Pipes Magazine » General Pipe Smoking Discussion

Search Forums  
   
Tags:  No tags yet. 

Fictitious Estate Pipe Back Stories - a Creative Challenge

(22 posts)
  • Started 2 years ago by lifesizehobbit
  • Latest reply from jaytex969
  1. lifesizehobbit

    lifesizehobbit

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Oct 2015
    Posts: 831

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    I was telling a co-worker about an estate pipe that I just ordered. After clarifying what an "estate" pipe is, he mused that it would be fun to know the "back story" associated with such a pipe. That made me pause and then I realized that this group would probably have a field day writing ficiticious estate pipe stories.

    Gauntlet thrown. Have fun.

    Dave "Black Frigate Stowaway"
    Posted 2 years ago #
  2. mothernaturewilleatusallforbreakfast

    mothernature

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Mar 2014
    Posts: 1,581

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    It all began with Bob buying a new pipe at the pipe store. Bob smoked that pipe everyday running a slew of various aromatic blends through it over and over until one day Bob decided he didn't like the pipe and gifted it to his friend Mark. Mark tried to smoke Bob's old pipe, but just didn't enjoy it like he thought he would and left it in a box of junk sitting in his garage for the next 5 years. Mark's wife decided to clean the garage out one day and donated the box to a local thrift store where John picked up the pipe for a mere $1. John smoked his new estate pipe, but didn't like the taste and decided to sell it on eBay. The pipe was purchased by Jim off eBay. Jim wanted to smoke and keep the pipe, but his wife didn't like the smell in the house nor on Jim and she threw the pipe away. A raccoon got into the trash that night and dragged the pipe along with other items onto the sidewalk when along came drunk Greg who scared the coon away. Greg looked down in his drunken stupor to discover that there was a perfectly good tobacco pipe laying on the ground, but Greg didn't have any tobacco and decided to smoke his weed in it instead. Greg's brother found the pipe laying on the living room table the next day and told Greg that he should clean it up and sell it on eBay, so the brothers ran the pipe through the dishwasher and listed in on eBay. The pipe remains listed on eBay today with a low starting bid just waiting for it's next happy smoker. THE END.

    Posted 2 years ago #
  3. cosmicfolklore

    Cosmic

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Aug 2013
    Posts: 18,163

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    My buddy, Tom, was stung by a bee, while helping me get the tractor on the trailer in the field. Out in the field, no epipen, no quick access to a hospital... He was having more and more problems breathing. He eventually turned blue and hit the ground... I grabbed my pocketknife, punched a hole in his throat and stuck my trusty ol Missouri Meerschaum and shoved it in his neck, stem first. Smoke was still wafting from the Carter Hall Burning in the cob, and his eyes did open in an appreciative recognition, as they rolled back into his head and died.
    I can't help but think of Tom everytime I see that pipe, and how he enjoyed that last little puff, before passing. So, I have to let it go. Cleaned and ready to smoke.

    Michael
    Posted 2 years ago #
  4. lifesizehobbit

    lifesizehobbit

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Oct 2015
    Posts: 831

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    The salt spray nearly extinguished the glowing ember of Black Frigate nestled in the bowl of the Peterson bulldog. The grizzled Captain rotated the clench and the bowl turned downward lest another tack across the wind would drench the smoke. The entry into the harbor was always more treacherous to small craft in April; the spring squalls brought the current across the shoals at the bottom of the entrance, and focused navigation was more important than ever. The water depth had to be timed just so, much like a cliff diver in Acapulco or the keel would scrape the bottom. The flat light of the day irritated the Captain because the horizon kept slipping in and out of focus for his aging eyes.

    A shuddering vibration told the tale as the Captain heard water pouring into the hull from below. Abandon ship rang out and the crew scurried into the waves aboard the boats. The Captain hurried to his cabin to retrieve the last of the Black Frigate. Back on main deck, the Captain tripped over a loose rope and entangled his ankle. Water poured over the gunwales. Unable to extricate himself and resigned to his fate, the Captain gripped the Peterson in hand and raised it above the waterline as he lost consciousness.

    Rescuers found the Captain from the scent of pipe smoke; only his wrist sailed proudly above the water as the Peterson in the fashion of a periscope, marked the Captain’s watery grave. In the tradition of the sea, the Captain was left but the Peterson was returned to his widow.

    One owner, significant chatter on the stem.

    Posted 2 years ago #
  5. mackeson

    mackeson

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Mar 2016
    Posts: 762

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    You should not read this if you have a weak constitution. On second thought, keep reading, you will only think me mad. I am mad, but anyone would share this madness if they experienced the night as I did.

    After hours of driving through wild, God-forsaken country with sleep threatening to overtake me, I came across a small town with a sign reading, "Welcome to Dunwich." I found a rundown old hotel and decided to check in for a few hours of sleep before continuing my journey. As weary as I was, I asked the pale, fish-faced night attendant if there was a local tobacco shop still open. I still had a few tins of tobacco, but my pipe had suffered a burnout six hours before.

    I walked the three blocks as directed in the sticky seaside air and found myself in front of a rundown building with a weathered sign reading, "Dagon's tobaccos." Inside the small, dimly lit shop I met the proprietor who looked curiously similar to the hotel clerk. The tobacconist told be that all his pipes were carved from something similar to morta found only in the depths of the sea. All the pipes had a very odd look to them with the angles or perspective all wrong, but difficult to pinpoint. I selected an old and dusty bent bulldog from the case and, always wanting to try new tobaccos, one of the store blends simply labeled, "Cthulhu black shag." Walking back to the hotel, I opened the tobacco and inhaled deeply before coughing and sputtering at the foul stench. I had never before smelled a tobacco that stank of seaweed and despair. I immediately threw the tobacco away, deciding to use my own instead.

    Upon returning to my room, I packed a bowl of one of my trusty regular blends and lit my new pipe. The taste was familiar and good, but I was suddenly filled with a combination of intense sadness and a desire to walk on the beach. Actually the bizarre thought of walking out to sea, just walking until I was covered with water struck me. I left my rooms for a little lunt along the surf and finished that bowl. I packed another and lit it while staring out at something I can only describe as a macabre dance of fish. No! they were people on top of the water! No! Fish! What was I seeing?

    I ran back to my car, not even stopping to get my small overnight bag from the hotel and quickly drove away.

    I smoked that pipe a few times after returning home, but always gave up mid bowl when the urge to return the sea became overwhelming. I also noticed my appearance was becoming paler and fish-like.

    Today, having resolved to rid myself of that cursed piece of ancient wood, I listed the pipe on ebay. "Lightly smoked morta estate pipe. Rare markings of the Old Ones. Contact seller for shipping rates."

    "Once you go down the Lakeland path, forever will it dominate your destiny."
    -Apologies to Master Yoda
    Posted 2 years ago #
  6. mackeson

    mackeson

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Mar 2016
    Posts: 762

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    BTW.... Apologies to Mr. Lovecraft.
    I just thought there needed to be a Lovecraftian pipe story. Maybe someone with more fiction writing talent could do a little better.
    I would love to see someone do one in the style of Douglas Adams or Christopher Moore. I just don't have the comedic storytelling ability to attempt it myself.

    Posted 2 years ago #
  7. pipestud

    pipestud

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Dec 2012
    Posts: 1,760

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    It was a dark and stormy night. I was reading about Bo Nordh in a P&T Magazine. I saw some of his pipes and said, 'I can do that.' So, I made a Cinderella pipe. Like Cinderella, it is make believe.

    The End

    Pipestud
    Posted 2 years ago #
  8. cosmicfolklore

    Cosmic

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Aug 2013
    Posts: 18,163

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    Ha ha, +1 pipestud and Mackeson.
    I really would have thought that with the creativity of our membership here, that there would have been more responses.

    Posted 2 years ago #
  9. mackeson

    mackeson

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Mar 2016
    Posts: 762

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    Resurrecting one I'd like to see continue... I think lifesizehobbit had a great idea with this one.

    The new C&D Lovecraft themed tobaccos reminded me of this thread and my (bad) Lovecraft style story. But I remembered thinking this thread had potential and being disappointed it never took off.
    Anyone else want to have a little story writing fun?

    Posted 1 year ago #
  10. tbradsim1

    tbradsim1

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Jan 2012
    Posts: 7,727

    online

    Login to Send PM

    It was winter in South Louisiana, my Grandfather was in a short sulky smoking his pipe, for those of you who don't know a short sulky the driver is right up to the horses rear end. Now Grandpaw was going to the feed store, he had run short of feed and was feeding his horse green peanuts. As they went down the lane his horse raised his tail and blew a big green one in PawPaws face, he took his pipe and jammed it up the horses ass right up to the hot bowl, bolting the horse ran and broke down the gate like he was in high gear, took all of PawPaws strength to hang on, he ran an ran till he could no more. Finally the horse stopped and slowly looked back quivering and shaking. Never did find out if Pawpaw smoked that pipe again.

    The Old Cajun
    Posted 1 year ago #
  11. mackeson

    mackeson

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Mar 2016
    Posts: 762

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    Nice image Brad.

    Posted 1 year ago #
  12. mso489

    mso489

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Feb 2013
    Posts: 25,955

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    About sanitizing estate pipes ...

    Someone could get a short story collection out of estate pipe tales. Each title could describe the pipe: "The Semi-Rusticated Bent Dublin," "The Sandblast Straight Billiard," "The Quarter Bent Smooth Pot," etc.

    Posted 1 year ago #
  13. sablebrush52

    sablebrush52

    The Bard Of Barlings
    Joined: Jun 2013
    Posts: 9,649

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    The carriage came to a stop in front of Wright's in Cheltenham on a mild Winter's morning in 1872. The liveried driver dropped down from his seat to open the carriage door for a short stout man, well dressed, wearing a top hat and fur lined cloak.

    The man had an air of importance about him, something that could not be defined but which was unmistakable. This was a man of importance and of means. Wrapping his cloak about him, the man entered the shop.

    The interior was filled with the rich scent of fine tobaccos. Behind the counter, a large pendulum wall clock ticked merrily away. Shelves were filled with jars and canisters of various blends and there were stack of tins. Elaborately carved meerschaums were displayed under the glass of the cases that lined one side of the shop. There were stacks of clays behind the counter.

    As the man approached the counter, Mr Wright looked up from his bench, where he had been working on a repair. Blinking from looking into the daylight, it took Mr Wright a moment before he recognized the man. "Your Grace" said Mr Wright, "Good day to you, sir. I see that you received my message. I think you will be pleased with the pipe. Please give me a moment while it fetch it for your approval".

    Mr Wright quickly disappeared behind he partition which separated the selling room from the storage and blending room behind. He emerged a moment later with a large crocodile case, fully 10" in length. He placed it on the counter atop a black velvet pad in front of the man.

    The man removed his top hat, placing it next to the pad and lifting the case in his gloved hands, turning it over to inspect the grain of the leather and its workmanship. Then he gently set the case down and just as gently, pressed on the clasp, opening the case to reveal its contents. The pipe was imposing, a billiard of noble proportions, beautifully grained on all sides, mounted to its long black vulcanite stem by an elegantly carved and understated sterling fitment. He picked up the pipe, almost reverently, turning it over and studying the line of it and the grain with an expression of obvious pleasure.

    "Mr Wright", said the man, "You have outdone yourself, sir! This may be the finest pipe I've ever seen!" He continued to admire it.

    "Thank you, Your Grace! I'm exceedlingly pleased that you are satisfied with the piece. Barling went to great effort to meet your specifications." replied Mr Wright.

    "Met? Nay, exceeded beyond my hopes and expectations, Mr Wright. This may be as fine a pipe as can be found in all of England!" the man replied. "Pray, wrap it up and I'll be on my way. I'm in you debt for such superb service."

    Mr Wright carefully wrapped the case and its contents and handed it to the man, who paid, shook Mr. Wright's hand then turned and strode out the door.

    It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt. - Mark Twain

    It is pointless to argue with a fanatic since a dim bulb can't be converted into a searchlight. - Jesse Silver
    Posted 1 year ago #
  14. jpmcwjr

    jpmcwjr

    Preferred Member
    Joined: May 2015
    Posts: 13,354

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    That was me- "the man" in a former life!! That is, the servant of His Grace, the guy who carried the packages and doled out a few pounds and shillings, being that currency was too crude for a man of His Grace's stature.

    Nice imagery!

    And the pipe ain't so bad, neither.....

    I know that you believe you understood what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.
    Posted 1 year ago #
  15. anthonyrosenthal74

    anthonyrosenthal74

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Jan 2013
    Posts: 7,491

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    I was visiting The Busty Pirate, the tavern/tobacconist in that other world through the portal I've mentioned before in other threads. Normally I grab a small table in the corner, but I don't often chat with the proprietor, a little gnomish fellow, who stands atop the bar when he's working it. So I was sitting at the bar while having a mug of ale and smoking a pipe and enjoying the night's minstrel band. Great band, by the way... fronted by a fat female orc who doesn't look much, but has a voice to make the angels weep. The gnome, after serving my ale, went back to polishing some estate pipes an elf merchant had recently sold him. One such pipe, a beautiful freehand, caught my eye.

    "That's a lovely one," I said.

    He winked, with a smile, and chuckled a bit before handing it over to me to inspect further.

    "Merlin owned that pipe," he mentioned while grabbing another pipe to polish.

    "No kidding?" I asked.

    "No kidding," he answered, buffing a stubborn spot on the pipe he now held. I turned the pipe over and over, marveling at the grain as it moved, actually MOVED along the bowl and shank of the pipe, with a golden glow behind the grain. It looked like golden blonde hair gently swaying in a soft breeze with the sun behind. Absolutely stunning! And the stem, was like the night sky, speckled by stars, slowly moving as though one were watching the stars above at night.

    "Which Merlin," I asked. "Merlin from the 1981 Earth year movie Excalibur?"

    "No, not him." He said. "Although he was a good Merlin. Not as good as the original Merlin that the legends speak of, but a good Merlin none the less. Actually it was Sam Neill Merlin from the 1998 television mini-series."

    "He was a great Merlin too," I said.

    "I know!" The gnome explained. "Didn't look anything like the real Merlin though. But his magic is real."

    "Wow," I said. "How much for this one?"

    "It's yours," he said with a smile. "Although, when you take it to your world it will lose its magic and look like a typical Danish freehand. But the magic returns when you come back here."

    I was amazed! Not only was I acquiring a beautiful pipe that once belonged to a Merlin, the little gnomish fellow was giving it to me free of charge. He is after all a fellow pipe smoker. And pipe smokers tend to be a generous lot. I immediately loaded the bowl with one of the gnome's own blends, and the pipe smoked like a dream. We continued to converse, smoke lifting from our bowls and spreading out above into the shapes of dragons and griffins, until it was time for me to make my leave. To this day, I always take that pipe through the portal with me when I need to get off this world and and into another.

    Arrrrr, shiver me timbers! International Talk Like a Pirate Day is September the 19th!!!
    Brothers Of The Black Frigate
    Posted 1 year ago #
  16. cwarmouth

    cwarmouth

    Member
    Joined: Oct 2017
    Posts: 242

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    I was disappointed to see that this was a thread for fictitious stories. My first estate pipe, my first pipe ever as a matter of fact, is a 1929 Dunhill bruyere finish. I am the second owner of this pipe and I actually met the original owner. And talked to him. Well, sort of. I rather talked at him than to him.

    My wife told me not to tell this story online. She said that everyone would think the worst of me. I told her that I thought that her real concern was not for me, but that she was worried that everyone would think the worst of her. She admitted that was true. I assured her that all can be forgiven, and after all, it’s the internet. Everyone is anonymous, and the real likelihood of anyone ever finding out my (and her) identity is slim to zero. I showed her my avatar and asked her if she thought anyone would ever think that I am Chuck Colson, or that I would have a last name as ridiculous as Warmouth. What does that even mean? “No,” she said, “no-one is going to think you are Chuck Colson or CWarmouth, whatever that means, but your online reputation can be tarnished, and that is even more important than your real reputation these days.” I told her she was starting to sound like a millinial, at which point she huffed and went off to bed. So now here I am, enjoying a bowl of Erinmore Flake and getting all ready to tell my very true story.

    For as long as we have known each other, my wife, JWarmouth and I have had a hobby of crashing things: parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs, family reunions, anything we could find out about to crash. It all started in junior high. In 1979 JWarmouth and I were junior high sweethearts. We were initially attracted to each other because we were both a little weird. Maybe not weird. Maybe more like, socially awkward. No, we were weird. We were the two weird kids that never got invited to parties. That would never happen these days. These days everyone gets an invitation and everyone leaves the birthday party with a present. But we didn’t grow up in the “certificate of participation” era. We grew up in the “tackle him on the playground and beat the snot out of him for being weird/isolate the weird girl” era. So we started “going together” in the 7th grade and decided one day to crash a birthday party of a kid in our class. It was so much fun that we advanced to crashing parties of kids in other classes, other schools, and even 9th graders. She pretended not to notice that all the other girls stood with their arms folded, chomping their Hubba Bubba, whispering to each other and making subtle derogatory remarks to her, like “Hey freak, leave the party now. No-one likes you.” I pretended that I didn’t know I was going to get tackled the next day and get the snot beat out of me. We walked around talking to everyone, laughing at nothing, and eating all the snacks and sodas like we were supposed to be there. I think we were the only ones really having any fun. Through high-school and college our antics got more and more advanced. They had to. We had been going to parties for so long that we had somehow become the cool kids. It was rare that we were not invited. Parties were no longer any fun. It was in 1984 when we reached our magnus opus; the one where I came to acquire my pipe.

    We had been crashing funerals for a while. On more than one occasion our crashing actually turned out to be a blessing to the widowed spouse of the deceased, who sat in an empty funeral parlour waiting for someone, anyone to come offer condolences. In those occasions we found a humanitarian purpose in our hobby as we held the wrinkled hand of an elderly woman and told her tales of her now-passed husband’s acts of virtue during our time of knowing him. We comforted her with tissues and “God-be-with-yous” as tears streamed down her face and she thanked us for telling her these wonderful things about her beloved that she never knew. But most of the time we were self-centered and rude.

    It was a Saturday in April and the obituary column was remarkably full for such a lovely month to be alive. We read each notice carefully, and when we reached the name Evinrude Bergendorf, age 79 we knew this was our mark. We arrived at the funeral at 7:50 P.M. and were surprised to see a large gathering. In fact, I had to park my car several hundred yards down the street. Evinrude was apparently a man of some notoriety. These events were not as much fun because no-one knew anyone anyway. We knew we could spice it up somehow though. Maybe my wife (then girlfriend, JMayfair) would play the part of the secret other woman that no-one knew about. Maybe I would make the rounds asking everyone how much the old scoundrel cheated them out of. You had to go big or go home at big weddings, big funerals, and First-Communions. At first we milled around getting a feel of the crowd. One of the first conversations I heard was about “Rudies” love affair with his old pipe. How it never left his mouth, and how his lips had permanent indentions in them from 55 years of holding it between his lips “the way he did”. Some said he slept with it. One old lady chimed in that it looked like he was going to get his wish to be buried with that damned old chimney. I learned that “Dorf” (when you have a name like Evinrude Bergendorf, it is only merciful that your friends give you nick-names) had been a pipe smoker darn near most of his life, making his own corn-cobs as early as nine years old and getting tobacco from cigarette butts he collected and peeled apart. In 1929 he traveled all the way to New York city to buy a raccoon-skin coat and a pipe he had seen advertised in Country Gentleman Magazine. He would have many more pipes (but no more coon-skin coats) in his lifetime, but none as treasured as this one. Said pipe is occupying a place in my pipe stand as I type.

    After 30 minutes of casing the joint we rendezvoused near the restrooms and made a plan to go through the viewing/receiving line and see what we could see. Who was there to receive guests? How many? What were they like? We went through separately as we were not sure that we wanted to be recognized together yet. JMayfair went through a few people ahead of me. Nothing remarkable was to be seen in the family: the widow who looked a good 15 years younger than the deceased, an apparent son of about 35, his wife and kids, and a woman of about the same age; apparently a daughter. But “Bergs” was a different story. He was remarkable. He was laid in the finest wool suit. The smell of pipe tobacco had become a permanent part of his constitution. It had permeated his skin. There was also an almost overwhelming smell of English Leather. Tucked in his jacket pocket, much in the same way that other distinguished men have a handkerchief was a pouch of Edgeworth pipe tobacco which was said to have been saved to smoke on his deathbed. A 1929 Dunhill sat almost naturally between his lips. JMayfair and I made eye contact, and without even speaking we knew what must be done. She rubbed the shoulder of the widow, smiling sweetly and offering her sympathy, then placed herself in front of the son. It should be noted here that JMayfair was no longer an awkward 7th grader. In the prime of her life, she had developed into a sight to behold. She was, as we said in those days, a babe. She looked into the eyes of the son and tears welled up in her own. He furrowed his brow in a confused manner and formed a contrived half-smile. She put her hands around the upper part of his arms and then let them slide down into his hands. The man’s wife looked at her and then at him. Suspicion entered her mind and exited through her eyes in firey darts. JMayfair broke into a sob and threw herself into the man’s arms, wailing about not being able to marry him. Not now. Not after “all this.” She fainted. The man’s wife began thumping him and telling him she knew it. The man tried to stammer something but was drowned out by the shrieks of older women and the rushing of middle-aged men to the rescue of the poor passed-out woman who had caught all of their eyes from early on. No-one was looking at “Ev.” With not a second to spare I swiped the pouch from the jacket pocket and grabbed hold of the pipe. I expected an easy release but it seemed to have been held in place with some sort of adhesive. I tugged. Looked around. No-one was the wiser. “Let go, EVINRUDE,” I whispered. I tugged harder and this time it came free. “Thank you, Berg.” I stuck the loot in my pocket and made one more glance back at “Bergie.” His lip had a strange contortion that I am not sure was caused by my tugging or a lifetime of clenching. I quickly but calmly left the building before the deed was discovered. I waited a good 15 minutes before I finally saw JMayfair leaving the parlour, straightening her dress and offering “no, no, I’m fine now, really. It was all a big misunderstanding” to the parade of geezers who wanted to see her to her car. We drove off in uproarious laughter and quickly packed the pipe and lit her up. We found a quiet place to park and smoked half that pouch of vintage tobacco, reliving and guffawing over the evening’s exploits. “Did you see the look on his face?” The car filled up with the smell of old burley and aftershave. “Who first discovered that the pipe was gone?” “I thought he was never gonna let go of this pipe.” “Hey, we are smoking a pipe that was just in the mouth of a dead guy. Does that creep you out?”

    More than 3o years has passed and I am happy to say that JWarmouth and I still enjoy an occasional crash. Though most (but not all) are tamer now than then. As for the pipe, it will always hold a place of sentiment to me. But I have others, like Medico Brylons that I prefer for smoking. I want to like this pipe but I have carefully cleaned and retorted the pipe multiple times over the years, but every single time I light it up it smells and tastes like an unpalatable combination of embalming fluid, old tobacco, wool suits, and English Leather. Mrs. JWarmouth says it is the “ghost” of Old Evie.”

    I apologize for the length of this post, but true stories take longer to tell than fictitious ones.

    Posted 1 year ago #
  17. mayfair70

    mayfair70

    Felis Nicotiana combustus
    Joined: Sep 2015
    Posts: 1,983

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    @Cwarmouth -

    The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made. -Groucho Marx
    Mouse-catcher on The Black Frigate
    Posted 1 year ago #
  18. cwarmouth

    cwarmouth

    Member
    Joined: Oct 2017
    Posts: 242

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    ^ Hey, you have the same name as my wife's maiden name. You are not her delinquent brother that dropped out of school after "the incident" and disappeared are you?

    Posted 1 year ago #
  19. lifesizehobbit

    lifesizehobbit

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Oct 2015
    Posts: 831

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    cwarmouth - Huzzah sir!

    Posted 1 year ago #
  20. mso489

    mso489

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Feb 2013
    Posts: 25,955

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    Ah, no, this doesn't have to be fiction. A researched history of estate pipes would be a worthy if demanding project. Or a memoir of pipes as they become estate pipes. Or a scientific analysis of estate pipes (whew... that would be a project). The possibilities are endless. The short story collection was just the first to come to mind for me.

    Posted 1 year ago #
  21. cwarmouth

    cwarmouth

    Member
    Joined: Oct 2017
    Posts: 242

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    cwarmouth - Huzzah sir!

    I had to look up Huzzah. Thank you.

    These are all fun reads. Please keep them coming y'all. Good cheap entertainment.

    Posted 1 year ago #
  22. jaytex969

    jaytex969

    Preferred Member
    Joined: Jun 2017
    Posts: 3,543

    offline

    Login to Send PM

    There will be no topping that story from me at this late hour.

    I am, however, reminded of the wristwatch scene from Pulp Fiction.

    See it HERE and mentally insert the word "pipe" whenever Christopher Walken says "watch" or "Wristwatch"...

    Gunner, Black Frigate. Say "Hello" to my little friend!
    Posted 1 year ago #

Reply

You must log in to post.

 

 

    Back To Top  | Back to Forum Home Page

   Members Online Now
   eeshooter, artificialme, hawky454, hoosierpipeguy, frankrem, mikethompson, kylef, tbradsim1, eddiegrob