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Anyone have any stories about their dads doing something bad ass or cool?

My dad wasn't an ass kicker or anything, but he could get pretty confrontational when he wanted to. One of the best stories I remember is him getting mad at me for buying a $30.00 watch at an indoor swap meet, which stopped working three days after I bought it. He took it down there te next day, and told me the guy was talking up some chick at his booth, as my dad stood there waiting to be acknowledged. Finally, the guy went over to my dad and told him he didn't open for another 20 minutes. My dad said, "Well, I'd have been here on time if you didn't sell my son this piece of shit watch that doesn't work."

Another good dad story happened in the mid '80's when I was delivering pizzas. On a rainy night, my car got stuck in some mud behind an apartment building, wheels spinning, etc. One fuckhead actually came out there with an AK-47, complete with a bananna clip, asking me what I was doing. Since there was a bit of a language barrier, I had to wave my Domino's Pizza hat at him to explain who I was.

So anyway, I left my car there and called my dad. He came down, got in my car, revved the engined 'till I thought the engine would explode, and my car shot out of the mud patch, backward, like a rocket. Then my dad walked up to me and said, "That's what you learn when you grow up back east in the snow!"

This is more like a family story than a dad story, but I think it's a good story.

Back when my dad and his brother were in high school (the same one that I go to now), they both had a reputation of being troublemakers. My dad was even accused of hanging the Agriculture teacher's desk from the rafters! I believe it was my uncle who was actually part of it, but he still denies it.

One of the teachers who taught my dad in HS is actually still there, teaching. When I got to his class, he told me to shut up and sit down because he wasn't going to take any more crap from my family.

When I was around 7 my dad was using his chainsaw to clear a plot of land we were selling off, which happened to be at the bottom of a very large hill. When a tree fell, one of the branches got pinned underneath it, and when my dad started to cut it into smaller pieces, the branch tore lose and knocked the chainsaw into my dads leg, slicing through the majority of the bone. Holding his leg together with his fucking hands, he walked up the hill (a ten minute walk when you aren't in pieces) and called the ambulance.

My dad works at one of the last steel mills in pittsburgh. In a time before I was born or when I was still to young to form long term memories, he had a steel I-Beam drop on him. From how far up, I don't know, but it damaged his rotator cuff and resulted in a few of the vertebrae in his neck being fused. Aside from that, he was fine.

He's also been a volunteer firefighter since before I could walk.

Am I the only one without a BAMF dad? I mean he's a cool guy, but walking 10 minutes up a hill with a severed leg? Man...

Non Catenatum wrote:Am I the only one without a BAMF dad? I mean he's a cool guy, but walking 10 minutes up a hill with a severed leg? Man...

No dad at all for me... I got a bad ass Mom story though if Mr. Poe will allow it.

She took me to work one Saturday when I was 8. She worked at Pac Bell on East 14th in Okland, which has had it named changed because it's rep was so bad, Oakland just wanted to be rid of it. It's now called International Ave..

She was unlocking the door when a man came up behind her and said for her to give over her purse. She thought it was a co-worker kidding with her at first, until he pushed her through the door.

She pushed me back against the wall and started yelling and screaming at him to get the fuck back. Then he stabbed her in the arm with a knife.

At this point she completely flipped, gotta love that Sicilian temper, and started to punch and kick the shit out of him with the knife still in her forearm. I remember him literally scurring away on his hand and knees and my mom pulling the knife out and taking a few chasing steps after him threatining to "fucking kill you", then chucking the knife at him.

I was scared shitless and don't remember the rest of the day, but my mom always tells me that right after it happened and she came to see if I was ok, I told her how I didn't drop the radio I was holding, and she says how I was trying to be brave and not cry.

So not quite a BADS, but a pretty BAMS.

My dad is pretty pussy that got broken bones from falling off his bike and shit eye got cut while trying to cut out a space in the wall. He got a medical condition that gives him brittle bones so no real bad ass stories and more tripping and have a bone jagging out.

ArmorPierce wrote:My dad is pretty pussy that got broken bones from falling off his bike and shit eye got cut while trying to cut out a space in the wall. He got a medical condition that gives him brittle bones so no real bad ass stories and more tripping and have a bone jagging out.

That just means somewhere theres an Unbreakable who your father will defeat in mortal combat through his superior intelligence.

My father got hit by two tons of machinery. As he tells it, two tons of some machinery swung down and smashed him into a wall. The other guys were expecting to pull a body out, he walked out and worked for another few hours.

He felt some pain in his wrist, so he went to the doctor. Turned out he'd fucked up his wrist, to the point where he'll never have full mobility or strength in it again. Of course, ten years later you'd never know anything went wrong with it.

My dad and brother built a car with their bare hands! (from a kit).

Ummm...there are some other but I'd have to go back and take notes its been a while since I've got any good stories.

Went to Vietnam as an artilleryman, enlisted, not drafted, and came under fire a few times. I still have his camera with the dent in it from shrapnel.

Born and raised a catholic, and went to catholic schools, and still came out relatively normal.

Two words:

Vietnam

F-4

'nuff said.

My father, a forest ranger/firefighter, regularly came home smelling of smoke and ashes. His stories were more about digging firebreaks, walking firelines, and how bad he felt seeing animals running out of the smoke and fire until they saw the humans, and then running back in because the humans scared them more.

My dad's uniform pants and boots often had rips and discolorations on them as well, from snakebites that never touched his skin. One story he told was looking down, wondering what he was dragging behind him and seeing a copperhead with its fangs stuck on his pantscuff.

I think it takes a certain bravery to run in and fight a housefire... but what bravery is it to stand on the side of a mountain with a long drop to the river below, digging a fireline with only pick, shovel, and firerake? And then walk into the burnout to check for hotspots, and pray for rain.

Yet he'd make it home, smoky and sooty, and walk into the bedroom to kiss his daughter goodnight or tell her a bedtime story, then wake her in the morning to get her off to school every morning before he went off to work.

My dad did that for a summer or two, though as I recall his particular task was schlepping a sixty pound portable pump up and down the hills in the forest. I don't think he dug much line.

Some background. My dad is a 6'2 Italian guy who grew up in Brooklyn. He has a thick New York City accent.

When I was in second grade, we had a coloring assignment. We had to color a picture of Santa Claus. I colored him all black. My teacher took the picture and ripped it up in front of me, and she was apparently convinced that I was a devil child.

My parents found out about this when I went home crying.

So my parents are sitting in the principal's office, talking to him about what happened. Apparently, she was pussy-footing around the issue, saying that maybe I was mentally disturbed, that the teacher was trying to get me to conform to a more traditional view, blah blah blah.

My dad gets tired of hearing this bullshit. He stands up, puts both his palms on the desk and says, "Lady, she tore up Santa! In front of a second grader!"

I love my dad.

Well, the really BAMF life-time achievement award in my family goes to my granddad who started out as essentially a peasant, but joined the partisans as just a 14 year old kid spending his teenage years fighting the fascists (German, Italian and homegrown) with mostly guerilla tactics and living of the earth in forested mountains with people not waking up left and right do to freezing to death during the night.

And then after that experience, unlike most others, he didn't take the easy route and go back to his home village, but instead stayed in the army, becoming an officer, marrying his childhood sweetheart (my grandma), with her support going to university and becoming one of the army's top ballistics experts (worked on most Yugoslav Soviet small arms adoptions) and finishing his career as a colonel running an officers training school which was a general's slot and thus retiring with a general's pension although not the rank.

Pretty impressive for a guy born in a little village up in the mountains.


My dad doesn't have that kind of a history, but he is a character in his own right - like the time when he skidded off the road into a ravine, doing a 360 flip in the air, the car being smashed beyond recognition on impact and him walking away with only some cuts and calmly calling the ambulance before rendering first aid to a guy who suffered a similar fate just minutes before but was left in much worse condition. All this because the passengers of the first car to crash through the railing (my dad's was the third) were idiots milling about in the centre of the road just after a turn so that the cliff face was obscuring them to oncoming traffic until it was too late so he took that fall to not run them over.

I have a grandfather story similar to Netko's.

My grandfather grew up on a family farm in southeastern russia. Somewhere in our history, we had pissed off a Czar, so that's why we were there. One day, while my grandfather was out hunting (he was 15 at the time) the NKVD came and told his parents and family that the farm was the property of the State, and they would run it for the People.

My great-grandfather told them to fuck themselves, so they killed him, his wife, and six of my grandfather's seven siblings. His youngest sister (age 9 or 10) hid in the forest. When my grandfather came back, he found her and she told him what had happened. He went to town and killed two NKVD men (he didn't know if they were the right ones) and then started running. He left his sister (my great-aunt) with another family, and headed for Vladivstok, over a thousand miles away.

Once he got there, he traded his rifle for a trip to San Francisco (he also worked on the ship). He got to SF in 1935 with the clothes on his back, $1 from the captain, and his boots which had been two months old when he left his home. He found a tenament, and because he knew numbers (but not english) he got a job in a shop sweeping and doing occasional clerking for a family. He learned conversational English in 4 months, he thinks he was 17 when that happened.

He eventually got a job at the Navy Yard, and when the war started he joined the navy. He was commissioned as a lieutenant, and worked in a navy office for the war. At one point they wanted to make him a naval liason to Russia, at which point he had to disclose to his CO that he might perhaps be wanted for murder in Russia, to which his CO replied "Never mind then."

Towards the end of the war, a civilian called my grandfather a 'Goddamned Communist' while he was off-duty. Given Grandfather's opinion of communists, you can imagine this provoked quite a reaction. Said reaction required four navy personnel to restrain him. A board of inquiry found him guilty of not ending the fight quickly enough, and he was reprimanded. After the war, he was discharged honorably, and got a job as an accountant.

Badass Grandpa!

Edit: Forgot to mention, during the walk to Vladivstok, he lost two toes and part of his ear to frost. Also, he tried to find his sister later, but she had died in the famine in 1940.

My dad was in special warfare group 1 in Vietnam. I'd tell you some badass stories but he doesn't talk about it.

However, once when I was a youngster, a neighbor moved in who a was a real asshole and had about 20 bull mastifs. One day my sister and I were playing in the yard when one of the fuckers VAULTED our fence and started charging at us growling and beserked. Out of nowhere my dad came running and headlocked the dog, breaking it's neck (I remember it sounded like squeezing a bag of potato chips. He then picked up the dog and threw it over the fence. As my dad was a bit of a man about town (through merit, not money) nothing happened of it and the hillbilly neighbor moved within the year.

While both my grandfathers are more badass than my Dad, there's something to be said about him pulling out one of his teeth with his barehands (it resulted in the quote I got from Surly in my sig). He also has a depression in his skull from where he got hit in the head with a hammer.

Though, I still think the most badass thing he's ever done is continually stand up for his dogs against the Queensland government, and more recently the New South Wales government, for twelve years. It's driven him out of his adopted state, caused him a couple of accidents involving cars and thrown pieces of form-work frame scaffolding, resulted in the deaths of some of his beloved dogs, yet he stills keeps going.

A little history for the US Navy site. (IE Background on father)

USN wrote:SEAL involvement in Vietnam began immediately and was advisory in nature. SEAL advisors instructed the Vietnamese in clandestine maritime operations. SEALs also began a UDT style training course for the Biet Hai Commandos, the Junk Force Commando platoons, in Danang. In February 1966, a small SEAL Team ONE detachment arrived in Vietnam to conduct direct-action missions. Operating out of Nha Be, in the Rung Sat Special Zone, this detachment signaled the beginning of a SEAL presence that would eventually include 8 SEAL platoons in country on a continuing basis. Additionally, SEALs served as advisors for Provincial Reconnaissance Units and the Lien Doc Nguoi Nhia, or LDNN, the Vietnamese SEALs. The last SEAL platoon departed Vietnam on 7 December 1971. The last SEAL advisor left Vietnam in March 1973.

The UDTs again saw combat in Vietnam while supporting the Amphibious Ready Groups. When attached to the riverine groups the UDTs conducted operations with river patrol boats and, in many cases, patrolled into the hinterland as well as along the riverbanks and beaches in order to destroy obstacles and bunkers. Additionally, UDT personnel acted as advisors.

On May 1, 1983, all UDTs were redesignated as SEAL Teams or Swimmer Delivery Vehicle Teams (SDVT). SDVTs have since been redesignated SEAL Delivery Vehicle Teams

CaptainChewbacca wrote:-snip-

That would Stalin he pissed off because the NKVD was Soviet and the Czar died in 1918(year he was born)

One of my great-grandfathers was apparently killed by a terrorist grenade while serving as a Tsar's bodyguard.

My grandfather served in the Red Army during WWII. He sustained a head wound in battle and was captured by the enemy. During his time of incarceration as a POW, he was infected with dysentery and managed to survive only by not consuming solid food for over a week. Later, as camp conditions worsened, he was among those who would sneak out at night to steal food from surrounding farms. He managed to survive there, and continued living for nearly 50 more years.

Master of Cards. I think Chewie means his family had been in buttfucksi, Russia for a few generations before that story.

I don't have any badass relatives stories like the ones above. My grandpa was in the merchant navy during the war, which was probably fairly badass, due to all the dodging of U-boats. My other grandfather was in the British Army in Italy, and was later (?) Lord Lieutenant of Lanarkshire. Never met him; he died years before I was born.

Apparently, one rather distant relative rescued his fiancée from the nunnery her parents had put her in to keep them apart, and eloped to South America. I always liked that story.

My dad got out of the losing end of an encounter with a Ural owl with his sight intact as well as a escaping (aside from scarring) without permanent injuries from getting two slices on his arm from a handheld circular saw.

In his professional life, he once insisted on pursuing one court case all the way to the Finnish Supreme Court when everyone, including the entire Parliamentary Constitutional Committee, told him he was on a the losing side of the case, guaranteed. The Supreme Court agreed with him.

My grandfathers, well, both of them fought in the Winter War. My mom's dad was in Kollaa, his company responsible for a 2 km sector of the front and with only 7 machineguns, old WW1 era Maxims to cover the whole stretch. He was the one responsible for keeping them in working order, which he did, with no spare parts at hand. Dad's father (who died two years before I was born) survived being wounded at least once (his friend carried him for 10 kilometers when they were left behind) and killed a Soviet officer on some scouting foray in a situation where it came down to the one who drew fastest being the one to walk away.

My father's a fairly normal techie-type, with a side-order of stonecarving and landscaping on the side. Odd, but not particularly badass. My grandfather, however, was a B-17 captain during WWII, and at one point flew home on two engines, hiding in cloud cover to avoid German fighters. I think that qualifies.

My dad's restored several cars and built a kit car from scratch. This doesn't sound that much on first glance, but understand that before I was born, he was in a bad crash on his motorbike and lost his left arm and most of the functionality of his left leg.