By W.R. Jones
I’m going shooting after work today. No – I’m not looking to shoot Chippy here; I’m going to the range to shoot at paper targets. Relax – I just wanted to get a moments rise out of you tree huggers/animal lovers. This painting came from a trip to Montana. When he rustled around in the grass I was certain it was a bear stalking me. Maybe I don’t belong outdoors, I’m more of a mall type. I’ve always found a more plentiful food supply and fewer mosquitos in the mall.
I recently bought a Henry pump action 22. I have wanted such a rifle since I was a boy. It is beautiful; an octagonal barrel and dark walnut stock make it a piece of art. I had thought my desire for shooting implements would taper off with this purchase but we just got a new Orvis catalog that offered a custom made shotgun for $10,000. I floated the idea of me owning such a device out past Santa. Santa muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “No LIVING way.”
As I was looking for a box of shells to shoot, I remembered a boy from my high school in Iowa. A friend of his accidently (?) shot him in the foot. The bullet passed completely through from top to bottom. Instead of heading to the nearest doctor/hospital, he taped his own foot and never saw a doctor. This same boy once dove into the local river and sliced open his scrotal sac on a piece of broken glass. Again he did not seek professional attention but simply taped the wound shut. Things like this are beyond the pale for a world class hypochondriac like myself. Ever since his mother related this incident to me I dive with one hand over my balls. This may be why I never scored well in the diving competitions.