Ballistic

Today I went ballistic. Seriously. I did. I shot guns for the first time since I was like ... I dunno ... maybe ten years old? My dad had this .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle. It's got a cool scope and everything. So he took my brother and I to a dump in Arkansas and taught us to shoot cans. Might have nailed a rat or two, I really can't remember. Fast forward about 35 years. I was visiting him one day long after he retired and a year or so before he passed away. His rifle was sitting in his family room. When I asked why it was there he told me a lame story about how his dog woke him up a night or so earlier barking at two men standing in his yard near his garage. So he decided that he needed a 9mm hand gun rather than a rifle. In order to facilitate that purchase he was selling his rifle to a local police officer for the tidy sum of $100.

Unacceptable. Totally unacceptable.

I gave him $100 and bought my own family heirloom. With it I received the remains of his original two boxes of .22 caliber ammunition. Dad never even shot two complete boxes of bullets with the gun. At the moment I don't have a "Firearms Owners I.D." card. So the gun is stored at a friends until I get around to getting my application turned in and approved.

But today I found myself at a shooting range with one of my sons and a friend. We took our pent-up rage out on paper targets. The net result?

I killed Barney. Don't feel badly for him. He provoked me.

It was a good day.