Mrs. Crank has of late voiced an opinion that we should be thinking about getting a firearm for personal protection. My first reaction was to ask, who was she and what had she done with the original Mrs. Crank? Visions of pod people and dopplecrankers danced in my head.
“Wait just a minute,” I said. “I know you. You are the wife that popped up when we bought the big screen TV and you wanted the ‘biggest one that they had’ as I recall. You are also the one that when I asked permission to purchase my very own Cadillac said, ‘It was the fattest-assed most ostentatious automobile I ever saw, so by all means, yes please.’” You are the multiple personality I like best. Please stay a while. Have coffee…
Getting back to the gun thing. As I have a long list of inherited health issues, not the least of which is tremors, the whole gun as a hobby thing was something I would momentarily think about and then envision many injured people within 100 feet of whatever I was ‘aiming’ at, complete with all the associated gore and blood. Then I would laugh and say no. Mrs. C, however, persisted so I agreed to do some investigating.
Everyone said the best way to touch/handle/feel many different types of guns was at a show. As there happened to be a show scheduled at our very own local football stadium/mothership, we elected to attend. We soon discovered at a gun show, cash is king…aka, leave the visa home. It’s useless as tits on a bull.
$17.00 per person to get in.
“Oh, you have no cash? Well there’s an ATM right over there that only charges you your firstborn child.”
Now let’s get one thing straight. This is a gun show in Arizona. I could not look more out of place if I were riding a fucking pink pony and singing Dixie Chicks’ songs. Short, wide, very Italian—with little tyrannosaurus type hands—I was vastly overdressed in my full set of teeth, chinos and golf shirt. As we walked in, my wife said to me it was a little disconcerting to see people all walking around with large firearms hanging from their necks and/or hips. No shit! As we approached our first of many booths, a tall cowboy hat-wearing dude asked me how he could be of help. As I was about halfway through my diatribe of “don’t know much ‘bout no guns,” he interrupted me.
“I have to tell you sir that you have the accent of someone who hails from a place where guns are not looked upon very kindly.”
This, dear wife, was going to be a LONG fucking day.
He asked me some questions he had prepared for just such an occasion, and I guess I answered them right. He seemed especially happy to hear that I loved the baby Jesus and NASCAR and hated the Evil Obama, and that I felt it was nobody’s business how many guns I had. I had passed the audition with flying colors. Whew, that was tough—especially as I was starting to attract an armed audience. Good thing I didn’t take the Prius. It was like some kind of bizarre game show. “Answer the questions right and proceed with your life.” Double Barrel Jeopardy?
We spent the next few hours going from booth to booth with the wife holding each and every handgun in the place. At one point, she started to repeatedly pull the trigger on one particular gun. I saw by the reaction of the gentleman tending the booth that that might just be just a wee bit frowned upon. I leant over to my wife and whispered, “Please do not pull any triggers, ever.”
“Why not?” she asked. “The guns are all empty.”
I told her that the look I was getting from the guy was making my sphincter clench. I swear I heard Dueling Banjos in the background.
What ended up getting her attention? As we approach a particular booth, I heard the unmistakable sound of electricity arcing. Tasers. She picked one up that said One Million Volts and pressed the button. The sound that erupted was enough to give Frankenstein priapism for a week.
CLZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK.
Instead of being frightened or put off by the loud noise, I could see by her sly smile and the glint in her eye that she had found her protector. I think she wanted to name it. Sparky?
“I want this” she said.
So $40.00 later and a ‘free’ pepper spray and a ‘free’ mini folding knife and everyone was happy. All the ‘issues’ that come with gun ownership were sidestepped, but anyone looking to harm Mrs. C will not soon forget the associated testicle re-ascending experience (TRAE). Look up the term win-win and there is a picture of my smiling bride holding her new friend.
Oh, and I wouldn’t say to her “Don’t tase me, bro” either. Don’t make her angry; you wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.
One of the things I had to accomplish on the trip was an errand for my son. I needed to find a dealer close to my home for him. Two things attracted me to one particular booth. We shared an area code and their sign read:
“Clinging to our God and our Guns since 1979.”
Bingo. Guns AND a sense of humor. Perfect. On the table next to an absolutely evil looking weapon was a Bible. The dark side of me was reeeeally starting to like this lady. But as we prepared to leave, we hit one last booth. As I quickly perused the merchandise my eyes settled on something I was hoping she wouldn’t see…shit. She saw it.
A 38 cal. Sag Sauer ‘Red Lady” hand gun.
You’ll shoot your eye out, ma’am.
It was all pretty in red with fancy white scroll work, obviously made to be noticed by females. And it was. Thank the lord it was $760.00. We took the name and model # for future reference.
What did I get out of the experience? Where there are guns, there are usually knives. I like knives; I worked with them daily for 25 years (pre-tremor years). I saw some beauties too that I might want to add to my collection. We left unscathed and hit the drive through for some Butterburger on the way home.
“Would you like that for here or to go? Hey, is that a Taser? Don’t tase me, bro…(ha, ha, ha).”
“Oh, shit.”
the_crank@dailyDiscord.com
