That damned Subhumans song keeps running through my head with the line “You’d like to start a book but you’re not sure how to begin.” Why do those English blowhards torture me so? How can they read my thoughts and the related lack of physical engagement from so many miles…and years away? Get out of my head Mr. Human! No wonder they call you Dick! Go and take a shower will you?
I guess it is high time I take some action to remedy this situation. Eliminating the white noise hanging from the corner of the living room might get me a tiny step closer to getting off this couch and actually employing my dubious writing skills. I did go out and buy a shotgun. During the purchase I was proudly sporting my “Kill Your Television” Tee-shirt. The pawn shop clerk didn’t seem to catch the irony in this action. He just handed me some forms and went grumpily about his business.
Stupid northern states; it took me seven damn days and a virtual K2 of paperwork to get my hands on this beauteous weapon of destruction. I should have bought the thing when I was in Nashville. The Walmart on Nolensville Pike had a most impressive selection of killing machines. I’m pretty sure all I’d have needed to purchase a double barrel down there was an orange Browning hat and a pair of fecal encrusted boots. I’d have choked down a wad of winter-mint Skoal just to seal the deal.
But never mind, the harbinger of doom is now nestled smugly in my determined hands. Unfortunately, my trigger fingers must bide their time. I just can’t follow through with the threat. This has nothing to do with my weakened will. It’s just that my wife has confiscated all of the ammunition. She keeps ranting on about something to do with me not believing in guns. This reminds me of the time when I drunkenly dialed her number from my brother’s house in Joseph, Utah all those years ago. I thought she would be proud of my shooting in the New Year just like the locals do out there. What a fun hater she is!