This made me laugh so hard I about had a stroke. Enjoy. (Hat tip to Knuckledraggin My Life Away.)
Adaptive Curmudgeon is handsome, brave, and wise.
Never had an airsoft gun as a youth, I progressed from the lever-action Daisy at age 5 to the Crossman .22 at 6 to the Harrington and Richardson .22LR bolt-action for my 7th birthday. Still have them all. Which, the statute of limitations being probably over, I can relate a tale…
When I was about 9 a few of us kids in the township would get together and have BB Gun Wars, whereupon we wore our little Army helmets and our little GI Joe olive drab uniforms and some safety glasses we stole from our dad’s, and would role-play Iwo Jima or the Battle of the Bulge in the woods. Good times. Still have a few scars from those games. Anyway, the rule was to use a pump-up Crossman .177 and only pump it a few times so nobody would get hurt. Unless of course the target was a long way off and you were a sniper as yet unseen. Or when it was otherwise absolutely convenient.
Anyway, taking apart the Crossman one day to clean it and sort of see how it worked, the gasket that formed the seal on the air reservoir appeared to be made of something like leather. My bright idea was to soak that gasket in neatsfoot oil and leather conditioner for a couple of days, then re-assemble and see if the softer gasket allowed more than the standard 10 pumps worth of pressure.
So I’m sitting at my desk with all the cleaning kit spread out and, being indoors, I stuffed a Q-tip in the end of the barrel, pumped until I couldn’t move the lever any more (17 times if my memory is at all accurate), and pulled the trigger. Shot a Q-tip into the mirror on my dresser about 4 feet away and shattered the damned thing!
So naturally when Dad got home Mom had me explain to him, in detail, in my room, in front of all the evidence gathered, why I was in trouble and he needed to get his belt and teach me to be more considerate of my property in general and her house in particular and not shoot guns inside.
Whereupon Dad declined to believe my tale and wanted to know how I’d *really* broken the mirror.
So I pumped the Crossman until I couldn’t pump it any more, inserted a Q-tip down the barrel, and shot my bedroom window right next to the desk.
Gotta hand it to the old man, he held his shit together.
I still got an ass-whuppin’ for the mirror, but the window was on him (though I had to assist in the replacement of both). The Crossman was also taken away, it being considered too dangerous. My next birthday had a long red cardboard box under the tree, which I’d hoped was a new Crossman just for me.
Nope. Winchester ’94 in .30-30.
1 Corinthians 13:11. Didn’t touch any of my BB guns until I introduced my kids to them 30 years later.
I would have loved to see the look on your dads face when that window shattered.
Unfortunately our weapons were way lamer. We did play war though on our street. (Seriously, how could anyone not?)
Our bit of silliness came from the walkie-talkies that we would use to coordinate our 3-man armies over the neighborhood (ie, everyone did whatever the heck they wanted, but we could hear the other guys keying their mics, I suppose.)
One of the channels was the same frequency used for a popular brand of baby monitor. “Cole! Are you in position yet?” “indistinct gurgling noises.” “Alright on 3 – 3,2,1, attack!” “WAAAAAAH!”
Tales of the Cookie Monster!
Why? Because I say so.
An on-going serialized novella. Lesbian squirrel harness the power of Swedish disco to erase common sense. When drone strikes, trans-species raptors, and a racist bear all fail to stop them, two brilliant college dropouts in a Subaru are mankind’s last hope. We’re probably doomed.
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