Category Archives: Boys will be Boys

Make My Day

The high spot of the travel schedule this week (arrived home three hours ago; leaving again in twelve hours for Europe) was the chance to go to the Smith & Wesson range in Springfield again and shoot some targets. We took some colleagues there for “team building” Monday evening and engaged in a little healthy competition. The winning team received Smith & Wesson hats while the losers got a copy each of People magazine – you know, the edition with the picture of Clay Aiken on the cover with the giant headline “Yes I’m Gay”.

I won’t bore you with the details – you can always recap on my last visit here – but as a special treat they arranged for us to shoot the Smith & Wesson 500. This is the .50 caliber revolver that re-established S&W as the manufacturer of the most powerful production handgun in the world (according to them – it’s not as though I checked).

This beast is loaded with five gigantic cartridges, but the range officer was only putting one round in the chamber in case the firer panicked and dropped the gun on experiencing the recoil. Bear in mind that Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum produces about 900 ft.-lb. of muzzle energy while this gun produces almost 2600 ft.-lb. with its heaviest load. A single factory round costs about $4, apparently.

I didn’t even realize the thing was there until late in the session and, of course, I had to have a go. The range officer put the one round in and instructed me to fire double action (without pulling back the hammer), since the trigger was sensitive. It was indeed a beast, but not hard to fire, although it’s definitely not for the nervous. I put in a fresh target and loaded up with five rounds. This time I fired single action (cocking before firing) simply because it’s automatic for me to do it and I forgot not to; the trigger sensitivity was fine.

Below is the target – I was pretty happy with that. And I’m fairly confident that this gun would, in fact, be capable of “taking your head clean off”. So go ahead – make my day, and buy me one. Please.

Copyright &copy: 2008 Edward Bison

On Yer Bike

Back when I was about fifteen I was seriously into heavy metal – Motorhead, Iron Maiden, Saxon, Diamond Head, AC/DC and a lot more like that. It was excellent music and it’s still a big part of what’s on my MP3 player, but in those days it wasn’t enough just to like the music – I had to dress the part too. This meant a leather jacket with sleeveless faded denim jacket over the top and patches on it. I also had a bullet belt and a studded wristband; at the time I thought these were great but although I’d like to believe that was true I have a sneaking suspicion I must have looked like a bit of a twat. I mean, it’s a good look if you’re an outlaw biker but at that age I was getting around by bicycle, bus or “a ride from someone’s dad” and how much of an outlaw can you be like that?

What I really needed was a proper bike, but I wasn’t enough of an outlaw to steal one, wouldn’t have been able to ride it if I did, and couldn’t afford to buy one even when I was old enough, so I was kind of stuck with the ten-speed. Probably just as well – a mate once had me try out his 50cc Yamaha in his garden and, with no concept yet of the niceties of clutch control, I grabbed a handful of throttle, let the clutch out and wheelied into his dad’s fence. “Ride to Live, Live to Ride Into A Fence”, that’s my motto.

I mention all this because my neighbor just came home with a new Honda Rune, which is apparently something of a rarity (less than a thousand on the road) and pretty powerful. It’s not something I personally would lust over – I prefer the idea of a big custom Harley – but it got me thinking that it might be time to try life on two wheels.

I can imagine my mum would be mortified if she read this (which would, to be fair, only happen if my dad showed it to her). It’s all very well me talking to the world about animal blowjobs and setting new standards for gratuitous use of the word “cunt” on the internet but getting a bike would be something that would actually worry her. Personally I blame my dad – he had a moped for a while but fell off coming home from work one night as a result of the council helpfully coating our street with loose chippings during the day. It’s not like he was really fucked up, but the moped went soon after and we kids used his dented helmet as a toy from then on. Then there’s my brother, the anesthesiologist, with his helpful description of motorbikes as “mobile organ donor units”…

Lots of professional people have taken to getting bikes in the States, and there’s none of this twatting about on a 125cc while you take your test over here. No, you can go out and buy a big Harley and take it out with no training, pass a simple test and ride to your heart’s content. Which may explain the serious spike in motorcycle fatalities among the over-forties. (Perhaps their motto should be “Ride to Live – Maybe”.) What’s probably more worrying, as you may have realized if you happened to see that shite movie “Wild Hogs” (I saw it on a plane, honest) is that most of the people riding Harleys now seem to be dentists, accountants, finance directors and chiropractors. Doesn’t this sort of take the edge off it? Maybe when they go out as a group they can wear a big patch on their backs: “Ride to Live, Live to Itemize Deductions on My Tax Return”, or maybe “Ride to Live, Live to Max Out My 401k”.

Somewhere at my parents’ house, unless they quietly threw it out during one of their various moves, I still have a bullet belt. I’ll need to buy some more bullets – my waist isn’t quite what it was when I was fifteen, you understand – but I could get a real bike now and finally get redemption for dressing up like one as a bum-fluff-faced teenager. I’d need a pisspot hemet – you can’t look the part in a full face job, although it would certainly cut down on the need to pick bugs out of your teeth – and I’d also need to learn to ride. (Small detail.) Yeah, nothing would spoil the look quite like grabbing a handful of throttle and riding into a minivan, would it? Of course, if the worst comes to the worst I still have that old ten-speed in the garage, and a studded wristband…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Just Squeeze The Trigger

Yesterday was the last day of a two day meeting I held for my team in Massachusetts and we had planned to celebrate with a little teambuilding. This was to involve getting together with a few of the managers at the plant and engaging in some trigger therapy at the local Smith & Wesson shooting range. The plant manager offered to bring his toys, which I’d heard were excellent and included a .44 Magnum which would attempt to take off your fucking arm when you fired it.

So at 5:15 we left the meeting for the allegedly ten minute drive to the range. Glen was driving us in a rented minivan (a spectacularly plasticky Kia) and claimed to know the way. He had his hand-held GPS as a standby but I’m not sure why, because the first time it told him to turn around he ignored it. Consequently we found ourselves being directed towards a bridge which we needed to cross to get back on track but which was in fact comprehensively closed (with full complement of cones, flashing lights and workmen with exposed arse cracks). We’d faced this obstacle earlier in the week but then we’d had someone in the van who knew the area and could direct us. Now we were hopelessly fucked. And late for our shooting.

We tried a couple of routes but just ended up at the bridge again. Aha! The GPS! Glen consulted it once more and set off on a roundabout route, diligently following its directions for about ten minutes until it faithfully dumped us back at the bridge. Which was still closed. At this point the mild-mannered Glen erupted in a volley of abuse: “I don’t fucking believe it. Fuck it. We’re back at the fucking bridge again.” It was like Groundhog Day, only with orange barrels. I suggested he renounce his masculinity and ask for directions at a gas station. We were quickly provided with directions and rendezvoused with the rest of our group at the S&W range.

We signed three separate forms, provided two types of ID and received protective equipment and then went into the range where some of the group were already shooting. One gun was sitting in its case waiting to be used in an open firing lane. It was the .44, fitted with a scope. I sent the target out to the first position and loaded the revolver with six very large rounds. Having not fired a gun for literally years, and only once in the last thirteen, I was somewhat concerned that I might have lost the knack and would show myself up by missing the target completely, or something similarly shit. (Back in the UK I owned a very nice S&W .357 Magnum, before all the legal guns had to be handed in so that only criminals could own one – note how much gun crime has soared since then, all you weak-minded, knee-jerk political fuckstains. Ironically I had to give it up when I came to the US, not being a citizen.) I sighted on the black circle squeezed the trigger and the hand-cannon exploded. It was a wonderful toy, although the full-load ammunition was not really required for punching holes in paper. All six went in the black, but I couldn’t see this until I got the target back, leading me to wonder if I’d hit it at all.

We shot about five other handguns and my favorite was a semiautomatic S&W .38 Super. We had a small competition to see who could shoot the tightest group at 25 and 50 feet with whatever gun you felt happiest using and I chose that one. Apparently shooting is like riding a bike, or wanking, in that it’s not a skill you lose once acquired, and British pride was upheld as I walked off with the substantial first prize (a Smith & Wesson hat). God help the burglar who comes to my house, provided that he wears a black circle and brings me a gun…

We then headed off for an excellent barbecue dinner. Before we left I suggested to Glen that if he taped his GPS to the target and sent it down the range to 25 feet I’d happily put it out of its misery for him. He declined my offer – maybe he’s going soft. Or maybe he just really likes visiting that bridge.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

No Weirdo Zone

Many people’s experience of living with weird bastards starts at college (although for some I recognize that it begins at birth). We had one Ugandan bloke who vomited repeatedly in his wastepaper bin as a result of some affliction brought on by a diet that consisted mainly of cheap beer and no food.

Read more of this story in Mr Bison’s Journal, a funny book full of stories that will make you laugh out laugh

Maxim-um Shite

A few months ago I had some airline miles about to expire. They were on an airline that I never fly, and there weren’t very many of them, so I took advantage of one of those “exchange miles for magazines” offers. One of the magazines I selected was Maxim – I used to like it years ago, although not so much that I’d spend actual money on it every month. But how bad could it be for free? I mean, I like naked women, scotch, cars, cool real-life stories and all the usual man-stuff you’d expect to find in Maxim so I signed up. Now I recognize that at age forty I’m outside the Maxim target demographic but I have to say that the magazine is now complete shit.

For a start, in the last edition there were seven separate features involving partially clad women, mostly of the “movie star / TV star” variety, pouting at the camera. What’s the point of this? Any adult male with a job and a place to live can hook up to the internet and view completely naked women by the thousand every day, some of them doing things with bananas that you definitely won’t see in Maxim. I don’t understand who needs page after page of not-even-remotely-naked pictures. Some are accompanied by the kind of stilted interviews that are presumably scripted to portray the starlet in question as the kind of girl-next-door who would be only too willing to shag you, and who is just a normal, down to earth person really. Yeah right.

Much of the rest of the magazine is dedicated to selling you stuff, either through actual advertisments or through shameless product placement features. There was a small section on cars, but it included an award for “toughest hybrid” which is a complete oxymoron since the hybrid is a badge of pussy shame that no archetypal Maxim reader should be considering. To be fair to Maxim, there were two articles worth reading, but magazines are ideal toilet-reading material and those articles wouldn’t cover a single “major visit”. Even if it was turbo-charged by a Thai curry.

So since I’m clearly not the Maxim target audience, who is? Well, they obviously either have money (so they can contemplate buying the >$100k Audi featured) or just like to whack off over pictures of stuff they can’t afford. They are a man-about-town, confident enough to wear the fine fashion showcased at the end of the magazine, but insecure enough to need advice on how to deal with premature ejaculation. (By the way, the best comment I ever saw on the subject was “premature for whom, exactly?”). The Maxim reader is happy with pictures of semi-naked women, not showing any nipples or hairy undercarriage, possibly related to the premature ejaculation problem (full nudity presumably pushes them over the edge too quickly). They devote their entire disposable income to electronic gadgets but seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time in front of computer games, which may explain why they need advice on “How to decode what a woman’s drink says about her”. (Of course women are probably getting simultaneous advice from Cosmo or one of a thousand other women’s magazines on what they should drink to make an impression, so I’m guessing you’d have more luck judging her real personality by the color of her underwear. Actually, that’s not a bad idea…)

Now I’m not arguing that Maxim should shy away from drink, parties, cars, pretty girls, cool toys and stories about ninja killers in the misguided pursuit of a “higher” form of literature. Bring on the low-grade entertainment, laced with sardonic humor and flashes of accessible style. Publish something that would be a true playbook for the 25-35 age group. And put some bloody content in it, instead of filling a page with photos of five sneakers and calling that a feature, wankers. But for fuck’s sake, if you can’t hold off for a few minutes before blowing your wad when you’re on the job, don’t be looking to Maxim for sensible advice. I’d expect to read “shag uglier women – you won’t come so quickly”. That would be a magazine I’d buy. Or at least read at the dentist.

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Have A Jodrell

As I’ve stated before, English is a rich language, particularly “real” English, which is embroidered with thousands of euphemisms, slang terms and similes (look it up) which provide endless opportunity to shock and appall. I was reminded of this last night when watching a movie in which a character was caught by his wife “pulling his plum over the sink”. His mate refers to this act as “having a Jodrell”, an obscure reference to anyone from outside the UK, and unlikely to be readily decoded. Let me explain:

Read more of this story in Mr Bison’s Journal, the laugh out loud book

Bored Of Breasts?

I was talking with Mrs.Bison last night and happened to refer during the conversation to a young woman at work. She asked “Is that the one with the big arse?” and I replied that, no, this one had big tits. Wonderful, pendulous breasts. I then went on to make a Homer Simpson-like noise of appreciation, “Mmmmmm! Pendulous breasts!”. When she commented that “You like her breasts then?” I stated that I wouldn’t mind playing with them for thirty minutes, just for fun. At this point she challenged me: what could I do with them for thirty minutes? Wouldn’t I have basically checked everything out in about five?…

Read the rest of this story in Mr Bison’s Journal, one of the top humor books of 2012

Completely Shaven?

I was waxing philosophical yesterday (if you’ll forgive the pun) about the evils of male chest depilation, and how real men should have a bit of hair on them. One of my avid readers (I know there’s at least two) pointed out that this should really apply to women too, and I was forced to confront the question: what would I think if I encountered a naked woman with hairy legs and armpits, a slight moustache and a giant mat of beaver thatch? Well obviously I’m going to run a mile, so that makes me a hypocrite. It’s a fair cop!

Read the rest of this story in Mr Bison’s journal, the best funny book of 2012



Age is something that creeps up on you gradually (as opposed to maturity, which seldom occurs naturally in the male of the species and has to be faked). Because it happens gradually you may well wake up one day and find yourself having sex with a forty year-old woman. How did that happen? I’m guessing it wasn’t by choice, in the sense that you didn’t suddenly start thinking that older women were hotter than younger ones. You probably just married a younger one who aged into the role, as it were, or you found that as you got older it was impossible to get younger women to regard you as anything other than a father figure (or pervert uncle figure).

I had to explain this fact to a woman in the gym a few weeks ago: as men get older they don’t stop wanting to shag young women. Our taste doesn’t “mature” so that we suddenly find wrinkles, gravitationally challenged breasts and cellulite a real turn-on. (I’m talking about normal people here – I know there’s websites out there dedicated to granny-sex but that’s just wrong, OK?) In the same way I’m sure women don’t desperately look forward to getting fucked by men with pot bellies, bald heads and double chins.

When you go to the pool they have young, lithe, female lifeguards, with bodies that practically define the word “pert”. Wanting to do one is just part of being male, like shaving or scratching your balls, and women who don’t realize this are either very naive or very dumb. Scattered around the pool are various women exhibiting the process of aging in all its forms. As the years go by the bikini becomes a one piece, and then one of those shorts-and-a-top outfits that attempts to disguise arse expansion. Eventually a small skirt thing is added to hide the arse completely and the transformation is complete. Like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, only in reverse.

And yet there are women out there who defy this easy characterisation – they are MILFs. I could attempt to describe what makes a MILF but you’ll find that one man’s MILF is another man’s old slapper, and taste is highly variable. It’s definitely true, though, that a certain group of older women is attractive regardless of the age of the male viewer. So if you do happen to find yourself up to the hilt in an older woman it’s not necessarily a bad thing. If, on the other hand, your fantasies run to women with no teeth, a walker and their own warden-assisted secure apartment you should ask a friend to slap you very hard around the head. Perhaps with a rock.

Older women do seem to think that there’s something wrong with men fancying younger women, though, as if it’s somehow sordid or a sign of shallowness. Newsflash – we’re all shallow; if a girl in a short skirt crosses her legs opposite us the thing that distinguishes “mature” men from “immature” men is not whether they look but whether they get caught looking. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that us older men have more in common with an older woman than a young one – this is a common misconception among older women. We have little in common with either of them because they are practically a different species. They put cushions on beds, buy pot-pourri, use moisturizer, coordinate fabrics and talk during football games (on subjects other than football). What do we have to talk about? I once heard it said that the main attraction of a three-way with two women was that they would have someone to talk to afterwards so that the guy could relax, sleep, watch TV or make a sandwich. Plus there’d be more breasts.

So dating older women has nothing to do with maturity and is probably more a matter of necessity, but MILFs are nature’s way of making it OK. In the meantime I’m taking a break from maturity and going swimming…

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison