We Live By The Gun, So We Die By The Gun

I finally became a more accepted member of the Hammonds household last weekend while up in Grand Forks. I've got a brother who has been shooting guns and hunting since 2nd grade, and now lives out in the country so he can spend his days shooting targets, water bottles, coyotes, and would-be trespassers without worrying about bothering his neighbors. I've got a mom who attends shooting classes across the country, and is now proficient with multiple types of weaponry. I've got a dad who, at best, could be classified as a gun enthusiast....at worst, he's a man in possession of both an attitude and a weapons cache that makes him capable of a David Koresh-type last stand against the government, God forbid it ever came to that (and with the Democrats currently running the country, I'm certainly not ruling it out. My parents make Bill O'Reilly look like a liberal arts student at the University of Colorado.)


This may be a picture of the Branch Davidian compound in 1993....but it may as well be a future picture of my parents' house on West Fallcreek Court if Obama gets re-elected next fall.


Then you have me, who not only had never fired a gun before, but didn't even like being around them, and for many years refused to play Big Buck Hunter in the bars because what did those poor animals ever do to you? I actually had wanted to try shooting for the last few years, but various excuses kept getting in the way. I'm too hungover; there's a Laguna Beach marathon on TV; I'm re-tying all my shoelaces that night (Boom! Stacey Carosi reference there. That was her excuse for getting out of a date with McSteamy about 15 years before Grey's Anatomy. Oh, you didn't know that was him, did you? Did you know that Pinsky from Salute Your Shorts went on to be the lead guitarist for Rilo Kiley? Cover your head, I'm dropping early 90's Where Are They Now? trivia in here!)

So finally last weekend my family, along with Christine, Bergman, and Bergman's girlfriend LZE, went out to Brother's place, set up the targets, and made me into a grown-ass North Dakota man. It went well; it was quite a bit easier than I thought. I shot a 9mm and a .45 (whatever the hell those numbers mean) and though we weren't exactly shooting from a long distance, I was still able to pretty much hit where I was aiming most the time. I figured I'd barely be able to hit the board, much less the bullseye area, and maybe I would accidentally shoot someone in the foot, and that there would definitely be crying involved. My confidence grew exponentially after my first few shots, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing on a red bandana, sagging my pants, turning the gun sideways, and screaming "Break yo' self fool!" while bustin' caps on that snitch-ass target.

So while I've still got a ways to go in my gun career-- it's troubling to have the knowledge that, if I was to have an Aaron Burr-Alexander Hamilton-style duel with my own mother, she would be able to kill me three times before I even got the gun out of its holster-- but at least I've taken the first baby steps. Anyone want to go shoot some wild animals this weekend? A gorilla? Or a rhinocerous? Or a fucking human being? That'll get ya jacked up. You know, like a worthy adversary. Not a human being that's armed....but a clever, clever human being who knows the jungle.