With deer hunting season upon us, I’d just like to remind everyone of the importance of gun safety. There are, of course, other methods you can use to hunt deer that don’t involve going into the woods or wearing anything that makes you look like an escaped con. You can simply drive up and down any stretch of highway, day or night, until one runs into your car. Cars are a terrific magnet for deer (any make, model and year will do). Plus, by using a car, you don’t have to pour a certain liquid on yourself that many hunters use to attract deer. This makes driving an attractive alternative, as many well-trained aroma scientists have said the ‘liquid’ has a distinct odor that smells “a lot like deer piss.”
If you do hunt with a gun, however, please be careful. It’s important to be responsible and not to use your gun for anything other than what is permissible by law. Up until a couple of weeks ago, if anyone had said to me, “I never use my gun for anything other than hunting,” I would have believed them. But a few news stories over the last couple of weeks have shown me that gun owners are good at finding all sorts of uses for their guns.
This one was particularly eye-opening as far as learning what a gun can be used for. It got me thinking that maybe everyone who wants to buy a gun should be required to take an IQ test and score higher than a 12 before going home with one. Or, if not an IQ test, some kind of grading scale that lets the government and your surrounding community know that you at least have the brain capacity of a pop-tart.
For example, if you’re met with a scenario like this, it would be comforting for the rest of us to know that you have answered the following question correctly:
You may carry a gun when you are:
a) Hunting with a correct permit in a legally designated area
b) At a firing range
c) In a crowd of people, including while at work, even if you are not a police officer
d) a and b only
And many other ugly mishaps could be avoided if people in Boddington, Washington had to correctly answer the following question before being given a firearm:
If your neighbor is playing music a little too loudly, you should:
a) Shoot him
b) Not shoot him
Then again, even if a test contained thousands of multiple choice questions, it wouldn’t ensure that people would use a gun responsibly. Sometimes it requires more than just intelligence. For instance, in my opinion you should not be allowed to own a gun if you are a complete – and I believe this is the proper medical term – dickhole. Maybe you should have to collect the signatures of 50 people who will vouch that you, in fact, are not a dickhole. Do you think these two yahoos could get 50 signatures? Or even 10?
As you can see, I don’t have the perfect solution. My suggestions need a little tweaking. But obviously something needs to be done. I mean, if you're a high-ranking government official, you can own a gun without even knowing the difference between a bird and the face of a 78-year-old man. So help me spread the word to use guns more responsibly. Now excuse me while I pull out my 12-gauge – the toilet is backed up again.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
What'd You Say, Whippersnapper?
I’m sure a lot of married people would agree that adding the phrase “my wife” or “my husband” to their everyday speech habits feels weird at first. It did for me. I mean, hey, I had never said it before.
“I’d like you to meet my wife. My wife has that sweater. My wife likes cheese.”
Now it feels completely natural, but all of those were new four years ago. Now “my son” has entered my lexicon. That feels strange. Wonderful, but strange.
(As a quick side note, my age may indicate that I’m plenty old enough to have a child, but my maturity level indicates quite the opposite. I know that everyone who hears me say “my son” for the first time has the same thought, “You’re somebody’s father?” Believe me, I feel badly for him too. Back to my point.)
It feels great to say “my wife” and “my son.” For most people, those phrases are positive indications we’ve reached certain stages in our lives. Older stages, but positive ones nonetheless.
But as we get older, there are all sorts of things we say that indicate we’ve reached other milestones. Some of them I can do without. No matter how old I get, I hope the following never become a regular part of my vocabulary:
“Enflamed prostate”
“Irregular”
“When I was your age”
“We might as well face it, we need a minivan”
“What are they teaching you at that school?”
“If there’s a place you got to go/I’m the one you need to know/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/If there’s a place you got to get/I can get you there I bet/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/I’m the Map”
“Well, son, Cialis is something daddies take when they want to…”
“Honey, where’s the Celebrex?”
“Honey, where’s the Cialis?”
“Yes officer, he lives here”
“Let’s not go to the movies on a Friday night, there’ll be too many teenagers there” (Okay, I may have heard myself say this already)
Buddy of mine: “Hey you want a beer?”
Me: “No thanks. What kind of diet soda do you have?”
“That Rich Little is a hoot”
“More fiber”
The word ‘hoot’
“That’s way too loud, turn it down”
“I can’t hear, turn it up”
“I can’t remember the last time I stayed up past 11 p.m.” (Okay, I know I’ve heard myself say this)
“These velcro laces work great”
“No thanks, I have enough hair on my back that I don’t need to put sunscreen on it”
“Oh no! Ponderosa looks crowded”
“The guided tour sounds lovely”
“I’d like you to meet my wife. My wife has that sweater. My wife likes cheese.”
Now it feels completely natural, but all of those were new four years ago. Now “my son” has entered my lexicon. That feels strange. Wonderful, but strange.
(As a quick side note, my age may indicate that I’m plenty old enough to have a child, but my maturity level indicates quite the opposite. I know that everyone who hears me say “my son” for the first time has the same thought, “You’re somebody’s father?” Believe me, I feel badly for him too. Back to my point.)
It feels great to say “my wife” and “my son.” For most people, those phrases are positive indications we’ve reached certain stages in our lives. Older stages, but positive ones nonetheless.
But as we get older, there are all sorts of things we say that indicate we’ve reached other milestones. Some of them I can do without. No matter how old I get, I hope the following never become a regular part of my vocabulary:
“Enflamed prostate”
“Irregular”
“When I was your age”
“We might as well face it, we need a minivan”
“What are they teaching you at that school?”
“If there’s a place you got to go/I’m the one you need to know/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/If there’s a place you got to get/I can get you there I bet/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/I’m the Map”
“Well, son, Cialis is something daddies take when they want to…”
“Honey, where’s the Celebrex?”
“Honey, where’s the Cialis?”
“Yes officer, he lives here”
“Let’s not go to the movies on a Friday night, there’ll be too many teenagers there” (Okay, I may have heard myself say this already)
Buddy of mine: “Hey you want a beer?”
Me: “No thanks. What kind of diet soda do you have?”
“That Rich Little is a hoot”
“More fiber”
The word ‘hoot’
“That’s way too loud, turn it down”
“I can’t hear, turn it up”
“I can’t remember the last time I stayed up past 11 p.m.” (Okay, I know I’ve heard myself say this)
“These velcro laces work great”
“No thanks, I have enough hair on my back that I don’t need to put sunscreen on it”
“Oh no! Ponderosa looks crowded”
“The guided tour sounds lovely”
Sunday, November 4, 2007
The Great Debate(s)
Something about the current presidential race has me riveted. It’s drawn me in and forced me to examine how I go about my regular activities. Lately I can’t help but incorporate the essence of the race, from both sides of the line, into my everyday activities.
For instance, when gas jumped up by 10 cents this week, I went inside the nearest station and debated with the gentleman behind the counter as to why he raised the price per gallon. He babbled on about the cost of petroleum, supply and demand, his need to stay competitive in the marketplace, the effect of local gas taxes and other completely unfounded arguments. I told him that, “Raising the price of gas is uncool, man.”
I walked out of there with my head held high knowing I had bested him in our showdown.
I didn’t fair as well in my next round, though, when I debated with local law enforcement over whether or not the light was red. Although in my defense, I don’t recall any of the presidential nominees being allowed to use mace while trying to make their points (not that I would be against this).
I spent an afternoon actually debating with myself over whether or not to go to work. When I arrived at the office at 4:30 p.m., having decided that ‘yes’ was the winning answer, my boss engaged me in a debate on whether or not I should keep my job. So much for gratitude.
When kids came to my door one evening last week begging for candy, I debated with them on why they deserved something for free that I (by which I mean my wife) had paid for. Turns out their bags of flaming dog poo proved to be pretty convincing.
I even had to debate with my wife over watching the latest round of the debates. Lost that one too.
Over the last few days I’ve debated the necessity of the New York Jets, Ryan Seacrest, eggplant, rice cakes, FOX News, televised radio programs, Rush Hour III, the Secretary of the Interior, Diet Mountain Dew and the LPGA.
After a while, my track record in all these debates was leaving me pretty deflated. Plus, constantly constructing and deconstructing my portable podium was awfully tiring. So, I decided to curtail my debating habit.
I decided to give it one more shot when I debated with my seven-month-old son over why he should go back to sleep at 1 a.m. the other night, but every time I tried to make a point, he only shook his fists, cried louder and generally threw a fit.
“Son,” I told him, “you’ve got a future in politics.”
So to all of you who are thinking, “Mike, you should spend less time debating and more time sharing your brilliant musings with the world,” my only response is “Brilliant? That’s debatable.”
For instance, when gas jumped up by 10 cents this week, I went inside the nearest station and debated with the gentleman behind the counter as to why he raised the price per gallon. He babbled on about the cost of petroleum, supply and demand, his need to stay competitive in the marketplace, the effect of local gas taxes and other completely unfounded arguments. I told him that, “Raising the price of gas is uncool, man.”
I walked out of there with my head held high knowing I had bested him in our showdown.
I didn’t fair as well in my next round, though, when I debated with local law enforcement over whether or not the light was red. Although in my defense, I don’t recall any of the presidential nominees being allowed to use mace while trying to make their points (not that I would be against this).
I spent an afternoon actually debating with myself over whether or not to go to work. When I arrived at the office at 4:30 p.m., having decided that ‘yes’ was the winning answer, my boss engaged me in a debate on whether or not I should keep my job. So much for gratitude.
When kids came to my door one evening last week begging for candy, I debated with them on why they deserved something for free that I (by which I mean my wife) had paid for. Turns out their bags of flaming dog poo proved to be pretty convincing.
I even had to debate with my wife over watching the latest round of the debates. Lost that one too.
Over the last few days I’ve debated the necessity of the New York Jets, Ryan Seacrest, eggplant, rice cakes, FOX News, televised radio programs, Rush Hour III, the Secretary of the Interior, Diet Mountain Dew and the LPGA.
After a while, my track record in all these debates was leaving me pretty deflated. Plus, constantly constructing and deconstructing my portable podium was awfully tiring. So, I decided to curtail my debating habit.
I decided to give it one more shot when I debated with my seven-month-old son over why he should go back to sleep at 1 a.m. the other night, but every time I tried to make a point, he only shook his fists, cried louder and generally threw a fit.
“Son,” I told him, “you’ve got a future in politics.”
So to all of you who are thinking, “Mike, you should spend less time debating and more time sharing your brilliant musings with the world,” my only response is “Brilliant? That’s debatable.”
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