And a cartridge in a bare tree

I've written three Christmas Gift Guides for three different gun-and-cop magazines in the past two weeks, and it just hit me that ain't nobody, nobody, ever inquired once what I might want for Christmas! What's wrong with this picture, pals? Now admittedly, that might be partially ascribed to the fact that it's mid-sweltering-summer as I write this for Pete's sake. but if I can whup up some festiveChristmassy-cheer and fat-man-in-a-fur-suit gift-giving enthusiasm while sweatin' out juices like a six-pound London Broil in a crock-pot cooker, then why can't somebody else?

I checked with my wife. the Memsaab Helena. She just smiles, bats those big blues, and gives me a little hip-bump while passin' me in the hall.

"I know what you want. cave man." she breathes, and somehow I forget the subject--sometimes my middle name, too.

And I won't toss hints at my editors. His Imperial Editoriality Roy Huntington always sends me a gift. but ... one year it was a case of two dozen dry-iced "gourmet treats"--genuine Coney Island Rat-On-A-Stick! Another time, he sent me a nicely framed photo of Himself and Suzie enjoying their Christmas vacation on a sparkly beach in Aruba. The scribble read. "Connor: Had a wonderful time--YOU WEREN'T THERE! HaHaHaHa!!!"

My gift-history with Jeff John here at GUNS Magazine only goes back one year. He sent me an autographed copy of the Deadline Schedule. The one for the past year. With red-slashed notes on deadlines I missed. Yeah: that got me all warm and fuzzy ...

I Don't Want Much, Really

My kids suggest coming up with gift ideas for me is impossible, 'cause I already have everything I want. I think that's a cop-out; an excuse for lack of imagination. I can think of several cool things I want, and with all this high-tech dot-commery, nano-technology an genetical-engineery stuff we have today, they dang sure ought to be available.

I'm continually amazed at the kinda junk that sells for BigBucks on e-Bay, dudes. My son auctioned off a rusty Saab V-3 hub cap for $35, and the Memsaab made a killing on sales of a buncha old. decapitated Barbie dolls that somehow sent our daughter. Little Red. into a frenzy of mutilation when she was Little-Teensy-Red.

I want G-Bay!--a worldwide clearing house for gun-junk! My first ad would be for a "Big Box Fulla Useless GunLeather." One piece is a vintage SuperSafetySaddleScabbard from the now-defunct Wild Hoss Leather Co. Using a conglomo-combination of Velcro. key-locks, compression straps, Chinese-puzzle-buckles and industrial magnets, it was designed to keep your saddle-gun securely ensconced in your scabbard no matter how high, hard, and hairy your broomtailed trail-nag bucked.

It worked--too well. Tearing the Velcro loose activated the magnets. Popping the magnets free cinched up the compression straps. Messing with the compression straps caused the Chinese puzzle buckles to engage. I'll have to sell it with a Winchester 94 .30-30 in it. It ain't coming out. Not in one piece, anyway and I'm not gonna take a cutting torch to it.

Also in that box is my gunwriter-sample of the failed prototype Speed-Slick Competition Rig from Air-Launch Holsters. Inc. This forward-canted hip-hanger employed an infrared beam to detect drawing-hand movement, and a C[O.sub.2]-powered pneumatic pump. It was supposed to activate when you began your drawing stroke, an' boost the pistol up into your waiting mitt. The timing, however, needed work. and the air-powered Roscoe-lifter was, shall we say, a bit "exuberant." If I wiggled my fingers or shrugged my right shoulder, it Munched my 1911 like a non-ballistic missile, to land about 15 yards downrange.

It "flung" pretty good groups, I gotta say: With practice, I could get eight outta 10 throws" into a 30-gallon garbage can at 40'. The same company made an internal assembly for 1911s called the "MagAirAssist." Hit the mag release, and it would shoot your empty mag out so hard it would either fracture foot-bones or spike the mag 2" into the ground.

Service-Serpents, Etc ...

And, I want bore snakes! No, not Bore Snake pull-through cleaners, not the regular kind, anyway. I mean living, breathing, slithering, armorer-trained bore snakes! Kept in your gun safe, all you'd have to do is place your dirty weapons inside with their actions open, close the door and leave. Your bore snakes would then slither-an'-slide in, out, and over 'em, cleaning and lubing your shooters while you snooze. They should feed exclusively on grit, dust, and carbon deposits, but I wouldn't mind tossin' 'era a mouse now and then.

Now, for a "Range Bag," versus a "range-bag," I ...

(Editor's Note: We're cutting Connor off right here, before he irreparably insults muscular, older women who wear canvas aprons with large pockets and don't mind packing guns and picking up empty brass. I don't need the grief And I know what I'm giving him for Christmas, and this year it won't be autographed--Jeff John) P.S. Say something gushy and Christmassy (before he cries anymore crocodile tears) to Connor at TheOddAngryShot@yahoo.com

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