Whoa that's a huge mug.
Lets see your mug - AKA what do YOU look like.
- Thread starter PZBarber
- Start date
Whoa that's a huge mug.
OldSaw
The wife's investment
It was custom made just for me.
Excerpt from "Blackfoot's 'Letter to Penthouse'"
He gets confused so easily these days.
Wonder if he sent the rest of the pics with the letter? I'd like to have seen the Feds reaction to THAT one!
Wonder if he sent the rest of the pics with the letter? I'd like to have seen the Feds reaction to THAT one!
Well, I've heard that his final report was quite, um, interesting.
I'll bet they did a strip search....and all they had to do was start the music!
OldSaw
The wife's investment
I know it's not original, but I was bored.
He gets confused so easily these days.
Wonder if he sent the rest of the pics with the letter? I'd like to have seen the Feds reaction to THAT one!
At my girlfriend's parents' house, with two of their pets (and my work laptop)
Lol.... thanks for the comments guys. The hat is an Akubra Campdraft in silverbelly. (more or less a stetson open road copy) and the bench is... well..... a bench.
I picked up the coat in the USA the last time I was there visiting my wifes family. It Wilsons Leather take on the A2 I think.
Austin... I dont think your my type. 
I picked up the coat in the USA the last time I was there visiting my wifes family. It Wilsons Leather take on the A2 I think.
Austin
... I dont think your my type. Lol.... thanks for the comments guys. The hat is an Akubra Campdraft in silverbelly. (more or less a stetson open road copy) and the bench is... well..... a bench.
I picked up the coat in the USA the last time I was there visiting my wifes family. It Wilsons Leather take on the A2 I think.
Austin
Astern in the Abracadabra America's Cup racing sailboat while in San Diego.
In need of a shave and a haircut.
Dinner at Caffe Bella Italia. Best Italian I have ever had. Slow food, green, and you would never know it unless you knew to look for it on their web site. Thus implying: they're doing it for the right reasons, and only for the right reasons.
This was dinner for our first anniversary (Sept. 5th). Also in San Diego.. Pacific Beach neighborhood. Shaven, but still in need of a haircut. It was outdoors and at night. Thus, the photo is blurry.
In need of a shave and a haircut.
Dinner at Caffe Bella Italia. Best Italian I have ever had. Slow food, green, and you would never know it unless you knew to look for it on their web site. Thus implying: they're doing it for the right reasons, and only for the right reasons.
This was dinner for our first anniversary (Sept. 5th). Also in San Diego.. Pacific Beach neighborhood. Shaven, but still in need of a haircut. It was outdoors and at night. Thus, the photo is blurry.
In the distance, a clock started to chime out midnight. The ring of the bell seemed to roll down the street, one after another. Then I noticed that with each ring of the bell, there was a barely noticeable footstep on the cobblestones. Almost suddenly, my KGB contact was standing mere inches from me.
"Got a light, buddy?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, reaching in my coat pocket.
He put down his briefcase next to mine, and took his cigarette from his pocket. I already had my lighter out, and lit the flame. I held it out and he leaned forward. His hat brim covered his face, so all I saw was half a cigarette lighting itself.
"Thanks, bud. Want my last smoke?" he said, offering a cigarette pack with one cigarette left poking out.
"Sure, thanks" I said, taking the whole box. I pulled the smoke out with my lips and lit it, shoving the box into my coat pocket with just enough attention to feel that the microfilm was indeed inside. He reached down and picked up my briefcase and slowly walked away. This time, his footsteps were heard up and down the quiet street.
Who knew if we were both being watched the whole time. My soviet friend desperately wanted to open my briefcase and check his payment while I was still close enough to reach if there were a doublecross. I desperately wanted to get out of there, out of Bruges, and off the continent and at least back to London, before he checked his payment. But for either of us to do so would mean instant discovery and death. He needed to maintain is charade of an evening stroll, and I mine of waiting for the 12.15 bus.
I couldn't hear his footsteps anymore. Every few minutes some other solitary soul would pass by, but not my soviet. Then in the distance, the sound of the bus making its way. Headlights illuminating the far end of the street. Closer ... has he checked? Slowing down ... don't look around, just in case someone is watching. The bus is here, that engine is loud, the door opens ... can't hear footsteps if there are any ... can't look around. I step on the bus, and in a moment I'm seated. The driver gets ready to drive away, and the doors are closing ... closed. The bus eases forward, then stops the driver operns the doors and a figure steps onto the bus. It's my soviet. In a moment he's sitting next to me. I feel a nudge in the ribs from his pistol.
"Oh, not only do I just catch the last bus, but here is my friend from the cafe to talk with!" he says loudly enough that the bus driver won't think it odd that he sits next to me in an empty bus, or odd that we get off at the same stop five minutes later. If someone is observing us, we are both finished, but that does not matter anymore to my soviet. Some things are more important, are worth dying for.
As the bus pulls away, he mutters to me "down that alley". After a few steps he says now in his natural accend and a little louder "you tink zaht I dohn't know zuh divverence bedween what is tallow-virzt heenglish vern and what iz not?" Damn you, Penhaligons!
Lawyer by day, Playboy by night.
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