Don't Trespass On Me
Over the weekend, it appears the Xenoverse has been discovered by Comment spammers.
Somewhat fortuitously, perhaps, it also happens that last week I finally took possession of a small-caliber rifle - I bid for it in a charity auction and won! - completing one more step in the Grand March towards becoming a real american. Imagine: forty-three years old and never held a rifle . Not even a small one, or as my green-eyed thirdson insists, a toy one. Maybe it is, says me, but mines has real bullets, not plastic pellets.
So, let us recap our progress momentarily:
But what to shoot? Teenagers? My teenagers? Nah. Damned thing only holds one round at a time, so that's no good - they'd be too quick for Auld Gimpy. They stand there sometimes, just out of stick range, pointing their asses at my face, mocking... Can ya hit me dad? Can ya? Ya fast enough Gimpy? Hah, but they quickly forget what they do; so that minutes, possibly hours later, for I am a patient man, I can always surprise them with an unexpected but wholly satisfying slap about the head. Don't need to shoot them, no matter how much my wife may plead.
Animals, then? Hunting! Like they do in the movies?
She'd never let me do that. Besides, I did that once with my dad and his gamekeeper friend: went hunting wabbits, with shotguns. That was not altogether auspicious - or perhaps, rather too literally auspicious I should say. Neither my dad nor myself had ever done such a thing before, had never fired shotguns before, so when some poor bunny jumped out of the ground between us we both fired at the same time, after a suitable shocked pause, and blasted poor Flopsie to pieces and the wind up each others legs. All that were left were the auspices. So, No: no bunnies, no squirrels, no elk, no birdies. Nothing living.
Targets.
There's a shooting range twenty miles away where I can shoot at targets. Print-out some comment spam and tag it to the line, run it out 100yards and shoot holes in its grammar. I could even take one of the kids to help out. Accidents do happen, you know.
Somewhat fortuitously, perhaps, it also happens that last week I finally took possession of a small-caliber rifle - I bid for it in a charity auction and won! - completing one more step in the Grand March towards becoming a real american. Imagine: forty-three years old and never held a rifle . Not even a small one, or as my green-eyed thirdson insists, a toy one. Maybe it is, says me, but mines has real bullets, not plastic pellets.
So, let us recap our progress momentarily:
- Property - check!
- Back Porch - check!1
- Rocking Chair - check!2
- Banjo - check!
- Gun - check!
- Gimme Hat - check!3
- Coveralls - bleh!
- Corncob - nah.
- Mean Look - check plus.
But what to shoot? Teenagers? My teenagers? Nah. Damned thing only holds one round at a time, so that's no good - they'd be too quick for Auld Gimpy. They stand there sometimes, just out of stick range, pointing their asses at my face, mocking... Can ya hit me dad? Can ya? Ya fast enough Gimpy? Hah, but they quickly forget what they do; so that minutes, possibly hours later, for I am a patient man, I can always surprise them with an unexpected but wholly satisfying slap about the head. Don't need to shoot them, no matter how much my wife may plead.
Animals, then? Hunting! Like they do in the movies?
She'd never let me do that. Besides, I did that once with my dad and his gamekeeper friend: went hunting wabbits, with shotguns. That was not altogether auspicious - or perhaps, rather too literally auspicious I should say. Neither my dad nor myself had ever done such a thing before, had never fired shotguns before, so when some poor bunny jumped out of the ground between us we both fired at the same time, after a suitable shocked pause, and blasted poor Flopsie to pieces and the wind up each others legs. All that were left were the auspices. So, No: no bunnies, no squirrels, no elk, no birdies. Nothing living.
Targets.
There's a shooting range twenty miles away where I can shoot at targets. Print-out some comment spam and tag it to the line, run it out 100yards and shoot holes in its grammar. I could even take one of the kids to help out. Accidents do happen, you know.
- Patios count...
- ...So do swing chairs
- ...And Dodger caps.
posted by Xenoverse at Monday, October 03, 2005
5 Comments:
You honestly have nothing to shoot at?! Given the recent "trend" of Californians taking in gophers as pets (then contracting diseases), I'd suggest either the little rodents, or the owners themselves.
Don't see that Gas Guzzling Ozone Depleting Small Animals Killing Motor Vehicle on your check-off list.
WP Why bother shooting the little darlings? Seems the gophers are doing quite a nice job killing off the owners on their own. Might be a waste of bullets.
I could do that???
Hey, this America place is better even than I thought!
Dangit DarkoV I totally forgot about the truck-on-bricks. But, Check! We have a Jeep that's stood silent in our yard for at least two years because we can't get the fecher to pass its smog test without spending $-000's.
Do you have stuffed dead animals staring at you every night from just above the mantle?
Do you have a collection of arrowheads, or tails from whoppin' big rattlesnakes?
Do you have a tire swing in a big tree in your front yard? ( Or, for extra points, do you have a flower bed made of an old truck tire painted bright red?
Do you have a dog (or a son) named Blue?
'Course, livin' in Valicornia may make most of these suggestions null and void...
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