Stick a Stick in round 5!!

[skyhigh]

Entirely up to yourself, most people just put them in shed loads of bubble wrap, sometimes a box then in a jiffy bag. Basically wrap them enough so they don't get damaged.

[cj121]

I like to put a sheet of cardboard either side of mine (taped up) when sending out as the postal system can be tough on the lil buggers sometimes.

However, if crstaylor is sending his out in a leather travel humi, is there any chance me and you can swap Sky

[skyhigh]

Oi watch it or i'll send me dog rockets., you'll end up with a handful of RyJ puritos and a box of cafe creme.

[crslaytor]

you are just laughing at me !!!
and I thought you are good guys
hahahahah

[crslaytor]

ohh yeah, not humidors, i meant leather cases

[El Catador]

Posting stogies - slight problemo

Ho-ly cow!

You fellas wouldn't believe the trouble that this little 'jamboree' has gotten me into down at Auntie Maureen's 'Craft and knitting Emporium' (she has the local post office franchise too, which she runs from a counter top next to the red and green merino wool balls).

Thing is, I'd been having a sort out of one of my old humidors last night and scraped up a couple of old sticks that had been festering at the bottom (unloved and unsmoked), so I thought, 'They'll do, I'll just tell Panto (yes, he's the unlucky one) that these are custom made jobs without bands', hopefully, if he smokes them when drunk, or better still, when unconscious, he'll never know the difference.

So I shove them in an envelope, along with a couple of used teabags (only used once, so still good for another brew) and one of rokkitsci's 'El Fuma del Suomi Ballaboosta Elegante Culebra with the fermented Turkmenistani llama intestine wrapper', and trot off down Maureen's.
Only thing is, by the time I get there, the envelope has gone a little brown and soggy in one corner and isn't smelling so good.
Auntie M takes one look and flips her wig (she's a part time magistrate too), 'you can't send this in the post', she squeals, 'it's not hygienic, and what's that smell?'

Next thing she's called the 'Drug squad' to check it for illegal contraband (she's never trusted me since the incident when I bought a kilo of Colombian itching powder off ebay), the dog thankfully won't go near it, so they let me off and leave.

However, this leaves me with the problem of transporting the said 'Dog rockets' to their new owner, namely poor ol' Panto of the horse.
However, all is not lost I say to myself, I know I'll give my old mate 'Horatio' a ring down a the crime lab and ask if I can borrow one of his 'Hazardous waste - contamination boxes' to send out the smokes.

Unfortunately, he still hasn't got over, or forgiven me, for the last blind date I set him up with.
I ask you, what's his problem?
'I'm sick of all these blond bimbos' he's says to me, 'Set me up with a hot Latino chick with a bit of spunk'. Well, how was I to know she was a she-male? 'and surely, according to the letter of his instructions, I have duly discharged my obligations in relation to the said contract', or at least that's what my brief said on my behalf. What did he want me to do, road test her first? Should be grateful for the action if you ask me, ugly, ginger gimp!

So, to cut a long story short-er, I've sent the smokes down to ..wherever he lives, somewhere down south with a 'sex' at the end, with an obliging tramp name of George, says he's off down that way to scrounge out of the bins for a better class of rubbish, and will drop the stogies off on-route as-it-were.
So, shouldn't be more than a week or two (depending on if he finds any 'special brew' behind the bins at the 'Dog and Duck').
I hope you enjoy them mate.
All the best
El Cat ... the generous!

[rokkitsci]

Oh, bloody hell!

Ho-ly cow!

You fellas wouldn't believe the trouble that this little 'jamboree' has gotten me into down at Auntie Maureen's 'Craft and knitting Emporium' (she has the local post office franchise too, which she runs from a counter top next to the red and green merino wool balls).



El Cat ... the generous!

Deano? You reading this? Welp, I wish to register a complaint.

When I signed up here, you told me I would have the exclusive franchise on rambling, stream-of-consciousness posties, especially those dealing with unusual forms of delivery. Now I'm reading all this rubbish by this La Felina fellow, thinking "HOLY SHITE! He sounds like a Britischer-type ME!"

I am not a happy camper. My solicitors will be contacting you shortly.

Meanwhile, it has occurred to me that there may be a reason this catty chap is so reminiscent of mine own selves.

If you BritFolk will recall, you had this little dust-up in the Falkland Islands back in '82. Welp, at the time, I was the acting NASA Special Envoy Liaison Coordinating Apprentice Consultant and part-time short order cook to the UK Empire as regards relative to the testing of a new weapon system that we United Statesians had graciously allowed you Britainers to try for us.

Whilst developing the NASA Sooper Sekrit steam-powered GPS and combination Aroma Therapy Machine (SSSPGACATM) for use on the Spacey Shuffle, one of the prototypes was modified for use as a trajectory calculating thingie for cruise missiles. So, when your battleships were having trouble making your DEATH FROM THE SEAS! projectiles land accurately on the grass hut villages of the innocent aboriginal Argentinian civilian population, we sent over our modified SSSPGACATM straightaway.

My duties put me aboard the Royal Yacht, HM His Majesty's Bollocks, where your Prince Chuckles would like to come out at tea time and watch the shelling, which he found ever-so-entertaining. (I must interject at this point, why you Britishers would want to elect such a homely sumbitch as your possible once-and-future king escapes me. Especially when you consider that he had a preference for old, haggard horsey-faced women instead of the hot blond babe he already had. Seems to me you'da been a lot better off with a manly man like Sean Connery. But, to each his own, I guess.) With the installation of the modified SSSPGACATM, the missiles which formerly would head off in all directions killing millions of locals in one swell foop, would instead now begin a strange sinuous back-and-forth sweep before disappearing over the horizon, only to fall into the ocean after running out of fuel, with an extrapolated heading of somewheres outside of Philadelphia, US of byghodz A, which no one could figure out why until much much later (click on SSSPGSCATM in parentheses up there ^ above in the previous paragraph to understand why this was happening). Ol' Charlie would howl with laughter whenever this happened, commenting on how it reminded him of how he sometimes had to wobble his own head whilst trying to catch the string of Camilla's tampon in his teeth.

Well, your Prints of Whales soon tired of the diversion and ordered the El Kapitan to set sail for home which was a good thing for me on accounta I was getting tired from printsitting during the day, then having to pull a shift at night guarding the Queen Mum's pantaloons (without which Charlie would not leave Winds or Castle) from getting smelt by those randy terrorist chorros. This is when I got to spend a little time in your cute, little country and got to know your idiosyncratic shakesbeerian way of talking funny, although I still couldn't understand a fecking word. Especially in that suburb of... I think it was... Glascow, that you call Liverpuddle or something like that. You want to talk about an ACCENT! And I used to think that New Yorkers were bad. Gak!

Anyhow, it was in a pub in this Liver-something place where the eventful event took place. I had had a few sheets to the wind pints too many of your piss-warm beer -- excuse me: ALE! -- and was feeling not much pain, if any. Betook myself to make a pass at the quadriplegic, deaf, dumb, mute, Turkmenistani barmaid who also did the valet service for the car park, and the next thing I knew it was WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU MA'AM in the back seat of a Morris Minor (btw, the best sex I have ever had before or since).

The point of all this being that I now wonder whether the result of that memorable liaison of long ago might not have borne the fruit which we now recognize as Le Cat's Door of our very own UKCF. I mean, it's entirely possible that this kid might have fruited from mine very own loins, which would account for the eerie dayglow-view feeling I get whenever I read what he's writ.

Stranger things have been know to happen, y'know. Not much stranger, I'll admit, but some. Maybe.

[Pantomimehorse]

this morning I received two amazing packages from the Stick a Stick in, one from El Cat and the other from Tippex, both have sent me an amazing selection of smokes, I will post pics later... thanks to you both, I love this game!

[El Catador]

So, when your battleships were having trouble making your DEATH FROM THE SEAS! projectiles land accurately on the grass hut villages of the innocent aboriginal Argentinian civilian population, we sent over our modified SSSPGACATM straightaway.

Ahhh nutz! It was all going so well until ..... along came 'The Master' ... and wasted my sorry ass .

I bow to your superior ramblings .
Forgive me sensei .
El Cat creeps away, beaten and humbled .
Damn, that rokkit geezer is nuts ..., funny as though, but off his bleedin' rocker .

Hopefully, now that the other loon is back , you know who I mean, TJ of the Coro Clan , noboby will mind an apprentice taggin along..?

We can open up a few brewskis an jus have one great big ole shindig.. all unhinged together like.


Yee HA!

[tippexx]

[QUOTE=rokkitsci;65416] you had this little dust-up in the Falkland Islands back in '82.

Anyhow, it was in a pub in this Liver-something place ...... the Pool?

quadriplegic, deaf, dumb, mute, Turkmenistani barmaid who also did the valet service for the car park ...... Mum?

WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU MA'AM in the back seat of a Morris Minor (btw, the best sex I have ever had before or since) ..... Dad?

Whaddabout all the effin' Christmas's you forgot an' the bike you never got me?

[rokkitsci]

here are your swapping buddies

Rockkitsci [sic]- Crslaytor

Sigh. It doesn't take a rokkit scientist, yet it seems my name poses a serious challenge to some of you.

But that's not what I'm here to rant about this time.

No, I come to announce [fanfare] the glorious shipment of my part of the Stick-A-Stick to this Can't Remember Shite Later fellow.

So, CRS Later, the good news is that your stougeries are on the way.

The bad news is that you've got to get your arse down to Heathrow NOW if you want them.

As you may or may not be aware, I've had some trifling issues with our United States of byghodz American Postal Delivery Service. On the off chance you missed it, you can read about it ->here<-. The net result being that I've had to devise some ingenious methods for transporting goods and services across the pond from here <---- to ----> there.

Unfortunately, I'd about exhausted the possibilities. I mean... there are only a limited number of ways to get stuff over an entire fooping ocean, y'know. So, after packaging up your packet nice and neat, I was now at an impasse as to how to get it to you.

Matter transport came to mind but presented some few obstacles that I thought might take a bit too long to solve to be a practical solution. In desperation, I went out to the back forty to stroke my pet llama, Larry (in a manly, non-sexual way, you perverted limey twits!) to see if I could obtain any inspiration.

The fish oil emulsion had been doing a good job reducing the mange, but Larry's curly fur was still looking rather pathetic, so I thought it best just to lead him around the bubbling tar pits a few times for a bit o' exercise. However, when I grabbed his rhinestone halter, he just sat down, refusing to budge. At first I thought he had figured out I was cutting his llama chow with cat food and was demonstrating his dissatisfaction, but it soon became obvious that Larry had a definite agenda and was trying to tell me something. The third time he bit my arse, he drew blood and that's when it hit me! I'd been going about trying to solve the problem all in the wrong way!

I threw Larry an anchovy gummi bear (his favorite), grabbed your packet, CRS, and hied myself hither direct to yon Orlando International Aeropuerto.

Humming a sassy toon ("Does the chewing gum lose its flavo[u]r on the bedpost overnight...?) on the road to OIA, I began to formulate the plan that Larry was so obviously trying to communicate to me. So obvious now. Don't know why I hadn't thought about it earlier.

Alls I had to do was to hang around this major metropolitan aeropuerto and find me a bloke (or blokess, as the case may be) who was heading to Merrye Olde Inglelande and secrete your packet inside one of his (or her) bags. Then upon arrival over ----> on that side of the puddle, it would be up to you to either finagle or force the unwitting "mule" to hand over your Stick-A-Stick! Viola! Fooking brilliant!

So I'm wandering around the terminal hoping to catch a snippet of conversation nearly unintelligible, the characteristic of a person of the Englischer persuasion. Naught to be heard. Much Espanol and Kraut talk and whatever it is that the French use to communicate, but nary a "Pip pip old chap" in the bunch.

I was beginning to become distraught when suddenly my salvation arrived in the form of a rather disheveled, bearded chap standin in the queue to be security checked, wearing a towel of some sort on his head. As I approached, I could clearly hear him shrieking "INGLISHER INFIDELS MUST ALL DIE!" and I knew right away I had me my man.

So this guy is screaming "SILENCE! I KEEL YOU" and I walks up to him and sorta suavely axe him, "How's the rain on the rhubarbs, big guy?"

Welp, he pulls out this like scimitar thingie and starts brandishing it about bellowing something about the afterlife "DO JEW WISH TO DIE?" and sputtering "Unclean! Unclean!" or something and muttering about these 72 Virginians that he's going to meet soon and just going on and on when suddenly he just stops, sniffs a couple of times then fixes me with a steely stare.

"You!" he sez to me. "You steenk like camel. You have camel?"

"No," I sez, "you're mistaken. Not camel, llama."

"Llama," he sez, "um, almost as good."

Whereupon we became fast friends and we were chatting about all manner of stuff as regards to camels and llamas and were having us a fine time.

Welp, charming fellow that I can be, I managed to execute from him the fact that he was going to the UK kinda like a missionary, er sump'n, on accounta you apparently have a lot of folks there that he called infidels (didn't know Castro had that many relatives) which he told me he was going to enlighten.

So I manages to slip your S-A-S packet, CRS, old honeybucket, into this dude's big ol' rucksack (which is throbbing and ticking softly) without him noticing, slaps him on the back, tells him what a great bloke he is, and amble on my way.

He should be landing at Heathrow in about 6 hours and alls you got to do is to look for this big, ugly bearded guy. You can't miss him really, cause he's quite fat. But his fatness was a tad unusual. Instead of it being a big mass of jello that wobbles over the belt and hangs down, this guy's fatitude was like evenly spaced bricks across his chest. Strangest thing I've ever seen. But makes him easy to spot. So, just distract him with a camelburger or somesuch and snatch your package out of his kit.

Good hunting.

[MaledettoToscano]

Have you been going through your Ahmed the Dead Terrorist video collection by any chance George?

[Lee Nub]

Should have gone to Sanford George, better class of traveller

[saggel]

I had a really packed schedule these week and I haven't send mine yet
I'll send it asap

[El Catador]

Dag nabbit and then some!

I've been 'Horsed!' .. and boy did he get me a good un.

There I was, quietly minding my own business, feeding 'Peking Duck' flavoured crisps to the mallards at our local pond
(warped, I know), when all of a sudden, the mobile in my pocket starts vibrating.
Well, after I'd let it ring for a bit ....O.K ...OK... after I'd let it ring for a fair while (I have needs you know), I answer the damn thing.

'Errr, Hello?'
'Have you been buying more cigars'

N.B. For the less intellectually gifted of you (I know who you are, don't think you can keep hiding behind that 'spellchecker' software'!!), it's the wife.
Thinking fast now, I fall back on the classic, tried-and-tested, never-let-me-down-yet, man ploy ... I LIE!
(Well, ...what the hell else do ya think I'm gonna do FFS!)

'Err, no love, course not'
'Well then, why does it say 'Romeo y Julieta' on the box?'
'Ah yes.. you see.. it's the DVD box set of ..erm, shakespeare's greatest love story .. it was meant to be a surprise for you ... love .. for Valentines day (I add, hopefully)'

(Inwardly I'm cursing 'The Man called Horse' and plotting my intricate, painful, and DIOBOLICAL REVENGE! - why couldn't he just have used a discrete, plain, cardboard box like NORMAL PEOPLE?).

She's not buying it of course.
Curse my foolishness in marrying one with a brain!
'How much have you spent on these, and why does the box smell of manure?'
'Ah, yes .. well you see, .. these are free, .. I got them in a kind of, sort of, trade with another BOTL'
'Another 'Whatul?'
(I'm digging a bigger hole for myself now but I can see no escape!)
'Er, BOTL, it's short for 'Brother of the leaf'
Silence.
I panic now and my mouth runs away with me.
'It's er, ..a game, you see, .. I send him a few cigars, and he sends me some back'
More silence, and then...
'Brother of the Leaf'? ... is this some sort of cult ... oh my God you're not gay are you?'
For a moment this potential escape route seems slightly more attractive than admitting the truth.
i.e. That, I am, in fact, swapping random, anonymous cigars with a total stranger who I've met in an Internet forum, and who calls himself 'Pantomimehorse'!!!!

How on Earth did I get myself into this mess?
If there are any Knewbees out there reading this, then turn off your computer, right now (it's not too late!) , run outside, into the daylight, into the the fresh, open, smoke-free air, breath deeply and rejoice!
For yours is a freedom we poor souls will never know.
For, in here, from this point on, 'madness' and 'cigar addiction' will be your only companions (them and a host of strange nocturnal creatures with funny avatars and poor personal hygiene - I'm looking at you Mr Scientist!).

The cigars though, Mr Horse, are rather splendiferous, so my thanks for those, .... but if you think I'm about to make a charitable donation to your 'Lonely, single and sober 'Jocks' in the smoke' Charidable foundation,.. you're madder than TJ (No offence TJ).

The copy of the 'Big Issue' though, is gratefully received, and will no doubt help to keep me warm this evening (now that she's thrown my sorry ass out!).

P.S. The above contents are the work of fiction (well a bit is), and my seeming lack of gratitude is not to be taken 'too' seriously. Cheers me dears, and 'smoke em if ya gottem!'