Hmm. Top speed: 3 miles per hour. That sounds suspiciously like the speed of Jamie Lee Curtis when she’s dragging one leg from a wound from Jason. It sounds vaguely like the speed of Boris Karloff when he’s stiff-legging it over the mountain after drowning that poor little girl. It sounds more or less like what physiologists call “preferred walking speed.”
I wonder what the preferred running speed is when you’re being pursued by a headless yellow pit bull moving at preferred walking speed.
Ya gotta love subcontinent engineering practices. Welding in sandals and grinding barefoot. But somehow or another, they end up with a finished product that three teams from American Chopper couldn’t beat. And when the cops come (with shoes, but no socks), they just ask for a test drive.
Ah, longsword sparring practice. I remember back when I was in high school, longsword sparring practice was the class between Poultices, Humours, and Hexes, and Machiavelli for Dummies. Anyway, as is always the case in combat sports, it’s not wise to bet against the heavy-set dudes. The big ‘n tall types. The round mounds of pounds. Henry VII was a bag of guts, and he sent them packing at the Battle of the Spurs. If bludgeoning someone, or playing right tackle is involved, always lay your wagers on the bubble butts.
Ah, future customers. The BSBFB was made for these little guys right here. There’s a very good reason why this website has a category labeled “Blows to the head.”
Of course their parents can’t hold the camera the right way, or spell “its” properly, so it’s easy to blame nurture vs. nature for their predilection for blows to the head. But that’s probably a mistake. All men are like this, even if we can spell. We’re always on the lookout for ways to stave in our noggins for cheap thrills. And we always giggle while we do it. And like little Mr. Green Shirt here, we don’t give up the pedal easily. Because we may be dumb, but we know that it’s better to give than receive.
(thanks to Charles Schneider for sending that one along)