened against the inside of the steel door and hearing all the ricochets of the bullets that would come through the window (on purpose).

Not a single one of us got a scratch that day.  but, we all got a taste of what it feels like to be shot at.  It's "interesting".

Since we didn't have fancy "downtown" state of the art toys to play with, we had to improvise.  As we all grew up together, no one ever got hurt, other than the cuts a scratches boys get doing things they shouldn't.

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One time,  I bitched, "It's cold!  It's cold!  It's cold!"

Dad's favorite phrase, ever, was, "Well, put on a damn sweater!"

But I kept bitching.

So Dad said, "OK.  Go get a huge stack of firewood,  and we'll stoke one up!"

I was in socks and a t-shirt, but I ran down the hill, in the January snow, and grabbed all I could carry.  And ran back!

Dad had locked the door.

And left me out there for ten minutes.

When he finally opened the door,  he said,  "Nice and warm now?  Isn't it?"

I put on damn sweater.

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I told Dad, "Hey Dad!  I enrolled in college,  and I'm moving upstate!"

Dad said, "Nice!  Wait a minute!  I've got something for you!"

I was getting my wallet ready!

He went into the back room and came out with a duffel bag, and said, "Here!  If it doesn't fit in here, you don't need it."

More Navy ****.

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