Monkeyleg
Member.
After a month of going to the range just to be a range officer (and thus not able to shoot), I decided this morning to get out there and get in my own trigger time. But the volunteer range officer for the morning shift didn't show up. No range officer, no shooting.
There was another shooter there awaiting a range officer, so we decided (per club rules) that we'd RO for each other. I got to shoot first, or at least one mag. This guy liked to talk. And talk. After an hour, I had only fired seven shots.
Another guy showed, so I took over as RO while the other two shot. Another hour later, the new guy offered to watch things while I shot.
Perhaps because of frustration, or misalignment of the stars, or just plain lack of practice, my shots were all over the paper. I haven't shot a target that bad in years. It got so bad that, for the last two mags, I just shot as fast as I could to burn up the remaining ammo I'd brought.
Back to RO again until the afternoon guy showed. A nicely dressed guy arrived along with his two sons, and two handguns. I watched the kids shoot, listening to their dad's instructions. The kids--and the dad--had a problem keeping their fingers off the trigger when the guns weren't pointed downrange. Politely, I told him that was a problem, and pointed to numerous holes in the shooting benches, each hole labeled in felt-tip with the word "stupid."
"It's okay," he said. "We've got the safeties on."
Explaining that safeties aren't always safe, I asked that they keep fingers off trigger until muzzle was downrange.
That lasted for awhile, or at least until the 1:00 RO showed. I informed the new guy about the threesome's finger problems, and headed to the clubhouse to turn in my badge.
The trap shooters were gathered at the bar, and the conversation was about the range officer problem. One veteran shotgunner offered his solution: eliminate half the rifle and pistol benches to make room for more trap stations; he doesn't like rifle and pistol shooters.
Resisting the tempation to wrap his precious duck gun around his turkey neck, I headed home to get out on my bike.
About ten miles down the road, a gasket that had been leaking a bit decided to give up the ghost entirely, spraying me and the bike with oil. This is the cylinder base gasket. The one that requires hours and hours to replace. As I rode home, I began to plan my July 4th weekend swearing-and-sweating-and-bleeding-in-the-alley project, trying to catalogue in my mind which two cent o-ring the parts guy will neglect to give me, knowing that they'll be closed.
Bike in the garage, I headed inside to clean my pistol, only to find that my wife had once again figured that the best strategy to cool a house in warm weather was to open windows. It was 75 degrees outside and nearly 80 degrees inside. Rather than risk a divorce-bound argument over the virtues of fresh air versus hot air, I reflexively replied that, yes, there was indeed a nice breeze. And I'm sure there was, but it was probably in Denver or Sacremento or some other place 1000 miles away.
Once she left for work, I closed windows, turned on the air, and settled down to read the "We're Still Losing The War in Iraq" stories in the paper, only to find this Doonesbury cartoon: http://tinyurl.com/fjf9
On THR, we often say that an armed society is a polite society but, if Gary Trudeau had been within reach of me, he would have found himself licking the oil off my bike with a shiney clean .45 pressed to one ear while a string of obscenities assaulted the other.
Now, as I look out the window, I see that I'm the only guy on the block who hasn't cut his lawn, an offense that ranks right up there with child molestation, wife-beating, or wearing white shoes after Labor Day. And I think about that blade spinning at 2000 rpm, recently sharpened, able to throw rocks, or just cut your toes clean off. And I wonder about tempting fate.
There was another shooter there awaiting a range officer, so we decided (per club rules) that we'd RO for each other. I got to shoot first, or at least one mag. This guy liked to talk. And talk. After an hour, I had only fired seven shots.
Another guy showed, so I took over as RO while the other two shot. Another hour later, the new guy offered to watch things while I shot.
Perhaps because of frustration, or misalignment of the stars, or just plain lack of practice, my shots were all over the paper. I haven't shot a target that bad in years. It got so bad that, for the last two mags, I just shot as fast as I could to burn up the remaining ammo I'd brought.
Back to RO again until the afternoon guy showed. A nicely dressed guy arrived along with his two sons, and two handguns. I watched the kids shoot, listening to their dad's instructions. The kids--and the dad--had a problem keeping their fingers off the trigger when the guns weren't pointed downrange. Politely, I told him that was a problem, and pointed to numerous holes in the shooting benches, each hole labeled in felt-tip with the word "stupid."
"It's okay," he said. "We've got the safeties on."
Explaining that safeties aren't always safe, I asked that they keep fingers off trigger until muzzle was downrange.
That lasted for awhile, or at least until the 1:00 RO showed. I informed the new guy about the threesome's finger problems, and headed to the clubhouse to turn in my badge.
The trap shooters were gathered at the bar, and the conversation was about the range officer problem. One veteran shotgunner offered his solution: eliminate half the rifle and pistol benches to make room for more trap stations; he doesn't like rifle and pistol shooters.
Resisting the tempation to wrap his precious duck gun around his turkey neck, I headed home to get out on my bike.
About ten miles down the road, a gasket that had been leaking a bit decided to give up the ghost entirely, spraying me and the bike with oil. This is the cylinder base gasket. The one that requires hours and hours to replace. As I rode home, I began to plan my July 4th weekend swearing-and-sweating-and-bleeding-in-the-alley project, trying to catalogue in my mind which two cent o-ring the parts guy will neglect to give me, knowing that they'll be closed.
Bike in the garage, I headed inside to clean my pistol, only to find that my wife had once again figured that the best strategy to cool a house in warm weather was to open windows. It was 75 degrees outside and nearly 80 degrees inside. Rather than risk a divorce-bound argument over the virtues of fresh air versus hot air, I reflexively replied that, yes, there was indeed a nice breeze. And I'm sure there was, but it was probably in Denver or Sacremento or some other place 1000 miles away.
Once she left for work, I closed windows, turned on the air, and settled down to read the "We're Still Losing The War in Iraq" stories in the paper, only to find this Doonesbury cartoon: http://tinyurl.com/fjf9
On THR, we often say that an armed society is a polite society but, if Gary Trudeau had been within reach of me, he would have found himself licking the oil off my bike with a shiney clean .45 pressed to one ear while a string of obscenities assaulted the other.
Now, as I look out the window, I see that I'm the only guy on the block who hasn't cut his lawn, an offense that ranks right up there with child molestation, wife-beating, or wearing white shoes after Labor Day. And I think about that blade spinning at 2000 rpm, recently sharpened, able to throw rocks, or just cut your toes clean off. And I wonder about tempting fate.
Last edited:
ing emergency. 
