Scarpa
Well-Known Member
My missus has a pair too. We can provide pics for a small subscription.
This years must have for the .270 owner ...
- Thread starter MTheaded but happy
- Start date
MTheaded but happy
Well-Known Member
Is it possible you're on the wrong " Stalking " Directory?
tackb
Well-Known Member
A fine Farmer from North Wales appeared,
he was famed for a most fantastic beard,
not much did he crave as he returned to his cave,
but no TV and the gloom made him bark at the moon.
One night as he peed he thought "should I get a Creed?" as at least that allows me to sit down
Lost a bit of steam at the end
A fine Farmer from North Wales appeared,
he was famed for a most fantastic beard,
not much did he crave as he returned to his cave,
but no TV and the gloom made him bark at the moon.
One night as he peed he thought "should I get a Creed?" as at least that allows me to sit down
Lost a bit of steam at the end
On one thing I'm sure we're agreed:
t'would be best if we stood when we peed,
but hair in a bun
is simply not done,
unless you're a wuss with a Creed.
Even AI has a view !
He bought a shiny Creedmoor—six-point-five, no less—
With polished scope and camo dress.
He cradled it like royalty.
And whispered, “You’re a work of art to me.”
He’d read the scrolls of ballistic lore,
Dreamed of shots at a thousand yards or more.
Charts and tables filled his den,
He muttered, “Wind drift? Not again…”
Opening day at half past four,
He crept across the forest floor.
But every twig that dared to snap
He blamed upon his rifle’s strap.
For when he glimpsed a whitetail buck,
His heartbeat thundered—out of luck!
He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.
He nearly fainted, truth be think.
“Oh mercy me,” he softly cried,
“My Creedmoor and my manly pride!”
He tried to stalk, all cool and sly—
But squealed, “This gun can reach the sky!”
The deer just flicked a velvet ear,
And bounded off from fifty yards near.
Our hunter stood, in leafy gloom,
Admiring rifling twist and boom.
He’d practice poses in the grass:
“Long-range legend? Total class.”
Yet every time a doe drew near,
He grinned too wide from ear to ear.
He’d whisper specs—“Sub-MOA!”—
While woodland creatures slipped away.
He’d nudge the safety off with flair,
Then giggle like a county fair.
Soon squirrels knew him by his grin,
And chipmunks mocked his ballistic spin.
The deer would graze just out of sight,
Safe from his excited fright.
For though his rifle shot precise,
His nerves were anything but nice.
He’d tremble like an autumn leaf
And scare the herd beyond belief.
So now he hunts at longer range,
Where distance feels a little strange.
He sits atop a windy hill,
Admiring scope knobs, calm and still.
And should a buck step far away,
Beyond where common rifles play—
He beams and says, “At last, my dream!”
Then faints before he pulls the beam.
Thus in the woods it’s often said:
“Beware the hunter, bright and red—
Not from cold nor woodland strife,
But from falling in love with his rifle for life.”
He bought a shiny Creedmoor—six-point-five, no less—
With polished scope and camo dress.
He cradled it like royalty.
And whispered, “You’re a work of art to me.”
He’d read the scrolls of ballistic lore,
Dreamed of shots at a thousand yards or more.
Charts and tables filled his den,
He muttered, “Wind drift? Not again…”
Opening day at half past four,
He crept across the forest floor.
But every twig that dared to snap
He blamed upon his rifle’s strap.
For when he glimpsed a whitetail buck,
His heartbeat thundered—out of luck!
He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.
He nearly fainted, truth be think.
“Oh mercy me,” he softly cried,
“My Creedmoor and my manly pride!”
He tried to stalk, all cool and sly—
But squealed, “This gun can reach the sky!”
The deer just flicked a velvet ear,
And bounded off from fifty yards near.
Our hunter stood, in leafy gloom,
Admiring rifling twist and boom.
He’d practice poses in the grass:
“Long-range legend? Total class.”
Yet every time a doe drew near,
He grinned too wide from ear to ear.
He’d whisper specs—“Sub-MOA!”—
While woodland creatures slipped away.
He’d nudge the safety off with flair,
Then giggle like a county fair.
Soon squirrels knew him by his grin,
And chipmunks mocked his ballistic spin.
The deer would graze just out of sight,
Safe from his excited fright.
For though his rifle shot precise,
His nerves were anything but nice.
He’d tremble like an autumn leaf
And scare the herd beyond belief.
So now he hunts at longer range,
Where distance feels a little strange.
He sits atop a windy hill,
Admiring scope knobs, calm and still.
And should a buck step far away,
Beyond where common rifles play—
He beams and says, “At last, my dream!”
Then faints before he pulls the beam.
Thus in the woods it’s often said:
“Beware the hunter, bright and red—
Not from cold nor woodland strife,
But from falling in love with his rifle for life.”
Im giving up at this point mate. My tiny brain hurt last time so dont think I can do any better.There once was a bald git called Mike
his rudeness left not a lot to like
so he bought a creed which filled him pride
but most of the deer he shot ran on and very few died
That is it for me (I would also like to note that the last sentence is very untrue ...there is a little bit of running and a bit of dying
)
paul o'
Well-Known Member
Thomas Gordon
Well-Known Member
Why do all these 6 point something calibres compare themselves to the .270? and why is it every couple years theres a new 6 point something 
that are still comparing to the 270? But have never pushed it off its top spot ...
that are still comparing to the 270? But have never pushed it off its top spot ...Top spot in what way - top spot for not trying anything new, needing a wash, beard trim, thinking the world is flat, not knowing what a sound moderator isWhy do all these 6 point something calibres compare themselves to the .270? and why is it every couple years theres a new 6 point something
Thomas Gordon
Well-Known Member
Thomas Gordon
Well-Known Member
what is a sound moderator?Top spot in what way - top spot for not trying anything new, needing a wash, beard trim, thinking the world is flat, not knowing what a sound moderator is
What
Thomas Gordon
Well-Known Member
I dont think that pic is a Creedmoor owner...no way we would mess up our hair with a baseball cap
MTheaded but happy
Well-Known Member
Why do all these 6 point something calibres compare themselves to the .270? and why is it every couple years theres a new 6 point something
Who's comparing calibres ? That argument left the building with Elvis.
A fine Farmer from North Wales appeared,
he was famed for a most fantastic beard,
not much did he crave as he returned to his cave,
but no TV and the gloom made him bark at the moon.
One night as he peed he thought "should I get a Creed?" as at least that allows me to sit down
Lost a bit of steam at the end
Creed owners ,
may stand or may sit ,
Those goobers with a 270 ,
need help when they s#!t .
One on top of two
Well-Known Member
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