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Dirty_habiT

Kabar Appreciation

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Dang, D.H.

 

My head is "swole up" enough already. But thanks for the kudos. If 12 oz. ever closes up shop it'll probably kill me.

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Guest Wilt

ahhh yes...my mystical grandfather...its been a while since we've chatted kabar...

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Guest angry xbox

i guess anger and knowledge dont amount to wisdom?

 

i see

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Originally posted by angry xbox

i guess anger and knowledge dont amount to wisdom?

 

i see

 

You mean anger, regurgitation of stale, sophomoric ideas, and trying to use vocabulary you don't understand properly?

 

On topic, Kabar is great.

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Guest angry xbox
Originally posted by Xeroshoes

 

You mean anger, regurgitation of stale, sophomoric ideas, and trying to use vocabulary you don't understand properly?

 

On topic, Kabar is great.

 

FUCK YOU ASSHOLE

 

I say the same type of shit this paillaso kabar says, I just dont do it nicely and you can eatta fucking dick. The only reason you think i dont know what im talking about is because YOU dont know the meaning of half the fucking words i use.

 

FUCKING LOSER, LICK MY FUCKING DIRTY ASSHOLE

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Guest imported_El Mamerro
Originally posted by angry xbox

I say the same type of shit this paillaso kabar says, I just dont do it nicely and you can eatta fucking dick. The only reason you think i dont know what im talking about is because YOU dont know the meaning of half the fucking words i use.

 

 

Hahaha, here he is, trying to defend himself by claiming to know the vocabulary he uses, and he busts out "paillaso"...

 

PAYASO, you moron. Once again, don't use words you don't know enough about to handle, especially foreign ones. Beer,

 

El Mamerro

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Guest angry xbox
Originally posted by El Mamerro

 

 

Hahaha, here he is, trying to defend himself by claiming to know the vocabulary he uses, and he busts out "paillaso"...

 

PAYASO, you moron. Once again, don't use words you don't know enough about to handle, especially foreign ones. Beer,

 

El Mamerro

 

i dont speak fluent spanish asshole in fact i learned it from talking to people so i have never seen most of the mexican slang i here on paper.

 

why do you feel the need to be such an asshole

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Guest imported_El Mamerro
Originally posted by angry xbox

why do you feel the need to be such an asshole

 

Only because you feel the need to be an apparent know-it-all, and it really irritates the crap out of us. Beer,

 

El Mamerro

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Guest PAYROLL
Originally posted by El Mamerro

 

Only because you feel the need to be an apparent know-it-all, and it really irritates the crap out of us. Beer,

 

El Mamerro

Foreal. xbox, go find a hobby and quit trying to jock everybody on this forum, you fucking dicksmoker.

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I say "I'll go buy a gallon of Carlo Rossi paisano, and let's go hop a freight." Damn. I don't wanna go to work, but I gotta. I spent yesterday down at the yards with my dog. We hiked down to the I-610 Loop for lunch and had Top Ramen and canned chili for lunch, cooked in my most recent gunboat on my old brass Svea stove. I bought that sucker for $24 at the REI store in Berkeley back about 1969 or so. I priced one the other day at the Whole Earth store and they wanted SEVENTY-SIX BUCKS! What is the world coming to?

 

Southern did a good job on that pic. I was sitting right in that very spot yesterday, drinking a Busch and petting my mixed-breed Lab.

 

Jeeez, I hate working.

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Guest angry xbox

im not a know it all i just argue like an asshole should.

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hey kabar, out of curiosity did you stay at the squat in houston that was eventually raided and shut down by the police a few years back and when most of the kids cleared out of there they set up a box with a bunch of wires coming out of it so it was this huge drama situation and the police called in the bomb squad?

just curious...even if you didnt respect goes to kabar. good educator and story teller.

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Toyeattoywar

 

No-o-o-o, can't say that I even heard about the squat-with-hoax-bomb situation. I'm not into confrontation with the forces of authority much. But I do have a sort-of-squat story.

 

Way back about 1970, I was working in a hospital days and bussing tables at night at a popular hippie restaurant, The Family Hand Restaurant, here in Houston. The Family Hand was never much of an economic success. The owner, a guy named Mike Condray, basically tried to make it successful, but it consistently lost money. I think at one point Mike was paying the waitresses like $6.00 a shift , and two meals. They were making out on tips, and on the weekend, they made good money, but those weekend tips had to carry them through the week.

 

Most of the help lived in a quadruplex around the corner from the Hand, an old four-apartment set-up that had "FERN 1928" up on the front of the cornice work. We called it "Fern House." We were all paying "rent" to this very shady character named Childs. Childs was a homer-sexual, and he had a little pal who was 17, who lived with him. The kid had lousy judgement, but since Childs was a merchant sailor, the Kid was left in charge when Childs shipped out. Not too long after we moved in, Childs shipped for Vietnam on a cargo ship full of ammunition, and we were supposed to pay our MONTHLY rent of $35 to the kid. (I swear this is a true story.) It was a really shit neighborhood. Most of our neighbors were welfare mothers, dope dealers or prostitutes.

Anyway, shortly after Childs shipped out, a notorious thug named Nosmo King (I swear) who lived in the neighborhood showed up living in the Kid's apartment. The Kid was gay, of course, and the thug was a chicken hawk. He picked the kid up at a notorious gay bar downtown called the Exile Club, and was trying to force him into gay prostitution, we later found out. King soon filled the apartment with a whole raft of runaways, both boys and girls, and started pimping them out both on the street and down at the Exile.

Me, my buddy, and his wife all lived downstairs. One night we sat down there and listened as King and a couple of his cohorts beat the shit out of some kid, turning him (or her) out. It was a dangerous situation. My buddy's wife, Sherin, was scared to death of them. One of King's little henchmen flashed a pistol at her. They cursed her and teased her when she left the apartment, while we were at work.

My buddy, Eric, was highly pissed. Sherin was terrified, and Eric was in a mood to fuck somebody up. Eric was no hippie pussy, though. He was only two years back from Vietnam, where he had served as an M-60 machinegunner in an Air Force Ground Security Battalion--sort of like Air Police infantry. He had been to combat, he had killed people, and he was in no fucking mood to put up with some cheap-ass shit from some third-rate chickenhawk dope dealer and a bunch of runaway would-be gangsters.

He and I took our savings and went down to a Save Rite store and bought two brand-new Mossberg 500-A 12 ga. shotguns, and called up all our bros from the Hand. In the end, there were seven of us--Eric and me, Tom, Bob, and three other guys with nicknames like Kilo and Big Bob and Biker Smitty. We had the two shotguns, my .303 SMLE, a lever-action Winchester .30-30 and a couple of .38 pistols. Tom brought a sledge hammer and a crowbar.

 

We went upstairs and confronted them. These apartments were really shitty. Childs had a sort of home-made drawbar on the door made of a couple of eye-bolts and a piece of All-thread.

 

We beat on the door, they opened it a crack. We could see there were several people inside, it was hard to tell how many. Eric asked where King was. They said "He's in Boston, buying dope." This seemed backwards--the shit came from Mexico, more likely it was the other way around, in any case it was a stroke of luck for us--Mr. Badass was not home. Eric told them "You've got an hour. Get the fuck out. Anybody that's here when we get back is history."

 

We went downstairs and chilled for an hour. Eric chain-smoked and polished shotgun shells in a bandana for an hour. Everybody fooled around and cleaned and oiled guns. I was scared shitless--I smoked about a pack of smokes and had diarrhea.

At the end of the hour, Eric turned the shotgun upside down, loaded the rounds in the magazine, racked one into the chamber, and said, "Fuck it. Showtime."

 

We went back upstairs. As we went up the stairs Eric said to me and Tom, "Don't take your weapon off safe unless I fire--I don't want to get shot in the back by mistake." We nodded. I was actually too scared to talk--my mouth was dry as dust. Eric pounded the door with the butt of his Mossberg. No answer. Tom took the door down with the sledgehammer, and it broke in the middle, half hanging on the hinges, and half crashing into the room. We poured through the open door screaming like insane people, shotguns and rifles and pistols pointing ever which way.

 

Nobody was there.

 

The place was filthy. There were mattresses everywhere on the floor, candles and blackened spoons and syringes everywhere. We found, all total, about twenty cartridges of ammo of various kinds, along with a straight razor above the door in King's bedroom. Pots and dishes filled with rotting food, empty bottles, filthy clothes. It was a nasty fucking mess.

 

We opened up the French windows in the front, and started throwing everything out, shouting and cheering with each "crash" on the sidewalk. We threw out every stick of furniture, including an old cabinet TV, all he clothes, dishes, pots and pans, everything. The little band of runaways were gathered on a corner about a block away, watching from a distance. We could see them from the French windows.

 

We had a friend who ate at the Hand named Crazy Larry. Larry worked as an independent exterminator, so he came over, and for $25, exterminated the shit out of the place. Larry killed about a zillion cockroaches. We swept and mopped, and swept and mopped til it was actually clean. Then we drew up a duty roster, and Tom and I drew "first duty." We sat up all night in the apartment with my shotgun and Tom's .38. The little monsters never came back.

 

We left all the shit on the sidewalk as a warning, and put the word on the street, if King harmed anybody, we would all be gunning for him. He never came back to Fern House. They moved their dope-and-kiddie-hookers operation about five blocks away. About a week or two later, once the mess on the sidewalk had had a chance to get the message across, we loaded it all up in Tom's pick-up and hauled it to the Dump.

 

For several months we all went packing. I bought a Webley .38 S&W off a black guy on the street. It was a big revolver to conceal, but I only paid $25 for it. I sawed the barrel off to 2 inches with a hacksaw. No front sight.

 

We found out later that Childs had squatted a condemned building. He got all the electricity working, got the water faucets fixed and the water turned on. Then he started renting out "apartments" for $35 a month. So since he used to live there and run the place, now we lived there and ran the place. I lived there for quite a while after Eric and Sherin got their own place, rent free for about six months. I had never heard the term "squat" or "squatter" as applied to living rent free, except in old cowboy movies.

 

It was a shit hole place to live, but it was a lot better without a fucking child molesting drug pusher making runaways cry all night. I saw Bob years later in a cafe. We had a few beers and got around to talking about King. Bob said, "We were lucky. It could have gone the other way." I think he's right. We were damned lucky.

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Guest SMUGGLER RSH

I liked that story..........If you chose to edit out the ending or did not state it is a wise choice but none the less good story^^^^

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