tinhorn
NES Member
Besides boobs, duh.
Bought my first single action revolver before I even had my LTC—it was a black powder Uberti. Was kinda rough around the edges. Took the sumbich apart, knocked off every sharp edge EVERYwhere, polished everything that touched anything else to 400 grit (polished the bolt to 1000 'cuz drag lines are ugly), smeared a thin layer of Mobil 1 red synthetic grease on anything that fricking moved. Fukodear, it was like a Swiss watch. Like an MG TD right after a tune-up.
Made a helluva difference in my wife's brand new Bearcat, too. Couldn't believe how rough it was from the factory. Three, four hours later, it was like a Rolls-Royce with pearl grips and no drag line.
Finished up a used 1860 Colt replica tonight (my first; used to be a Remington fan). Seemed a little gritty when I bought it, so I polished EVERYthing that was out of sight. Cleaned up every sharp edge. Now it's clickety. clickety, click. It's like music—the gun sang to me as I put it through its routine. Strapped on a shoulder stock, dropped in a conversion cylinder full of laser cartridges, and hit 20 out of 20 aiming at my car's front side marker light. (It was after dark.) And that was without my glasses.
Man, I love simple machines.
Bought my first single action revolver before I even had my LTC—it was a black powder Uberti. Was kinda rough around the edges. Took the sumbich apart, knocked off every sharp edge EVERYwhere, polished everything that touched anything else to 400 grit (polished the bolt to 1000 'cuz drag lines are ugly), smeared a thin layer of Mobil 1 red synthetic grease on anything that fricking moved. Fukodear, it was like a Swiss watch. Like an MG TD right after a tune-up.
Made a helluva difference in my wife's brand new Bearcat, too. Couldn't believe how rough it was from the factory. Three, four hours later, it was like a Rolls-Royce with pearl grips and no drag line.
Finished up a used 1860 Colt replica tonight (my first; used to be a Remington fan). Seemed a little gritty when I bought it, so I polished EVERYthing that was out of sight. Cleaned up every sharp edge. Now it's clickety. clickety, click. It's like music—the gun sang to me as I put it through its routine. Strapped on a shoulder stock, dropped in a conversion cylinder full of laser cartridges, and hit 20 out of 20 aiming at my car's front side marker light. (It was after dark.) And that was without my glasses.
Man, I love simple machines.