39. fire a gun

A few months ago I had the following conversation:
"Why do you have a can of Natty Ice in your fridge?"
"[Insert here a long and complicated story about the most irritating crazy alcoholic stoner leech whack-job meth-addict lowlife ignorant asshole lazy goodfornothing friend of my sociopath ex person I have ever had the displeasure to spend time with for two weeks]. And THAT is why I have a can of Natty Ice in my fridge. And nobody else will drink it."
"Huh. Maybe you should bring it when we go out to the desert and you can shoot it."

Brilliant.

So on Thursday I wrapped it in several freezerbags and a tupperware container and nestled it in amongst my clothes. I checked the bag for the flight and hoped for the best.

It arrived in SoCal with nary a dent or leak. Sweet.

On Sunday we drove out to the desert, stopping first at Bass Pro Shops (which is full of disturbing things like taxidermied lions and antler-mounting equipment and dove hunting supplies (seriously?? Doves!?)) to pick up some ammo.

We drove out past.... uh, anywhere, really. The directions included "and when you get to the dirt road just stay on it. You can veer off the main road because it will usually connect back up again but don't make any turns. Also you don't want to drive into the soft sand."

We stopped the car and hiked the last bit in the 100 degree heat. On the way from the car I was handed a gun in a holster, "here I don't have enough hands to carry this. Put it on." And so I did.

It made quite the fashion statement.

(I only wore it when it was empty. It was too scary when it was loaded.)

I got a lesson and a demonstration. The boys showed me how to hold the gun and how to aim and how to fire. They told me never to point a gun at anyone, even if it wasn't loaded. And then they just HANDED ME A LOADED GUN. Like I'm some kind of responsible, level-headed person who doesn't panic easily. Or a thug. Whichever.

I gave it a shot.

HAHA! Get it? A SHOT!

They all told me I did a good job. I laughed nervously, handed back the gun with shaking hands, sat down, and tried not to burst into tears. There was just something totally nervewracking and stressful about handling a gun for the very first time in my life. I had never even been around guns at all. Ever. (Unless you count living in Southcentral LA, which I don't (anymore)).

I drank some water and soda and watched the boys do their thing.

Don't worry-- they don't shoot animals, just clay pigeons and beer bottles and stuff.

It was hot as a motha.

After I had sufficiently rested and calmed down, I tried the rifle.

My weenie spaghetti-arms couldn't hold up that big thing for very long and I got all lightheaded from cocking my head to the side and holding my breath. And lightheaded is not a good way to feel when you are HOLDING A LOADED GUN. It was fun and made for a good photo-op, but I decided I like the little one better.

And so it was time for the Natty Ice to meet its destiny.
"Are you sure you don't want to use the shotgun and shoot your beer can with a slug?"
"Nah. You can do that afterward. I want it to suffer."

Any last requests, Natty Ice?

No? Okay, then. Say goodbye.

That was really fun and quite satisfying.