Home Forums Hunting & Shooting Hunter's Campfire A shamanic tale

The shaman and Pooh were just contemplating getting on with their journey when two rather odd individuals appeared on the road coming from the opposite direction. One was a rather bovine woman in red spandex. Her companion was a squat little man dressed in tactical gear carrying a boombox nearly as big as he was.

"Good day!" said the shaman as they passed.

"We're looking for the sharman." said the woman. "We're late for an appointment."

"The Charmin?" asked the shaman. "Like the bathroom tissue?"

"No," said the little guy in tactical gear. He was nasty little troll that oozed an air of bad cologne and stale mashmallows. "It's a person. We're delivering a present. Do you know this fellow?"

"I don't know any Charmin fellow. Can you describe your business?"

"My name is Hooverina," said the woman. "This is my business manager, Peyton. Some guys calling themselves The Campfire hired me to deliver an intimate. . . service to one of their members. The fellow is called The Sharmin." She smacked her lips and licked the end of her nose. "If you know what I mean."

"There's a fellow down the road a ways. I think he might be your guy. However, I think he's gone to town. He's not there right now. However, I'm sure if you go stand over by that little copse of trees you will run into him when he comes by."

"The one with all those birds?"

"Yes. He won't be able to miss you."

"These are incredible pancakes," said the shaman. "Are they some special recipe for the Gods?"

"Actually they're Aunt Jemima Complete." replied Kira. "You were just hungry; I think you've inhaled close to a dozen since you sat down." Kira and Regin traded looks. "Well, maybe there are a few embellishments," said Kira. The two women giggled.

"Sorry. " replied the shaman. "You're right. The walk up here gave me an appetite."

"No problem, " said Kira. "I'm just glad you like them."

Pooh Bear had not said anything, he'd been demolishing stack after stack for a solid half hour without letting up. All anyone had gotten out of him was a low growling that indicated it was best not to stick limbs close to his mouth.

"The dry cleaner stopped by yesterday," said Kira. "They were trying to make a delivery at your place and couldn't raise you, so they came by here."

"I must have been out." said the shaman. "It's probably my arrayments for my Bwana Investiture."

"You must model them for us," said Regan.

"They're in the hall closet," said Kira. "You can't miss them." The shaman arose and went to the kitchen sink to wash all the butter and pancake syrup off before trying on his new clothes. He disappeared down the hall and came back sometime later all decked out in his new Campfire finery. When he entered the kitchen, there was a visible brightening to the room.

"Wow!" said Regin.

"Double-Wow!" said Kira.

The shaman was wearing olive drab jodpurs with leopard fur stripes running down the outside of the legs, ending in tan puttees and brown leather brogans. On top, he wore an off-white safari jacket with leopard shoulder patches, and white pith helmet with a leopard band. An official looking 24hourCampfire badge was on the front of the helmet and similar badge was embroidered on the left breast pocket. The web harness was standard British Empire kit and he wore a chest holster with the butt of a Webley protruding and a neck lanyard of white sash cord.

"Is it . . . does it look good on me?"


"I think it's time we assembled the bearers and headed off for the crater," said Regin. "I think the Eland need a good thrashing."

Pooh Bear took the opportunity to pick up his plate and began licking it with great intent, while all the while growling like a bear possessed. He got so involved that he lost his balance in the chair and tumbled out onto the kitchen floor. He didn't seem to notice, and kept going without pause.

After breakfast, Pooh and the shaman headed back down the road. When they got to the Scheißevogel roost, they found it empty.

"Looks like Hooverina had business elsewhere," said the shaman.

They were back in front of the shaman's cave and beginning to enjoy the sun when Chin came up the path. They greeted him heartily.

"How goes it?"

"Pretty good for an old man," said Chin. "It beats being dead." They soon were all settled in on the same log.

"I dropped up to give you some mail that got mixed in with mine. I was paying bills this morning and found a couple of things stuck in the Super Saver" said Chin. He reached into his robes and pulled out several envelopes.

"Hmmm," said shaman. "Lessee, junk, junk. . . hello! What's this?" the shaman held up an envelope with a golden campfire logo embossed on the front."

"What is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's from the 'Campfire," said the shaman. "It's probably my induction announcement." He scrambled to open it up. Inside was an engraved card.

"Oh do read it!" said Pooh.

"Let's see." said the shaman." Congratulations on nearing ten thousand posts. The Twenty Four Hour Campfire wishes you all the best in your. . . Oh no. "

"What?"

". . . be advised that all celebrations have been canceled due to COVID 19. Please refrain from gatherings of more than three campers maintain proper mask and social distancing protocols. We apologize for the inconvenience."

"Does this mean that we're not going to have a party?" asked Pooh.

"No party, Pooh."

"What will we do?"

"When we are hungry, we eat. When we are tired, we sleep," replied Chin.

Rut?!

Chin dropped by in the morning to check on the shaman. He found the shaman returning with Pooh from his daily chores of getting the sun to come up, getting the ducks to fly, and waking up the frog chorus. The shaman had lost all his B'wana trappings and had returned to his normal robes and shamanic headdress. Pooh was wearing the pith helmet.

"How's it hanging, ol' buddy?" asked Chin.

"I'm fine," replied the shaman. "And you?"

"As good as an old chinaman needs to be," said Chin. "I stopped by to see if you were okay. I know yesterday was a hard one to swallow."

"Actually," said the shaman. "It wasn't. I was all worried about what would be expected of me, and I forgot that being the shaman around here is far more important. The 'Fire has plenty of B'wanas to go around. They only have one of me."

"That's the spirit!" said Chin. "I'm glad you didn't take it so hard."

"It's nice that I'll be able to visit the special V.I.P B'wana lounge whenever I want."

"I have heard it is nicely appointed," said Chin.

"And I'll be able to march with the other B'wanas in the parades."

"That's always a spectacle," said Chin.

"I just don't FEEL like a B'wana."

"How does a B'wana feel?"

"I don't know." said the shaman. "I guess I'm going to find out shortly."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," said Chin. "It's liable to make you constipated or something."

BRAVO! Please, do continue!

( P.S. I can't wait for the movie rites negotiations, or the post-covid red carpet gala. Please tell me where I can get MORE wool from Ye-Ol' Shaman's spinning wheel!

The shaman had come back from his morning chores and was enjoying a cup of coffee in front of his cave. He had made his first visit to the official Campfire B'wana Club Lounge the previous afternoon. He had been denied entrance, having not reached ten thousand posts quite yet. However, the Maitre D' had given him a packet of membership paperwork. The lobby had looked quite well-appointed-- lots of carved wood and marble; he had a peek behind a door and there was a large collection of overstuffed leather furniture. As he sat, drinking his coffee, the shaman mused on what it would be like drinking his morning coffee at the club.

Presently a man appeared dressed in khakis. He looked like a cross between Burl Ives and Chester the Molester. He spoke with a Dublin lilt.

"I am looking for a man who goes by the name of Shaman." said the man.

"I am the shaman," replied the shaman. "It's not my name; it's my vocation. It's a bit like saying I am the plumber."

"Very well," said the man. "I am John Taylor." He drew himself up to his full height and stuck his fists into his waist.

"Yes, and . . .?"

"I'm John Taylor. John 'Pondoro' Taylor."

"I thought he was dead."

"He is. I am quite dead-- since 1969. Allow me to present my card." He presented a business card to the shaman.

"As you can see-"

"It says 'Great Buggerers of History Series.'"

"What?"

"It says that you are part of the 'Great Buggerers of History Series, a Division of Discorpraphone Enterprises."

"My pardon," said John. "Wrong card." He took the card back and gave another to the shaman.

"Ah, that's better," said the shaman, reading. "John 'Pondoro' Taylor Meet the African Big Game Hunters series -- a Division of Discorpraphone Enterprises."

"I am indeed." said John. "I've been sent to you as a premium gift by the 24HourCampfire."

"That's very nice of them." replied the shaman. There was an uneasy silence. After quite a delay, the shaman asked. "Now what?"

"You'll have my company for a bit and we can discuss big game hunting in Africa," replied John. "I'm well versed in that and all sorts of related topics."

"Can I get you some refreshment?"

"No thank you," said John. "I'm quite dead."

There was another long, uneasy silence.

"What would you like to discuss?" asked John. "I take it you are a hunter. Ever been to Africa?"

"Yes." said the shaman. "I hunt quite a bit of whitetail deer and turkey, but no. I've not been to Africa."

"But you dream of it, don't you?"

"Of what?"

"Of Africa, The Dark Continent."

"Really, no. It doesn't appeal to me that much-- too many things that want to stomp you to death and too many parasites."

"Well, yes. There is that."

"No interest at all?"

"Well, I now that you mention it, I do have a question for you." said the shaman. "It involves your Taylor Knockout Formula."

"Yes?"

"Well, I'm intrigued by your formula. On the one hand, we've got you expounding on large bullets and big guns and then you have Walter Bell, a good generation earlier doing fairly good work with a 7mm bullet on the same game."

"Yes?"

"Well, when I calculate the Taylor Knockout Formula for my latest deer round, the 7mm-08 by the way, it comes up at a paltry 15 on your scale. However, it is the ballistic twin of Bell's 7mm Mauser. Your writings suggest you need a TKO value several times that."

"Well," said John. "As I wrote many times, the Taylor Formula was for thick-skinned dangerous game. It can't always translate well for other sized game. These deer you are talking of. . ."

"Whitetails are bigger than an impala-- smaller than a gemsbok."

"Why yes, I'd say the 7mm would be quite sufficient given the right conditions, and the right shooter." John winked.

"But Bell was using it on elephants."

"Bell and I hunted under much different conditions." There was an awkward pause. "I don't suppose you'd be up for a quick shag?"

"What???"

"Nevermind. So what else did you say you hunted?"

"Eastern Wild Turkey." replied the shaman. "They're supposed to be the hardest game in North America."

"And how do they come by that? How big are they?"

"About twenty-five pounds max."

"Are they dangerous?"

"Only if you try and pick one up while he's still cognizant. They've got spurs."

"Hmmmmm. And what sort of rifle to do you hunt them with."

"Shotguns. I use a 12-bore and the load gives you about the same jolt as a .416 Rigby, but it's just birdshot."

"You hunt birds with an elephant gun?"

"They're not all that easy to kill."

"How do you hunt them?"

"I hide in the bushes and make noises like a hen wanting to breed."

"That sounds rather pedestrian."

"It has its merits."


About this time, there was a rustle in the bushes by the cave. John was up immediately, scanning the surrounding brush.

"Did you hear that?"

"I did. It is probably a rabbit."

"I probably should be going."

"Why's that?"

"Well, I had a bit of a run-in just before I left Africa for the last time."

"What sort of run-in?"

"I buggered the Bunman."

"That doesn't sound fun."

"There was a lot of alcohol involved," confessed John rather sheepishly. "He was the king's favorite, and he got quite mad at both of us. I had defiled the tribe's high holy man. The king had us sent out into the bush to be eaten by the lions. I was able to escape, but the Bunman got eaten"

"Again, not the kind of fun I'm into. But why are you telling me this?"

"Well, shortly before he got eaten, the Bunman laid a curse on me. I didn't find out about it until I was back in London and dead."

"Yes?"

"Well, shortly after I died, I found out that the Bunman had decried that I should be doomed for all eternity to be pursued by all the large dangerous game that I had shot. I didn't know what he was saying while the lions were eating him; it all sounded like gibberish."

"So you're worried about getting eaten?"

"Stomped." said John. "There is one particular Dugga Boy named Max that has it in for me. He's rather thorough if gets me, too. There are also some bull elephants that have a penchant for it. If they catch me, I get mashed but good. Then there are the Eland. Getting trampled by a herd of Eland . . . You wouldn't know anything about this sort of thing?"

"What the Bunman's curse?" asked the shaman.

"A shaman knows these sorts of things, doesn't he?"

"It's a bit beyond my pay grade." said the shaman. "I stay away from the black arts. I do sunrises and the occasional wart removal."

"Curses shouldn't be that hard."

"I'd watch your diet, get plenty of exercise and try to sleep eight hours a night."

"But I'm dead."

"Oh, snap!" replied the shaman. "There is that. Have you tried repentance?"

"What? That whole Christian thing?"

"It can be very effective."

"Not for me." said John.

"In that case," said the shaman, "I'd hunt down the Bunman that did this, and see if you can strike a deal."

"I doubt he would be very forgiving. Those lions were not in the least bit merciful. The Bunman and his henchmen had trained them for this."

"Sorry, I can't help you." said the shaman. "John, I can see in your eyes that you want to get going. Please, don't let me keep you."

"My thanks, sir."

"No problem. Have a nice day."

John quickly departed the scene, running off over the hillside through the tall grass. It wasn't long before a rather large buffalo showed up, and sniffed the air around the shaman's cave. The shaman just shrugged and waved in a general direction somewhat tangential to the recently departed Taylor. The buff snorted and went trotting off. Soon a large mixed bag of Elephants, leopard, lions, and assorted plains game stampeded through, following the path of the buffalo. The shaman waited until everyone had passed and then set off for the 'Campfire to get a warm-up on his coffee. He met Pooh on the way.

"What was all that about?" asked Pooh. "I nearly got trampled."

"Oh, I just had a conversation with one of the most famous remittance men in history," replied the shaman. "I'll tell you about it as we go."

Oh hell that is so wrong, yet so hilarious!!

Well, I'm sitting here with a smile on my face, and that's a good thing...

Tag

"This is turning out like nothing I expected." said the shaman.

"That's the problem," said Chin. "Expectations do that."

"When I became a Campfire Guide, we had a party." said the shaman. "It was a big thing. A duck came down from the heavens with my new badge in its beak. This time it's . . . it's so. . ."

"The higher, the fewer." said Chin.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure. I saw it on a TV show years ago. Somebody said that when you're stuck for something to say, just say 'the higher, the fewer' and everyone will think you're being deep and philisophical."

"That's supposed to make this feel better?"

"No. It was supposed to get me out of the conversational hole. I figured you'd buy into it and shut up."

"You're not being very helpful," said the shaman.

"See, that gets back to the whole expectations thing," said Chin. "You're expecting something big out of this Campfire B'wana thing, and it's got you all wound up. Expectations are what get everybody in trouble."

"So you're saying I shouldn't expect much?"

"It saves on disappointments," replied Chin. "It's a lot better than getting your bowels all wound up."

"I feel like I should be doing something."

"You are. You're sitting around wingeing to an old, somewhat imaginary Chinaman."

"That doesn't sound very productive."

"Everybody has to be doing something." said Chin. "Would it make you feel any better if we threw a big party and we got the duck back?"

"No. That was back then. I just wish folks would have a better time with it. Heck, most of them would rather stand around watching the Scheißevogel crap on them. It's just gotten rather bland around here."

"Maybe you've gotten bland," said Chin.

The shaman drew himself up and waved his staff. The sky darkened and the wind picked up considerably. A vortex appeared and then a brass rainbow and it rained 22 ammunition all about the Campfire. The clouds disappeared and left all the campers scurrying about picking up .22 rounds off the ground."

"I agree," said Chin. "That is not bland."

"Thank you," said the shaman. "However, notice: Nobody is clapping. Nobody is going 'oooh! and ah!' anymore. They've lost their wonder. I could fart 9mm and nobody would say anything."

"I'm a bit low on rifle primers," said Chin. "If you're thinking about-"

"No, said the shaman. "The problem is that nobody looked up at the swirling vortex or the brass rainbow. They could care less. All they were interested in was picking up the ammunition. Nobody looks up anymore."

"Whatcha doin?" asked the random camper.

"Do me a favor." replied the shaman. "Hand me the ratchet wrench."

"You mean this?"

"Yes," said shaman. "Thanks." The shaman was busy attaching seatbelts to one of the large logs surrounding the Campfire. He had three sets of them, and he was in the process of affixing them to the back of the log using large lag screws.

"What are you doing?" repeated the camper.

"Pooh, Chin, and I keep falling off the front page." replied the shaman. "I figured the seatbelts would help."

"I don't think it works like that." said the Camper. "You need help?"

"Oh yes," said the shaman. "I could use all the help I can get on this project."

[quote=shaman]A shaman does 3 things for the group:
1) Interprets dreams, omens, etc.
2) Heals
3) Intercedes beyond the veil for the benefit of the group


As I am preparing for the rite of marking my 10,000th post, I'm not able to go into detail right now. It's a rigorous bit of cleansing, purification, meditation, ritual sacrifice and communication with my spiritual guides. We can go into this later, once I have made the transition.


Exlax will fix you right up for that 10,000th. Better yet is that stuff you take for colonoscopy

A friend told me....I didn't and look at me now.....

I get it now!

The Shaman's 10,000th post (just 2 posts away!), and his covert covid-correct 'Campfire celebration of celestial Bwana-ism are going to (..just coincidentally..) happen to coincide with Super Bowl Half-time show (..with no Budweiser or Pepsi-cola commercials no less..!! ) !


Aren't they!!?


Ha! Stupendous Plan!!~ We'll see who'll be watching fat-bottom dancers on the TV, and Whom will be here on the 'Fire Celebrating the Sha-nah-nah-Shaman's Bwana-ism !?! Then we'll know just whose whom is who!! ( ...and You thought you were dealing with just another bunch of ignoramus knuckle-dragger nimrods here...)

(Somebody)

I may have jumped my tracks here,... or maybe I took the wrong pill this morning,...,


at any rate,
I've really been enjoying the Shaman's writing!
He spins a really fine, many-layered tale,
worth re-reading some of his earlier,, and latest stuff.

He has wasted NONE of his 9,998 posts on troll-under-the-bridge-pot-stirring drivel.
BRAVO!



He used a word I had to look up, "apocrypha",

(...no, I'm no going to tell you.., look it up)

anyway,
We have plenty of skillful wordwrights here on the 'fire,
Now and then, they perculate to the surface of the swamp,
like a clear and pungent danger,
no longer willing to be held down by the shiite,

But the Shaman!
He has done more than simply dredged up another vulgar distraction,
with lipstick.

He has pulled Us up into the story!
And not just any story,
an allegory,
teaching us of what really is,
and what could be,
..if we're not more careful with our Words.



Speaking of stories!
(..so, I don't have to actually open a book and look it up for myself..)
What were The Disciples doing on that Saturday morning?
before the first Easter Sunday?

(Or, in other words,)
What are the Shaman's friends (...and Lieutenant Scheißevogel?..) doing this fine Saturday?
before the Super bowl?

Me? I need to catch one of the big TV sales going right now, and replace my broken TV! ( ..you know they're only $150 and 9 lbs now! WoW!)

The Shaman - Noon Eastern.

(..stay tuned!)




The shaman, Chin, and Pooh Bear sat on the log with their seatbelts firmly fastened. The shaman had installed the belts to keep them all from falling off the front page.

“We’re here until it over,” said the shaman. “I don’t care what it takes.”


The other campers came and went. It was Super Bowl weekend, so there were many for folks around. The Super Bowl attracted a somewhat contrary lot to the ‘Fire, mostly people that were there because they did not want to watch football. This year, they were particularly stubborn. Many were boycotting the NFL altogether. Chin said it was making them all constipated. However, China would be the first to admit that his diet of fish and rice gave him an eccentric heightened outlook on such matters.

“They all look like they need a good dose of salts,” said Chin.

“Shush.” said the shaman. “You’re not being festive.”

“I think I’m going to try some of that wonderful cheese dip,” said Pooh. “Do you want any?”

“Not at present,” said the shaman. “I’m pacing myself. Besides, I don’t want to get any cheese dip on my new B’wana arrayment before I’m officially inducted.”

Regin and Kira had dropped up from their trailer to witness the festivities. They were decked out in their finest Valkyrie attire and were attracting quite a bit of attention from the younger male Campers. You could tell the ladies liked it.

“Howdy, Shaman,” said Regin.

“What brings you guys up here?” asked the shaman. “I thought you’d be down watching the game on your big screen.”

“Oh, this is a much better party,” said Kira. “We’re not big football fans.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” said the shaman.

“Why the seatbelts?”

“It dawned on me that this might be the only way to keep us from falling off the front page.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” said Regin.

“No, what you need is participation,” said Kira.

“There doesn’t seem to be much of it,” said the shaman. “Not like the old days.”

“You need to spice things up.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like this!” Kira lifted her tunic. A chorus of whoops, hollers, and whistles erupted from the crowd.

“That’s nice.” replied the shaman, but I don’t think I’ll get much of a response. He stood up and lifted his own shirt. There was a hoot or two and a general grumble and somebody yelled to cut it out-- there were people eating.

“See. I don’t think that is working.”

“Hmmm,” said Kira. “I see what you mean. I think we need help on this.”

“What sort of help?”

“Well for one thing, you can ditch the sign.”

“Pooh made it for me.”

“Warning! B’ware B’wana” read Regin.

“It was such a nice thought.” said the shaman. “It’s the only gift I’ve gotten on the occasion of my B’wana-hood.”

“I think you need to ditch the sign,” said Regin. “It sort of discourages people.”

The shaman looked at Pooh, and Pooh dejectedly picked the sign up and carted it off to the bushes.

“So, now what?” asked the shaman.

“Well, I don’t think strapping yourself to a log next to a stuffed bear and a cranky Chinaman is not the right way of going about this. Between that and your get-up, I don’t think anyone is going to talk to you, let alone party with you. You need help.“

“But what sort?”

“I could show them my tits again.”

“No, I think we need something stronger,” said Regin.

“Are you saying my tits aren’t up to it?”

“No, your tits are fine. I just think we can do better.”

Kira and Regin gave knowing looks to each other and then jumped up on the log beside the shaman.

“Excuse me, Everyone,” said Kira. “I’d like your attention. We need some help here.”

Regin turned to Kira, “ Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I think so. These campers can’t be that dull.”

“Don’t bet on it,” replied Chin.

“Folks, we need your help here,” said Regin. “We’re trying to keep this thread on the front page. Your shaman needs you. We need you.” She looked over at Kira and Kira responded by lifting her tunic.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking.”

“Sorry,” said Kira.

Regin turned back to the crowd. “We need you to rise up and make this the best Not-The-Superbowl Party ever, and help the shaman here get over his ten-thousandth post.”

I like where this is heading...........

Oh Yeah, those fly dancers at half-time can't even hold a candle under Kira's shirt!

Not mentioning the fireworks!!