Crappie71
Gold Member
- Joined
- Jan 8, 2021
- Messages
- 1,967
I’d go with the Lamb.
-
The BladeForums.com 2024 Traditional Knife is ready to order! See this thread for details: https://www.bladeforums.com/threads/bladeforums-2024-traditional-knife.2003187/
Price is$300$250 ea (shipped within CONUS). If you live outside the US, I will contact you after your order for extra shipping charges.
Order here: https://www.bladeforums.com/help/2024-traditional/ - Order as many as you like, we have plenty.
What "Traditional Knife" are ya totin' today?
- Thread starter jackknife
- Start date
PenisMightier
Gold Member
- Joined
- Jul 22, 2023
- Messages
- 552
Personally I would pick the teardrop pattern, but I am a sucker for that pattern.
Ellis Wyatt
Gold Member
- Joined
- May 17, 2009
- Messages
- 3,650
90F with a "feels like" of 99 
Johnnythefox
Gold Member
- Joined
- Feb 16, 2017
- Messages
- 4,552
Yesterday in the Cotswolds.
That Bentley looks like a gangsters car to me.
That Bentley looks like a gangsters car to me.
brokebladeenthusiast28
Basic Member
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2023
- Messages
- 349
- Joined
- Jan 7, 2016
- Messages
- 1,138
![54635448419_01886d4f08_b.jpg[IMG]](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/54635448419_01886d4f08_b.jpg[IMG])
BrotherJim
Gold Member
- Joined
- Feb 9, 2015
- Messages
- 4,218
Sunday at the Great Derby of Questionable Decisions
At the Great American Tinkerer's Derby, young Herbert “Grease Thumb” Tillinghast had a secret weapon hidden in the pocket of his overalls. While the other boys on his team, Carburetor Cowboys, tightened bolts with bare hands and cursed their wobbly wheels, Herbert casually opened his trusty Sabre pocketknife. The blade gleamed like a toothpick forged by Zeus himself. Using it, he whittled a pine wedge to brace the axle, rewired the horn to play “Yankee Doodle,” and carved his initials into the dashboard for flair.
When the starting gun fired, Carburetor Cowboys’ jalopy didn't just roll, it howled to life like a caffeinated goat on a treadmill. Three spectators fainted clean away.
The crowd roared as Herbert surged ahead, mostly because the car had spontaneously ejected its muffler and was now coughing smoke like a Victorian chimney sweep. Midway through the race, disaster struck: a squirrel darted across the track like a furry lightning bolt. Herbert’s eyes went wide. Without missing a beat, he jerked the wheel to dodge the kamikaze furball. The jalopy bucked and lurched like a wild bronco dead-set on evicting its rider and maybe declaring independence while it was at it, but somehow Herbert kept it upright and barreled on.
As the dust settled, the judges, consisting of two retired appliance salesmen and a woman who once ran a pirate-themed daycare, gathered beneath a sun-bleached pop-up tent. One was missing a shoe, another had a clipboard but no paper, and the third kept mistaking the fire extinguisher for a trophy. After several heated debates, one coin toss, and a moment of interpretive dance, they declared Herbert the winner for style, bravery, and the unexpected entertainment of airborne mechanics.
Herbert tipped his cap, touched the knife in his pocket, and thought, “She ain’t pretty, but with a sharp blade and questionable decisions, she sure gets there.” Then he accepted his first-place prize: a busted fan belt and a bag of peanuts.
As the sun set over the fairgrounds, with smoke in his hair and the taste of triumph somewhere between axle grease and roasted peanuts, Herbert rolled on, one wobble, one wheeze, and one whittle at a time. It was the kind of Sunday tale folks pass along with a grin, a well-worn rag, and a nod to the kid who won it all with no real plan and a pocketknife that never quits.
If you ask me, that kid didn’t just fix a jalopy. He reminded us why the best kind of genius runs on guts, luck, and just enough madness to keep the wheels turning, more or less.
At the Great American Tinkerer's Derby, young Herbert “Grease Thumb” Tillinghast had a secret weapon hidden in the pocket of his overalls. While the other boys on his team, Carburetor Cowboys, tightened bolts with bare hands and cursed their wobbly wheels, Herbert casually opened his trusty Sabre pocketknife. The blade gleamed like a toothpick forged by Zeus himself. Using it, he whittled a pine wedge to brace the axle, rewired the horn to play “Yankee Doodle,” and carved his initials into the dashboard for flair.
When the starting gun fired, Carburetor Cowboys’ jalopy didn't just roll, it howled to life like a caffeinated goat on a treadmill. Three spectators fainted clean away.
The crowd roared as Herbert surged ahead, mostly because the car had spontaneously ejected its muffler and was now coughing smoke like a Victorian chimney sweep. Midway through the race, disaster struck: a squirrel darted across the track like a furry lightning bolt. Herbert’s eyes went wide. Without missing a beat, he jerked the wheel to dodge the kamikaze furball. The jalopy bucked and lurched like a wild bronco dead-set on evicting its rider and maybe declaring independence while it was at it, but somehow Herbert kept it upright and barreled on.
As the dust settled, the judges, consisting of two retired appliance salesmen and a woman who once ran a pirate-themed daycare, gathered beneath a sun-bleached pop-up tent. One was missing a shoe, another had a clipboard but no paper, and the third kept mistaking the fire extinguisher for a trophy. After several heated debates, one coin toss, and a moment of interpretive dance, they declared Herbert the winner for style, bravery, and the unexpected entertainment of airborne mechanics.
Herbert tipped his cap, touched the knife in his pocket, and thought, “She ain’t pretty, but with a sharp blade and questionable decisions, she sure gets there.” Then he accepted his first-place prize: a busted fan belt and a bag of peanuts.
As the sun set over the fairgrounds, with smoke in his hair and the taste of triumph somewhere between axle grease and roasted peanuts, Herbert rolled on, one wobble, one wheeze, and one whittle at a time. It was the kind of Sunday tale folks pass along with a grin, a well-worn rag, and a nod to the kid who won it all with no real plan and a pocketknife that never quits.
If you ask me, that kid didn’t just fix a jalopy. He reminded us why the best kind of genius runs on guts, luck, and just enough madness to keep the wheels turning, more or less.
