Neanderpundit

Pursuant to the post below, I have to talk about something I’ve kept hidden for a long time.

I have a genetic disorder. It’s rare, but it’s probably common amongst my readers. You, gentle reader, might have it too.

I cannot drive or walk past a sign that says “GUNS”.

This horrible disorder affects my every waking and sleeping hour. The longing for fine double rifles, the lust for old automatics, the dreams about the designs of John Moses Browning… it’s all too much to deal with every day.

Imagine the disapointment, every time I walk into a gun store and don’t walk out with a pristine Browning A-5 in Sweet Sixteen, or the sorrow I feel at having a largely inadequate gun cabinet, or the pain of not owning a brace of fine cased shotguns by Purdey or Holland & Holland.

Do something now before it’s too late. Millions suffer from this horrible disorder, and there is no cure. Imagine as the Oglet grows older, knowing that her father will always long for, but never own, the 470 Nitro Express that Merkel showed off at the Shot show.

Give till it hurts. And don’t forget the ammo.

On my way out of Ord, I passed(well, almost) a quonset hut converted to a gun shop. Well, a sporting good store, anyway. The store is called Misko’s Sports- and the website is NO indication of what they have going on.

I walked in, and two of nebraska’s finest were inside talking with the owner, so I wandered around looking at the guns.

Oh, the guns.

There were a few modern levers.

And a couple “consumer” style guns. Black automatic rifles. A handful of military rifles.

And more classic and antique lever rifles than I have ever seen in one place, ever. There were HUNDREDS. Winchesters. Marlins. Original, real henry rifles. Some antique rifles so clean the looked like modern reproductions.

The cops went about their business, and I spoke with the owner, briefly. The intent is to put all the rifles on the website, eventually. meanwhile, if you’re ever in Ord, by all means, stop by.

So I go into Wild Oats Market tonight, in search of steel cut oats.

And I find them, very quickly, and am ready to leave. The macrobiotic patchouli scented crap was making me crazy, and the hippies were making me sick. One couple, in particular, were particularly annoying. As I reached for my can of Irish steel cut oats, I noticed him making hand gestures toward his ear (He didn’t have a bluetooth headset in, I did) and overheard him saying “ooh, I’m so cool, I have bluetooth”.

Actually, it’s nothing of the sort, I frankly forgot I had it in, and I do hate looking like the Borg.

But hey, I thought, why not have some fun with it.

So i walked a bit further down the aisle. Now, I’m out of range- the phone itself is out in the car. This headset, when it goes out of range of the phone, the blue light goes on, and the headset beeps.

So I put my hand to my ear.

“hello?”

The hippie couple look up from their macrobiotic organically grown fuckstick sprouts.

“Yeah, it’s me. How can I help you?”

Of course, there’s nobody there, the headset is disconnected but the light is on, and THEY don’t know it’s out of range

“Oh, sure. yeah? Take the shot.”
Hippies look up
“Yeah, take the shot. it’s fine.”

a pause. I nod my head.

“Third and fourth Thoracic Vertebra. Really.”

Hippies beginning to look startled

“Draw an imaginary line from the top of the left to the top of the right shoulder, and about four inches below the center.”

“No, nobody will ever know. Nobody living, anyway.”

“Don’t jerk the trigger. You remember the training.”

“Yes, each one is a little easier than the last. This is what, five?”

“Nine? Wow, time flies. Is that the siencer? You should have put that on earlier.”

“Don’t forget the window this time. yes, you only have to open it for the shot.”
“You have it? No, don’t take it until you hang up, I don’t want to be deaf in one ear.”

I tap my ear again and walk toward the entrance, the blue light goes off.

Like magic, I get a call from a co-worker. I tap my ear again.

“Yes? Can I help you? oh, you. Are you done now? yes? good. Don’t forget to clean up. Talk later!”

By now the hippies have put down their selections and are making for the door at a speed you might call “let’s get out of here without being too obvious”.

hey, why not.

UPDATE: I’m getting a lot of traffic on this post, for reasons I don’t understand.

If you like this, click on “neanderpundit” above and look around. There’s lots more like this. If you don’t, if tweaking macrobiotic herbal hippie scum offends you, or if you are an unwashed patchouli smelling hippie yourself, piss up a rope.