Odd angry shot

"Dude, I can't write for GUNS, man; won't work." His Editorial Immenseness, RoyBoy, just squiggled an eyebrow. That means. "Stick your foot deeper in the kim-chee, Connor." So I did.

"See, they're different from the American Handgunner folks, GUNS people are like, 'sippin brandy at the Royal Hunt Lodge" guys. Handgunner readers are more like your [c]Happy Hour at Hoolihan's' gang. It's a different crowd, you know? Like, I get the impression that after a GUNS readers' party, you'd sweep up confetti an pheasant feathers After a Handgunner readers' bash, you'd sweep up teeth an' empty brass." More eyebrow-squiggles.

"I mean," I muttered, "You got some great stuff in GUNS, but the style is like, "altering the angle of the ogive results in danglin' the hypotenuse of the widgetfactor," and I write like, 'This big fat ballet looks like a Marsh-Wheeling cigar, but it flies okay and whacks crap like your mother-in-law on a bender,' see?"

"What's this really about, Connor?"--This is kinda his standard statement before he tells me I'm gonna do what he wants anyway. I caught the aroma of cooked goose.

"I think GUNS readers might be, ummm ... offended like. That could be bad, both for me--and for you too, boss." He didn't bite.

"Oh, don't worry about ME, Connor," he gays, "The worst thing that could happen is, I might have to fire you." He swiveled his chair around, tryin' to hide his smirky-sardonic smile. Didn't work. That one curled all the way up behind his ears. "Give it a shot," he chortled. "And I'll let you know about your future, your career, pay, you know ... "

Takin' That Off-Hand Shot

So, Here I am, an' there you are, and now. I suspect His Hugeness Huntington is waitin' to gather enough angry letters to justify scoopin' up my company credit card--and shreddin' it. Hey, at least the sign says "GUNS" over the door, so there's a chance we might get along. And see, I write about guns and gear and shootin', but, for example, I don't write stuff like. "There may not be a niche in my collection for this rather esoteric firearm, but blah-blah,blah"--when the gun's really a piece of crap. I'll write, "I got rocks in my flowerbed that are better-engineered an' more accurate than this chunk a' hammered goat dung."

And I poke fun at stupid stuff. This inevitably offends the guardians of political correctness, and The United Supporters of Stupid Stuff. I'm a big fan of Albert Einstein, who said, "There's only two things that are infinite: the universe, and human stupidity--and I'm not so sure about the universe." Something like that, anyway. That means VII always have something to write about, Cool, huh?

Targets of Opportunity

I'm allowed--even licensed--to poke fun at soldiers, Marines. Rambo-commandos, and metro SWAT-cops, 'cause I've been one of each, and had my Moron Moments & Idiot Incidents in all those roles. I can harass Air Force dudes, 'cause they bombed me--twice!--an I don't wanta hear this,"Oooh, wrong grid square! Sorry, Jarheads!"--ya wing-wipers. Sailors are fair game, because (a), it's the God-given right of every Marine, and (b) because my Dad was a career BlueWater Warrior, with three wars, three hits, no errors except that bad day at Inchon. I can--and will--harass all kindsa hunters an' shooters, 'cause they can hardly make doofus mistakes I haven't already screwed the pooch on myself. But still, people seem to get offended; beats me why.

Take this time when I was a rookie cop, so fresh outta the Corps I hadn't had to get a civilian haircut yet, and I got a call about a disturbance involving drunken Marines and violence outside a Broadway bar. I got there and didn't see any disturbance. I saw some lubricated Leathernecks rather mildly protesting the 0200 closing of a beverage-dispensing establishment. Oh, sure, there was a whiff of potential violence in the air, I mean, whattaya train Marines for? Ballroom dancin'? Duh ...

As I got outta the cruiser, I tossed my radio mike out the window--old cop practice. See, if you gotta crawl back to your ear to call for medevac, it helps to have it hangin' halfway down the door. But this lob musta been a bit brisk, 'cause when it reached the end of that pigtail cord, it popped right off an' skittered onto the sidewalk. I didn't notice: I was watchin' hands. A couple of the RumSoaked Raiders saw it, though. Takin' a quick bleary glance at that fat rounded object, one screamed. "Grenade!" an' suddenly they all dove to the pavement. I turned, took a micropeek, shrieked "Grenade!" myself, an' I dove, nay, man I flew, right over the front of my cruiser, clearin' the push-bumpers like an airborne steer, smackin' belly-down on the asphalt like the door off a walk-in Browning gun vault. That was seismic incident enough to set off some local car alarms, but at the instant of impact I far ... Uhh ... I broke wind like a bear with a belly fulla baked beans. I'm not talkin' "loud" here; I'm talkin' explosive; horrific; an Iowa-class 16" broadside that shivered shop windows, hammered the side of my cruiser and triggered hollow harmonic basso profundo rumbles in the wheel well. Angels mighta wept at that one. It purged the color outta my socks.

A couple seconds later, my on-board sensors kicked in, I realized what a doofus I'd been, and stood tip. I'd landed in a puddle of oil, leavin' me with a huge dark splotz in the center of my uniform shirt, with ray-like blast-o lines radiating outboard. Nice.

The Juiced Jargheads were up too, and semilucid now, except for one well-lubed Lance Corporal. He'd heard the screams, hit the deck--then heard my own impact and that elephantine ba-woom! immediately following. Now he just stood there, his eyes like saucers, gogglin' at me "blast splotz" on my shirt. He thought I had jumped onto the grenade, contained the detonation--and was still alive!

When his less brain-drained buddies explained what really happened with the radio mike and all, he joined 'em laughin' like a maniac until he peed his dress blues. Then I started laughin', and you know how after some earthquakes, you get after-shocks? It happens with bad bean-gas too. And every time I did, the hyena-howls kicked off again, with slurred shouts of "Incoming!" That's when my boss rolled up ...

Now, I told that story at a black-tie NRA Awards dinner, and--some people got offended! Go figure, huh? Let's find out if you are.

So go ahead, write in, an' do your worst. I had a job before this one. I can always gel another, and to tell ya the truth, chasin' exMarxist bandits down donkey-cart alleys in Kibonga-Bongo was a lot more fun, though it had certain unfortunate side effects. Here's a tip: If you're ever in Kibonga-Bongo and you toss a grenade into a structure, before crouching with your butt against a wall, bent over like a paperclip to avoid the frags, you might wanta check out the construction features of that "wall." Plaster-spit over junkyard thatch ain't exactly Abrams armor, y'know?

Kwaheri!

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COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group