Don't Be This A-Hole

       Safety isn't a sometimes thing.

       Just yesterday in the hallowed halls of Ye Olde Gonne Shoppe, a goober rudely demanded to be shown a rifle. He sneered at the Vortex scope, then used it to draw a bead on a woman customer in an orange sweater. That got him an immediate command; "SIR! Point the gun UP and BACK!" He didn't comply, snarling that he was testing the optic on a contrasting target. (After all, plenty of deer wear safety orange.) I finally got the rifle from him, cleared it, put it on the rack, wished him a good day, and walked down the counter.

       Cletus stood there sputtering.

       He may still be there.

       I don't care.

       I won't leave a weapon in the hands of such an ignoramus, someone so willing to violate the rules of gun safety and assault an innocent. Col. Cooper's Rules of Gun Safety are the very foundation of our gun culture, defining our basic interactions and our core ethos of respect, responsibility and safety. We ignore them at our peril.

Uhhh.... You Were Saying?

       If you are a very lovely young lass, amply blessed by Nature's God, and dressed to thrill, please do not lean over the gun counter at Ye Olde Gonne Shoppe.

       It does no good to the Firearm Sales Associate's focus and concentration.

#oldebutnotdead

      To the good, I passed my heart stress test with flying colors!

Toast

       Cuba Libre! Death to (Raul) Castro!

        It's been one of those days of wading in the shallow end of the gene pool at Ye Olde Gonne Shoppe.

Sumdood

       Sumdood called Ye Olde Gonne Shoppe asking about a particular type of handgun favored by the more discriminating banger. 

        You could smell the weed over the phone. 

        Sheesh, doood. You'll need to be able to coherently put more than three words together before we'll sell you a gun. We'll even count articles.

Metaphor Alert

       Anyone else look at the classic cluster-phuk of the Oscars and think; "Yep, Obamacare."?

Overrun

       These are the times that try firearm sales associates' souls. (As if they still have souls.) 

       Portland on the Mississippi was wrapped all day in a soggy, wet, gray blanket of low clouds and showers. Many constructions sites, farms, roadway repairs, outdoor retail firms, car washes, etc, etc, etc, closed because of the unexpected weather. However, Ye Olde Gonne Shoppe was open. It's doors were an undefended border to the army of bored guys with nowhere better to go.

       They assaulted the counter, blockaded the aisles, demanded attention, shouldered aside paying customers, and generally made a nuisance of themselves; while bunkering their wallets deep in their pockets. At the same time, their confederates kept up a steady barrage of harassing phone calls. The two poor FSAs were rapidly overwhelmed - however, the horde wouldn't allow them to surrender and continued to attack mercilessly.

        The only aid offered was the promise of alcohol at the end of the shift.

        Unmet. 

Not My President Day

       Gawd, it was a great dream, but I guess Hillary is still the President.