Profile for Elle Toupee:
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- a member for 18 years, 2 months and 8 days
- has posted 31 messages on the main board
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- has posted 4 stories and 1 replies on question of the week
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» In the Army Now - The joy of the Armed Forces
Jinkies!
My dad was an officer with the Canadian Navy; so was my mother. Dad's got some great stories involving abusive drinking games (something about a blindfold and a rolled-up newspaper), getting to issue the order to fire the cannons during an outdoor performance of the 1812 Overture, and my somewhat inebriated mother literally falling into his lap in the mess.
(As an aside, I'm told that before Quality Street chocolate was available in Canada, the boys used to bring so much of it back with them that it was used as ballast.)
Aaaanyhoo, many years ago, somewhere in Europe, a Canadian naval officer and two gents from the US Marine Corps got into a heated argument dock-side. An english-speaking local who was wandering past rightly pointed out to them that arguing so very publicly was hardly doing a favour to the reputations of their respective organizations.
Seizing the opportunity to bury the hatchet, they opted to sort the matter out over a pint or two. The Canuck bought the first round, the Marines bought the next; repeat ad infinitum...
The next morning, the Canadian officer woke up to find the USMC eagle tattooed from shoulder to shoulder across his chest.
Nice!
(Sun 26th Mar 2006, 14:45, More)
Jinkies!
My dad was an officer with the Canadian Navy; so was my mother. Dad's got some great stories involving abusive drinking games (something about a blindfold and a rolled-up newspaper), getting to issue the order to fire the cannons during an outdoor performance of the 1812 Overture, and my somewhat inebriated mother literally falling into his lap in the mess.
(As an aside, I'm told that before Quality Street chocolate was available in Canada, the boys used to bring so much of it back with them that it was used as ballast.)
Aaaanyhoo, many years ago, somewhere in Europe, a Canadian naval officer and two gents from the US Marine Corps got into a heated argument dock-side. An english-speaking local who was wandering past rightly pointed out to them that arguing so very publicly was hardly doing a favour to the reputations of their respective organizations.
Seizing the opportunity to bury the hatchet, they opted to sort the matter out over a pint or two. The Canuck bought the first round, the Marines bought the next; repeat ad infinitum...
The next morning, the Canadian officer woke up to find the USMC eagle tattooed from shoulder to shoulder across his chest.
Nice!
(Sun 26th Mar 2006, 14:45, More)
» I hurt my rude bits
A Life Lesson
By Elle Toupee.
Gentlemen, lady bits are trecherous. They make us do stupid things (and people), we're pressured to groom them in a manner Torquemada would be proud of, and when we get a wedgie, it runs from the navel to the small of the back.
And are we saved pain and torture in the front bottom department by virtue of our astounding abilities to bring life into this world?
The fuck we are!
Life lesson number one: A hand-me-down bike with no brakes will stop very quickly at the bottom of a steep hill when it encounters a parked car.
Life lesson number two: landing on the crossbar of a boys' ten-speen bike and landing smack on your holiest-of-holies is something you'll not want to be doing twice.
Life lesson number three: Never trust your older sister's abilities to perform brake maintenance.
(Wed 19th Jul 2006, 9:22, More)
A Life Lesson
By Elle Toupee.
Gentlemen, lady bits are trecherous. They make us do stupid things (and people), we're pressured to groom them in a manner Torquemada would be proud of, and when we get a wedgie, it runs from the navel to the small of the back.
And are we saved pain and torture in the front bottom department by virtue of our astounding abilities to bring life into this world?
The fuck we are!
Life lesson number one: A hand-me-down bike with no brakes will stop very quickly at the bottom of a steep hill when it encounters a parked car.
Life lesson number two: landing on the crossbar of a boys' ten-speen bike and landing smack on your holiest-of-holies is something you'll not want to be doing twice.
Life lesson number three: Never trust your older sister's abilities to perform brake maintenance.
(Wed 19th Jul 2006, 9:22, More)
» Body Mods
Frankspencer,
I'm afraid you may be right. Too many people get silly tattoos they'll regret almost instantly, and for the flimsiest of reasons. But please, if you will, allow me a rebuttal.
I am tattooed, and had it done when I was young enough to be bawled out by my parents for it, but old enough to have some common sense.
My tattoo is my name: I was named, indirectly, after my mother's father, who died when she was a toddler. Heart condition - he fell asleep on the couch one night, and never woke up. But I digress.
I designed my tattoo myself, and I'm immensely proud of it. It's an armband, and I keep it well hidden. Why? Because I didn't get it done for anyone else but me, and it's my call as to whom I show it to, and when.
Coincidentally, it's a wreath of laurel (formerly bestowed on victors, both athletic and poetic). As I'm only now exiting what I can unqualifiedly say has been the blackest period of my life - and not without a few fresh scars, mind you - I'm happy to say that my tattoo has served me only well, as a reminder of victories to hope for, and of hope itself.
(Sat 2nd Dec 2006, 6:30, More)
Frankspencer,
I'm afraid you may be right. Too many people get silly tattoos they'll regret almost instantly, and for the flimsiest of reasons. But please, if you will, allow me a rebuttal.
I am tattooed, and had it done when I was young enough to be bawled out by my parents for it, but old enough to have some common sense.
My tattoo is my name: I was named, indirectly, after my mother's father, who died when she was a toddler. Heart condition - he fell asleep on the couch one night, and never woke up. But I digress.
I designed my tattoo myself, and I'm immensely proud of it. It's an armband, and I keep it well hidden. Why? Because I didn't get it done for anyone else but me, and it's my call as to whom I show it to, and when.
Coincidentally, it's a wreath of laurel (formerly bestowed on victors, both athletic and poetic). As I'm only now exiting what I can unqualifiedly say has been the blackest period of my life - and not without a few fresh scars, mind you - I'm happy to say that my tattoo has served me only well, as a reminder of victories to hope for, and of hope itself.
(Sat 2nd Dec 2006, 6:30, More)