Guns Make Great Neighbors

We live between two very different neighbors:

Neighbor A: Just finished building a large work shed that includes a concrete foundation. He has several trashed Cadillacs, a lopsided pop-up camper, and assorted industrial equipment decorating his backyard. Sometimes at dusk he comes out wearing nothing but shorts and practices archery.

Neighbor B: Mild mannered, middle-aged insurance salesman. He has a swimming pool, a hot tub, and a lighted tennis court in his backyard. He mows his lawn fully dressed and hosts tennis matches two nights a week.

Recently, a situation called for the neighborly assistance of someone with a gun. Guess which neighbor came running shirtless with a shotgun in his hands?

(Hint: We live in Texas.)

Give up? The correct answer is Neighbor B, the insurance salesman. (The hint should have just made you realized that we all have guns. Well, almost all.)

But I am jumping ahead. We have noticed an excessive amount of skunk activity in the neighborhood this spring. By notice, I mean we can smell their trails after they’ve been running around the yard all night. So St. Pauli Girl went and bought a skunk trap, which is a steel box that could accommodate maybe two hamsters comfortably. Of course the trap had to be small enough so the skunk couldn’t lift its tail after it had been caught, but I had a hard time believing a skunk would even try to enter. Regardless, we were told a piece of bacon would make the trap very attractive. (It worked, at least for me.)

We set the trap and came out the next morning anxious to see what we caught. The empty trap lay on its side, bacon-less. We had been the victims of a “dine and dash.”

After that, we went several weeks without a skunk scent so we stopped worrying about it. Then one afternoon St. Pauli Girl and I were relaxing with a cold beer on the front lawn after a long day of yard work. I heard the Neighbor B’s Labradors barking up a storm. I didn’t say anything because I thought they might be eating one of our chickens, and I didn’t want to upset St. Pauli Girl.

The labs suddenly approached their fence and chased a little ball of black and white fur onto our property. I looked down to make sure it wasn’t Yogi, our black and white dog who happens to look very much like Pepe Le Pew. No, Yogi was snoozing soundly at our feet.

“Skunk!” I yelled. This woke up Yogi, so I chased him into the house so that A) he wouldn’t chase the skunk, B) the skunk wouldn’t chase him/try to mate with him, and C) he wouldn’t get shot.

We then ran toward the skunk as it skittered about before slipping out under the front gate. Another neighbor whom we’ll call Neighbor C approached and said, “There’s a skunk in your yard.”

“Yes, we know,” St. Pauli Girl said. “Should I get the skunk trap?”

“Why? Bill there’s got a gun.”

Seconds later, our shirtless insurance agent, Neighbor B, came a-runnin’ with his shotgun in hand. “He’s in your yard!” he shouted.

“What are you saying? Are you going to sue us?” I asked. (With three attorneys in the family, that’s always my first question.) “So he’s our responsibility now?”

“No, he went out the gate,” St. Pauli Girl said.

Bill and Neighbor C peered into the culvert that ran beneath our driveway next to the street.

“There he is,” Neighbor C said. “He’s hunkered down at the other end.”

Bill raced to the opposite side and pointed his gun into the culvert.

“Fire in the hole!” I yelled as the gun flashed and went boom.

“What was that for?” Bill asked, shotgun smokin’.

“I don’t know. They say that in all the war movies.”

We watched and waited but nothing happened. It was unlikely the skunk had been hit by the blind shot, and he certainly hadn’t run out. I debated whether or not to go fetch Neighbor A with his bow and arrow.

“There he goes,” Neighbor C shouted, pointing at the other end of the culvert.

Bill spun around and fired. The skunk dropped to the ground but not before lifting his tail and spraying the ground around him in one final act of vengeance. Sort of an “I’ll see you in hell!” kind of farewell, if you will.

We boxed up the carcass and gave it to the Neighbor C, the largest landowner, so he could leave it somewhere far away for the vultures. Then we stood around and chatted for a while, congratulating each other on our great collaborative hunt and kill. I felt a real bond with our neighbors that evening. But I also realized I should never wander into their backyards uninvited.

Sometimes it just takes a gun to bring people together. Or a skunk.

Concealed Lobbyist

The Great Republic faced a great conundrum since some lunatic fired gunshots in the Capitol a few months ago. Officials had to grapple with how best to make the Capitol more secure and yet not impede on the rights of gun owners. So they added x-ray scanners to the entrances plus an express lane for owners of Concealed Handgun Permits to avoid the lines and scanners and tote their weapons into the Capitol.

Many people would argue that’s ludicrous, but they fail to note that owners of concealed handgun permits are thoroughly investigated and complete safety training. A lunatic could never get a concealed handgun permit. So the Capitol is safer because people with concealed handguns are our first line of defense.

More importantly, opportunity knocks. A few blogs ago, I noted that I wanted to add 40,000 people to the address on my census form so I could get my own congressional district. Forget that! I want to be a lobbyist! (With a concealed handgun, that is.)

So as soon as I get my permit, I'm putting out my shingle as a lobbyist. It's a much more honest living than having my own congressional district. Anyone needing to do a little business in the Great Republic is urged to contact me so I can persuade lawmakers to see things your way. I'll be cheaper than other lobbyists because there's no need to ahem, bribe.

Highlighted scenarios from my brochures:

"Congressman, you may choose to have the contents of either my left pocket or right pocket. One contains a check with five zeroes; the other contains hollow tipped bullets. What's it gonna be?"

And:

Sitting up in the public gallery, I can watch my congressmen and women cast their votes on important matters. As they get ready to vote, you may notice several of them sweating and looking up at me. That's when I stretch out and let my shoulder holster become visible.

And:

I can get access to the governor. As he walks by, we will both nod at each other as we caress the firearms in our pants.
"Governor, good job on shooting that coyote. You sure showed him who was boss or governor."
"Yeppers."
"I got me one too last week."
"You don't say," replies the governor.
"Yeah or a dog. I don't know. Just saw some rustling in the bushes. You know I like to brag to my out-of-state clients that my governor can shoot your governor."
A beaming governor nods, ready to become my friend for life.
"What's in your pocket?" I ask with a smile.
"Well as they say, if I showed you, then I'd have to kill you."
"Bwaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha," we both burst into laughter and throw our arms around each other like old friends.

And:

Walking into the congressman's office, I grab the family picture from his/her desk.
"Nice family. I hear they'd really like you to vote for HR438976," I say.
"You don't scare me."
I toss the picture into the air and blow it to pieces with my concealed handgun.

And:

I corner a frightened senator in his/her office. "I know what you're thinking," I say. "Did he use five or six shots? In all the commotion of the gunbattle on the senate floor during the textbook negotiations, I must admit that I lost count myself. So you have to ask yourself, 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do you....senator?

Calling All Varmints

Last weekend, St. Pauli Girl and I were out of town. As we drove back and passed through a small Texas town, I noticed the sign on the local taxidermy shop: “Varmint Calling Contest This Weekend.” I was so stunned that I didn’t even mention it to St. Pauli Girl.

What in the world could that be? The easy solution would have been to go to the contest and check it out. But then I thought, what if the town gets overrun by varmints while I’m there? Better to play it safe.

But it kept gnawing at me like a dog or better yet a coyote biting off a bikini bottom in one of those Coppertone ads. Perhaps I should enter the contest. If I can train my dog to answer the phone, then if I use my cell phone to call my dog from the contest, and he answers with a bark, how does that not win? But then I have to worry about cell phone reception, and I would hate to have to go through all that training when I can’t get any bars on my phone. Plus St. Pauli Girl would be mad at me for referring to our dog as a varmint.

Twenty years ago, I would have forgotten about the contest by now. But thanks to the internet, I instead wasted an entire day researching varmint calling. It turns out that varmint calling is the method of making animal noises to lure mostly coyotes or sometimes foxes to an area where you can them kill them. Or befriend them, which would make varmint calling akin to horse whispering. From my detailed research, the varmint call is usually the sound of a wounded jackrabbit intended to lure the varmint toward what he thinks is a delectable meal.

Others use the sounds of fellow coyotes, to attract a potential mate I suppose. Some of the advice I’ve seen for this includes:

1. Wear something off the shoulder.
2. Use a splash of perfume--preferably coyote urine.
3. Bring a nice bottle of wine, maybe a zinfandel.
4. Think sexy thoughts when making “the call.”

Varmint calling has a long and storied history going back to the first world championship which was won by Jim Dougherty in 1957. There have been national and state associations although California claims to be the only one still active. As Jim Dougherty himself said, varmint hunters “are adventurers, in a sense, who enjoy hunting some of our smartest animals in a one-on-one atmosphere where anything can happen and usually does."

So I guess I shouldn’t enter the contest with our dog because our dog is not one of the smartest animals, is technically not a varmint, and I would probably be expected to shoot him after calling him.

American Idols

Over the weekend, the New York Times reported that singing “My Way” at karaoke bars in the Philippines can get you killed. Not by Frank Sinatra, Jr. or the ghost of Frank senior, but by angry patrons. Or jealous patrons. Or irate, boozed up, gun toting nutty patrons who don’t know what they’re doing. Or some combination of all of those. (And I thought Texas was tough.)

The article never did pin down a definitive reason for this other than karaoke is taken very seriously there. Indeed. I've never been to a karaoke bar, but I once did a horrible off-note rendition of Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” at a party, and another time, I did sing “My Way” in a crowded bar. Amazingly I lived to tell about it. Probably the worst thing that happened was everyone exclaiming, “What a drunken idiot!” Thank God there were no cell phone cameras back then to record the event for all eternity. So . . . no, that never actually happened.

But now I suddenly have the urge to go to a karaoke bar. Certainly not to sing, nor would I pack heat. I’m just curious as to exactly how seriously people take that singing-to-canned-music stuff. Do their friends cry? Is there booing? Do the “performers” think they’re the next Mariah Carey because their inebriated friends gave them a standing ovation? Do people bring weapons?

I’m a homebody, so I won’t be going to a karaoke bar any time soon. But then I thought, what if this were on tv?

And of course it is, in the form of “American Idol.” But imagine the drama if, instead of merely shoo-ing away the untalented, Simon Cowell pulled out a pistol and blew away the losers? Or the judges pressed a button and the stage exploded? In fact, they could do away with the judges altogether and just have one of those James Bond villains from the 60’s sitting with his cat, flipping switches that send doomed contestants to horrific deaths. This would be a ratings bonanza.

St. Pauli Girl finally got around to watching the current season of “American Idol.” She had never seen it before although she loves the idea, loves singing and checking out new talent. She used to ask me what night/time it came on, and I would conveniently forget (if I did happen to know which I rarely did). And on top of that, we have a DVR player. We’ve had it for five years now and have yet to record anything. Why? I don’t know. I guess it always just seemed like a hassle. Plus we didn’t have any 12-year-old kids around to show us how easy it was.

We have managed to watch every episode so far. I’ll even admit it’s not as bad as a root canal. Reality show producers/directors really know how to edit for drama. Nevertheless, it gets a little old hearing someone shriek utter nonsense followed by a couple of good singers including a heartwarming story about someone’s past. But the mix of guest judges certainly has me looking forward to each show. So far they’ve had Posh Spice (or was that Old Spice?), Neal Patrick Harris, Avril Lavigne, and Katy Perry’s breasts.

I couldn’t name a song by either Avril or Katy, but they were certainly memorable with Avril sporting some sort of hooded jacket with ears that made her look like a cat or the devil, and Katy sporting half-visible 36D’s. Then I come to learn that Katy achieved fame with her hit, “I Kissed a Girl.” Brilliant. She is obviously following the patented “Madonna Memorial I Want to be Every Guy’s Wet Dream” career path.

And that’s when I realized that it’s not the untalented, can’t-carry-a-tune wannabe singers who are wasting their time. They’re getting a few minutes of fame, and one of their friends who knows how to work a DVR will record it for posterity. It’s the untalented—and possibly talented--good-looking women that are wasting their time. They just need to focus on a viable career path: roll out the cleavage, write a few songs about girl-on-girl, beer, sex in movie theaters or on airplanes-- and then Hollywood will beckon. A sex video never hurts either.

All I know is that when the American Idol audience gets to vote, until a contestant knockers her from her throne, I’m casting my ballot for Katy Perry’s breasts.