Booze, Guns, Booze, Cigars, Booze, and Booze (boozy booze)

Ever since I started writing in primary school, instructors have always advised me to know my audience, and write with them in mind. That's why I composed this post specifically for Blogger, a well-known and favored outlet for literate women with still-nested children and a penchant for some thing called etsy. Because really, what better audience or target demographic exists that could so easily relate to my previous weekend's activities?

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I was invited by some friends to a hunting cabin for a long weekend. Leaving early Friday morning, we drove out to the exact middle of nowhere, as pavement turned to gravel road turned to dirt road turned to trail, before finally devolving into just a pair of muddy ruts with two-foot tall saplings growing between them. Somewhere between dirt road and trail, the beer drinking began in earnest.

Though comprised exclusively of mud, this is still considered a "dirt" road.
I can confidently classify it as "dirt" because I am holding a camera, not a beer.

After a few miles of tooth-rattling off-roading, we arrived at the cabin. From there, we proceeded to act like Anti-ATF Agents (the other Triple-A): Drinking copious amounts of beer, smoking ignorant amounts of tobacco, and firing MANY hundreds of rounds through a variety of firearms.

Sadly, this wasn't one of the guns.

I got to fire a sniper rifle this weekend. You know, those guns you always see in movies where some cop is on a rooftop with his cap on backwards while his lieutenant barks "as soon as you have a clear shot, TAKE HIM OUT!" through his headset. Yeah, one of those guns. What's more, the fellow camper that was instructing me on its use was an over-qualified professional with the weapon due to his exacting employment requirements. He showed me how to work the stabilizing sandbag that rests under the butt of the rifle (the more you squeeze, the further down it aims). It was super-cool. I killed a bear mountain lion wolf beer can from sixty yards out. I was pretty impressed with myself ... until he showed me how accurate he was at six hundred yards. Then he asked me if I needed a diaper change before I laid down for nappy-time.

Figure 3.7: a professional's perception of Krëg's firearms mastery.

I also got to fire a World War II-era Australian-made bolt action British 303, the recoil from which almost knocked me into the next county.

"He was last seen holding an Enfield rifle in one hand, a Pabst in the other, and flying ass-first towards Texas...."

The 303 was a solid weapon, and fired like a dream. I couldn't help but imagine I was plugging Nazis while squeezing the trigger. Blow ze heads off ze Germanz! Ja! Gut! But at a little over $2.50 per bullet, the owner was NOT enthusiastically handing out ammunition. So quite a few of the imaginary Nazis escaped to imaginary Argentina.

Other fine firearms I fired included a shotgun, a Beretta nine, and a Wather 22. It was speculated that the only sure way to shoot at and hit a beer car with a 22 caliber pistol is to hold the pistol firmly in your right hand and look squarely down the sights at the beer can target in your left hand.

But the camp "party" gun was the GSG 5, a semi-auto 22 with an expansive clip and a holographic sight.

Similar to this, except wielded by drunks.

Firing tiny .22 caliber bullets from a 22-shot clip as fast as you can pull the trigger, this little number is to straight adult males what the Red Ryder BB Gun was to Ralphie Parker. Except if you shoot your eye out with this thing, your brains go with it. Also, your mom isn't Melinda Dillon. Unlike pistols of the same caliber, this gun is actually capable of hitting a target further than ten feet out, and unlike rifles of a higher caliber, you won't go broke pulling the trigger.

This past weekend, the beer cans knew no end to their torment, as we would ritualistically rip their heads off, suck out their precious innards, and hang their empty husks on a nearby bush. Then we'd fill them full of holes. You'd probably think that we'd have grown bored of this rather quickly, but you'd only think that because you probably don't have a penis. It was fun on a bun.


It's been a little too long since I've spent much time away from an urban area, and I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. The campfire, the bedroll, the nickel-ante poker, the few dozen beers... [wistful sigh]
As a bonus, we were able to gloat to the people back in town what lovely February weather we had. My hometown was shivering at around 40°F and blanketed with rain and gray skies. We wound up on the lucky side of the weekend cold front, as while we experienced a brief downpour Sunday morning, the temperature hovered around sixty, and the sun made things feel even warmer.

Who knew that the iPhone was good for something other than expressing your pretentiousness.
Click this bad boy photo for panoramic goodness.

With all that drinking and smoking and shooting things and burning things, you'd think I spent the weekend at the cabin running a high risk of injury. And you'd be right. But oddly enough, the riskiest situation I was involved in all weekend occurred after we left camp and were back on blacktop.

I was riding in that red truck in front of which I am standing in the above photo, and my bedroll (fartsack!) and pillow were crammed into a garbage bag in the truck bed. Shortly after turning onto Highway 69 and blasting north out of Stringtown, we passed the prison. I had consumed a few (five) beers on the way out from camp (on private property only) because I didn't have to drive and I didn't want want those beers to get lonely in the back of the truck. So of course, my bedroll and pillow wait until the LEAST opportune moment to vacate the truckbed and onto 69. Even with the sober driver's lightning reflexes, we still rolled a good eighth of a mile further than my displaced gear. So piss drunk and filthy, wearing a jacket akin to John Rambo's in the movie with the same surname, I stumble down the breakdown lane to get my trashbag full of sleeping accoutrements. I sling it over my shoulder and proceed back towards the pickup. Only then do I notice a sign halfway between the truck an myself that issues a warning to motorists.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.

Also at this point, I notice that the weather has turned cold, gray, and windy, and that I REALLY need to pee. I was pretty sure that running to the truck would only arouse suspicion of any watching authorities, so I tried to remain calm while steeling myself against the brisk north wind.

When I got back to the truck and stowed my bag, my pilot only had one sentence for me: "I never took the truck out of gear, because I was sure the heat was going to show up and haul you in."

... ... ... ...

Three quotes overheard at camp:
"I'd suck a fart straight out of her ass." (referring to a beautiful actress)
"I've drank so much beer I could shit through a screen door." (referring to ... well you get the picture with this one)
"My last three farts had beer head on them." (Come to think of it, I'm not sure we had any conversations that didn't reference beer or farts. I may have even had one heated discussion that consisted solely of pop-top noises, belches, and flatulence.)



Two jokes overheard at camp:
funny
Q: How many Hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: It's a really obscure number that you've probably never heard of...

and sick
Q: What is so awesome about getting 14 year-old boys into the shower?
A: When you slick their hair back, they look like they're eleven.



Here's some campfire for you (smell and heat not included).







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Next time I'll remember to update Twitter when I'm out of town. No wait. No I won't.
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When Gary coyly asked his wife for meatsleeves, she totally misunderstood.

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Have a good weekend.