I’m not sure where all this verbosity is coming from today. I even took a two hours nap and did some cleaning. Between playing Mafia Wars on Facebook and a game that I downloaded forever ago called Ranch Rush, I guess I need something else to keep me busy while I watch CSI: Miami. (Yes, I’m still hooked on that show!)
Over Thanksgiving, my li’l bro and I were talking about how we used to play with BB guns a lot when we were kids. We got standard safety lessons and were only allowed to shoot aluminum cans. And black birds if they were trying to eat the dog’s food, as long as we promised not to kill robins or blue jays. I think we forgot to talk about the times we used to shoot the guns into what we used to call “the playroom”. The tiny little bullet would ricochet off about seven different things before finally lodging itself inside a book or turning a little yellow Lego man into “The Man With No Face”.
Once I got old enough to do other things, like go to high school, my brother’s best friend (who’s now a cop with the Kansas Citiy police department) took control of my BB gun and then there was trouble. I remember our backyard looking like some sort of psycho gun range with lawn chairs for the boys to hide behind and old Pepsi cans hanging from shoe strings off the swingset’s monkey bars. You could look out the back windows and see our dog peering out of his dog house, while two scrawny eleven year olds wearing a makeshift holster for their BB rifle would dive “for safety” behind a tractor tire sandbox, blasting one BB after another into the Rambo action figure lodged in our favorite climbing tree.
Man, I think if something like that happened today, sixteen years later, there’d be three police cars, a possible SWAT team, and child protective services banging down the door. I kinda miss 1992.