tagHumor & SatireDart Shooter Gets Lucky, Gets Caught

Dart Shooter Gets Lucky, Gets Caught

byBaba8©

Wolfram Warthog is actually my dart shooting name. The preferred and best darts for the professional dart shooter are tungsten darts. If you check the atomic symbol for tungsten it is a, "W." The W is for its old English name wolfram. I like the sound of wolfram, better then tungsten. It provides me visions of a wolf ramming a ram. "Yowlllllllleee" I'm not afraid of ticks.

The warthog part, I like the looks of the Arkansas Razorback, a hard headed and bristly hog. A pig bristle dartboard is what the darts actually mate with.

My favorite darts are 90% tungsten nickel darts called Hammer Heads. The dart barrel slides forward when the point hits the pig bristle board. This drives the dart point past any pesky wire you might hit on the board. To increase the efficiency even more the stainless steel point is rounded at the very end.

The British outlawed the first hammerheads, "To bloody deadly."

I only played darts in England one time. That's another story which I will tell if requested. What the reader needs to know is that I'm a hell of a dart shooter. I beat Barry Tromlow, double news of the world winner, in a little Pub called the "Happy Valley Inn," down the road from the old Sahara going towards Nellis, AFB. I had to shoot a 12 dart 501 to do it. This was after the World Cup Event in Las Vegas. The bar owners left the game on the board for months. Barry bought me a beer and signed the scoreboard.

I've also shot a nine dart cricket game and scored points. This tells you that I can shoot darts, I'm a shooter. The problem is I have a hard time staying at the optimum beer level. Eric Bristow (ex-world champ) travels with a double 14 shooter, scorekeeper and beer manager. This beer supervisor has Eric's favorite beer in a satchel and a timer to keep him at a two beer level as he enters each event. Myself I drink until I lose, then I have a good reason to really drink.

I was shooting for the "Office" dart team. We were in an "A" division dart league, shooting for first place at our home bar. We were missing one player. Our team captain grabbed a hot babe, very un-usual for this place and asked her if she would shoot with us. She ended up shooting all her events with me as her partner. We won every event. This is a sure way to get hooked up with some pussy. She kept hugging and kissing on me as we kept calling "Dart." I guess she had never won anything before in her life. We were behind in our last event. She wanted to win.

I didn't care for all of the drunk hugging, her hooters were standouts, and I like the sweet hangers. She was celebrating failing the real estate examination for the third time. She had dusted herself with some cheap powder, to keep the wet spots dry. It was the same stuff that was used by Thai hookers. Thai hookers are my favorite hookers; they will always leave you enough money for the base bus after they steal everything you got. I loved them too much. I always carried my folding money in the arch of my foot under my socks.

I did a lot of bad things in Thailand, but I always had my socks on. Plus the added attraction they would finish you off with the famous "Thai squeeze" (YOOOUUUOUlllleee.) Plus the double added attraction they would clean you off with ambient rainwater and a double soft touch. My new bride used to brag with the statement. "You never had it so good."

I always responded with, "Thailand." When I determined that she didn't like this statement, it was late in the game.

The newest dart shooter slammed a wiggler tongue in my ear and announced, "If you can win this game for us, you are invited to my place for all the beer you can drink, and shooting to music."

I said, "I can't hear you around your tongue."

My entire dart team chimed in. "Make the shot; she's going to fuck your brains right out of your head."

I've been way to smart, for way to long. I needed a serious brain fucking. Drinking wasn't going to do it. I had heard the urban legend that drinking kills brain cells. It came from some born again Reader's Digest believer. After a short period of research, I taped a nine foot four inch banner across the roof ledge above the desks, in the engine room hangar. We were re-wiring J-57 engines used on the wing tips of the, "Shakey." The Globemaster was slow, but could still suck enough air to run.

The huge banner represented all of the brains cells in the average human male. The female's banner is of course longer.

I colored in the area of brain cells that would be killed if you drank 44 cans of beer a day for 40 years. Each leap year you got a day off. I used beer can years as my model. One beer a day for one year. At the 44 beer can years for forty years you killed less then four inches of brain cells.

Drink and get stupid lads, is my advice. I'm a smart guy. I got the banner to prove it.

Her place was on my way home. The added attraction, she was the perfect woman, about 5'10" with wrap around legs. Slight pudgy stomach, which means she's a cheap date, always on a diet. Glide path hirsute blonde wedged pennant snapper. Could not kiss at all, she kept her mouth wide open and wiggled her tongue. This is good with me, why waste your time kissing.

Plus the double added attraction her husband worked for the local brewery. He could sign out beer. Beer was everywhere. The extra double added attraction he worked midnight shift. I had an eight hour play period.

I had to park down the road to ward off noisy neighbors. I selected a short cut through some pine trees to her back yard and entered in her back door. The landing greeted me with a path to the beer infested playpen basement. It contained all the essential elements. Beer cooler, poker table, couches (pop-out) easy chairs. I checked for my possible escape routes. It had very small windows at ground level. The door I came in was the only way out.

I asked her how big her husband was.

She said, "I'm not sure. It's either in me every Saturday morning or in his favorite wash rag."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Before we have sex Saturday morning, I warm up his favorite wash rag with warm water. We keep it on the night stand in his favorite silver tray. When he is ready to shoot, he grabs his washrag and runs into the bath room."

I said, "Is there anything else I should know."

She said, "We lie in bed and listen to Lou Rawls, when Lou gets to sitting on the dock of the bay. He gets on top of me and pokes it in. Lou is still on the dock, "wasting time" and he will be running for the bathroom."

I said, "What I really wanted to know is, I don't see but one way out of this basement, up those stairs. How tall is your husband?"

"Six foot two"

"That's not good. All men lie about two things one of them is their height. How much does he weight?"

"One hundred and ninety pounds."

"Yeah, yeah, everything is good. If he gets in my way I promise to not hurt him to much."

My theory is since I would have a, "his wife wetted dick," and full of his beer, plus the added power of adrinaline as a super charger, I would be past him so fast he might not even see me.

I'm a romantic type of dart shooter, so I took control.

"Point at the beer locker, put on Lou Rawls and get naked."

This gave me 45 minutes of working it. I didn't like to look at her while banging away. She flopped her head from side to side and kept her mouth completely opened. I kept thinking about the old Chinese saying that the orifices in a female of the species are matched. It you want a girl with a little kuttchy; get one with a little mouth. I could have thrown a whole baked chicken into her flopping void.

She had thrown the mattress from the pop out couch on the floor for our "dock" performance. It was working, I didn't have far to fall if I fell out. When Lou got to "Sitting on the dock of the bay." I shifted gears from cruise to rough riding four wheel drive high. She had a very high pelvic bone area. I punished myself through the pain to show her a good time. I was popping and slopping in the bay. I threw out my anchor, and my cargo.

She was kept busy wiping up the good time slime with her warm washrag, while I got another beer.

I asked her, "Is that your husband's favorite wash rag?"

She said, "Are you serious, I would never do that to my husband, what kind of person, do you think I am. I took wedding vows."

She went to work on me with a fresh warm unrolled wash cloth. I had to admit she had good technique with the washrag.

I said, "I really like this washcloth, would you save it for me."

She said, "I can do that, I didn't think you liked it since you didn't shoot into it."

"I slipped up, that first one doesn't count. We need to do it again."

"Okay, I'm good for next week."

"I'm talking about right now. All you need to do is kiss on this big thing in the washrag."

"It doesn't seem so big anymore."

"That's right, you need to kiss it and it becomes a Dirty Harry hand cannon, six shooter."

Her kissing was just fine, and her wiggling tongue was too. I held on to her hair to keep her head from flopping around.

She got the kinks out of my anchor chain. I was harpoon loaded and ready to fire a salvo at the nearest sperm whale.

"Cum on it the waters fine."

I egressed the bay area of the dock for the second time. I didn't want to risk tangling my anchor so I winched the mighty wolfram weapon to the down and locked position.

She said, "What happened, I had your favorite washrag ready."

I said, "I need more shooting practice, maybe I can give it a shot next week."

I pushed through the long needled red pine trees on my way out. I stopped to take a relaxing pee in the pine trees. My main bleed tanks were full of used beer. I had to talk to my razorback, the big boy was all dumb and thinking he had only one purpose in life. Peeing was at the lower portion of Maslow's Hierarchy. He was a pussy monger. I grabbed him by the neck and shook him to life, got a piss hard on and fertilized the tree root structure.

I got home at 3:30. My bride ripped off the bed covers in one diagonal pull at 5:30 in the morning. She was unhappy with the smelly, drunk male in her bed.

She said, "Good morning ass-hole, you got some explaining to do. Who were you fucking last night?"

"What are you talking about baby doll; I'm just a dart shooting boy."

She said, "Oh yeah, explain the lip stick, and cheap rouge on your shirt."

My stinky Wolfram Warthog dart shirt landed on my face. I didn't need to look. I could smell the vile evidence. "Honest sweetie pie, you are making a serious mistake. I can explain everything. Our team was short one player. The team captain grabbed the only person sitting at the bar. She was smelly, drunk and ugly, a bad kisser too."

She said, "Sounds like a dart shooters dreamboat."

"The captain teamed her with me, because I'm the strongest shooter. Every time we won she got excited, and was rubbing and hugging on me. It was awful. I was sneezing and whizzing from her horrid stench. I should win some type of award for performance above and beyond my dart shooting duties."

She said, "You should win the fast thinking award for drunken liars. That's a good story but how are you going to talk your way out of the pine needles in your hair."

"What pine needles?" I reached up and pulled several long leaf pine needles out of my hair. "What the hell."

"Looks like you had to sneak through some pine trees as you left your stinking girl friends house."

(How did she know?) "Wrong again, I stopped on the way home to take a pee, and a car came by, so I moved into some pine trees. I didn't want to get a ticket. I guess I drank to much beer."

"That's your first true statement, you lying dog."

I said, "Which one, the peeing or the beer drinking?"

She said, "Your story is better then I though it would be, but you have one really big problem. How can you explain, your underwear, they are on backwards."

She had her hands on her hips as she ran her rapid fire questions at me. They were now pointing at the guilty dart shooters snoozing member.

I looked down, though bloodshot adrenaline vertigo induced eyes, "Hey, my whitey/tightey's are okay."

She said, "That's right, dumb-ass, but you had to look."

She covered me back up. "Get some sleep sweetie; I'll have your favorite sausage gravy ready, cooked in your favorite cast iron skillet. You are going to need some energy food. I want to spend some time on the firing range with your hand cannon. Is it ready for the weekly operational shootout?"

""No sweat baby, it feels like a tungsten barreled hammerhead Bofers 105 with a full ammo load. Put on your favorite "Elvis" and get naked."

She said, "Right, I already checked. I didn't see your ammo drum, all I saw was an acorn sized red wrinkled pee pee shooter, with washrag scuff marks and a dripping smile."

I ended up taking a hike down a path called the commons. I climbed over a fence and hiked into the middle of a small town square and shot in a Pub called, "Seven sisters and a Bell" their dart board had a modified half tub under it felled with wet burlap. The board was made of a cross cut section of an Elm log. The board had been soaked over night in water to seal up the little dart holes. It was dripping into the burlap. The wires dividing the numbers were very thin. I never saw a dart fall out the entire evening of dart shooting. I was drinking the recommended drink of the local gaffers. It was called "Keg and Light."

Myself and keg and light became close friends. The keg beer is a dark beer made in the basement and served in a one pint glass. The light is a small 8 oz bottle of pilsner in a green bottle. As you drink the evil keg beer you add light to it to top it up.

I held the board all night. They were on the "telly" bringing in shooters to try to beat the "Yank." I must admit they were unsurpassed as score keepers as soon as your last dart hit the board they had the score written down. The name of the game was 301, in this game you have to shoot a double to get on and a double to get off. The double is the small outer ring on the board. They were poor sports on the various ways that I took out the game. They like to use the double 16 as much as possible. I like 16's, but I shoot what ever gets me the win. I had a chance to try out an English village girl; all I had to do was buy her a drink. The "tight" as local had already had some and knew if they waited it would be free later. I didn't bite; I figured it was a trap to get me off the board, besides that she was a skinny blonde with no tits. I like big, smelly, hirsute, busty sluts. They are also better dart shooters.

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