If you knew where I came from and how I was raised, this post may disappoint you. Or, this post may moist your drawers. Either way, it’s sure to cook up a Pu-Pu Platter of emotions. Fire in the hole.
You’d be amazed at what one can accomplish when he only spends one day a month in the office.
I am not one of those he(s).
I am however, a crack shot. See, after a month of Foosball and Hungarian women, Irish nurses, rubbing elbows with Congressmen, astronauts, cocktailing at Mr. Smithsonian’s, plump tenderloin, fine-ass Malbec, Tango and chasing muchachas, I’ve become pooped. Tired. I’m all petered out, ya’ll. And when I tell you how close I came to ringing in May with a ‘Vomiting and Diarrhea,’ outbreak in Portsmouth, United Kingdom, you’d be fair to say that it was just. What you may not know is that I travel with pills for that kinda stuff. Plugs you right the fu*k up.
So with a free afternoon, and an ex-South African police officer friend with an attic full of shotguns, I figure there’s only one way this could end. . .
. . .with no feeling below the shoulder and a bruise that would make Ike Turner blush.
Ok, I’ve never fired a gun before. Sounded exciting. Besides, if you’ve ever driven through the southern U.K., you’d soon see past the endless beauty of plush, rolling green hills and colourful, fertile farmland that makes the U.K. a Kingdom of United-ness, and realize that there’s a plethora of shit to blow up with a 12-guage.
But this was my first time. And papa ain’t got the skills to be taken’ out no birds. “Ah HAH!” you say. And you’d be right.
My teacher. Apparently also a sniper instructor. Who knew? Though he thought it would be funny to start me out with a 12-guage shotgun instead of something smaller, like say, a water pistol, it took him less than 20 minutes before I was taking out 2 clay pigeons drifting to my dominant side. Whoo Whoo! Then, just as my Cervical Plexus went numb, he snuck in a cartridge with 32 g of gun powder. I have no idea what that means.
So what does one do after sniper training? You guessed it. High Tea.
What is High Tea? Who the fu*k knows. Click on the link. Nonetheless, we were off to the Lainston House for some High Tea. And three different kinds of sandwiches and fresh pastries and scones and custard and fruit and jams and stuff.
Now don’t you feel bad for wishing intestinal illness on me? I thought you might, so I paid a quick visit to the Round Table to pray for you.
You’d be amazed at what one can accomplish when he only spends one day a month in the office.
I am not one of those he(s).
I am however, a crack shot. See, after a month of Foosball and Hungarian women, Irish nurses, rubbing elbows with Congressmen, astronauts, cocktailing at Mr. Smithsonian’s, plump tenderloin, fine-ass Malbec, Tango and chasing muchachas, I’ve become pooped. Tired. I’m all petered out, ya’ll. And when I tell you how close I came to ringing in May with a ‘Vomiting and Diarrhea,’ outbreak in Portsmouth, United Kingdom, you’d be fair to say that it was just. What you may not know is that I travel with pills for that kinda stuff. Plugs you right the fu*k up.
So with a free afternoon, and an ex-South African police officer friend with an attic full of shotguns, I figure there’s only one way this could end. . .
. . .with no feeling below the shoulder and a bruise that would make Ike Turner blush.
Ok, I’ve never fired a gun before. Sounded exciting. Besides, if you’ve ever driven through the southern U.K., you’d soon see past the endless beauty of plush, rolling green hills and colourful, fertile farmland that makes the U.K. a Kingdom of United-ness, and realize that there’s a plethora of shit to blow up with a 12-guage.
But this was my first time. And papa ain’t got the skills to be taken’ out no birds. “Ah HAH!” you say. And you’d be right.
My teacher. Apparently also a sniper instructor. Who knew? Though he thought it would be funny to start me out with a 12-guage shotgun instead of something smaller, like say, a water pistol, it took him less than 20 minutes before I was taking out 2 clay pigeons drifting to my dominant side. Whoo Whoo! Then, just as my Cervical Plexus went numb, he snuck in a cartridge with 32 g of gun powder. I have no idea what that means.
So what does one do after sniper training? You guessed it. High Tea.
What is High Tea? Who the fu*k knows. Click on the link. Nonetheless, we were off to the Lainston House for some High Tea. And three different kinds of sandwiches and fresh pastries and scones and custard and fruit and jams and stuff.
Now don’t you feel bad for wishing intestinal illness on me? I thought you might, so I paid a quick visit to the Round Table to pray for you.
