You’ll Shoot Your Pink Eye Out


An eventful Saturday… First, my wife Dawn bought me a nice bb gun, a Daisy Lever Action single-shot one. You’ll note that it features a beautiful pink inlay, one which should keep the police from shooting me accidentally. (Who wants to be part of an investigation wherein an older man like me gets shot while wielding a pink bb gun?) This gun will come in handy shooting varmints, pollsters, and undoubtedly my own left foot. It will also keep those pesky home intruders at bay. I noticed while I walked through the store carrying this bb gun, many people gawked, either in admiration or mirth; it’s difficult to tell when you are proudly holding such a firearm.

I chose to pose with my new firearm in front of my Clint Eastwood painting if no other reason than to demonstrate that I mean business. Everyone knows there are only two types of dangerous people in the world: liberals near tax money and liberals holding firearms. While I may not be able to hurt you with this, I can certainly annoy you while you reload your .357 and ventilate my lower torso. (If you shoot at me and can’t hit my fiendishly large melon head, you have no business holding a gun.) But which one of us will be more stylish during the altercation? I submit that my pink Daisy exudes both more menace and more je ne sais quoi that’s difficult to pinpoint but easily recognized. Seeing my own picture with the bb gun made me almost lose all reason and mail in a membership to the NRA but then I remembered that they pay me to NOT be a member.

Oh, and the second thing was that Dawn and I bought the most expensive ceiling fan we’ve ever purchased. I let her make the final choice so long as that it was a modern design. Given that I was suffering from mild head trauma, I decided that it would be a great idea to attempt an installation. I’ll give Dawn credit: she not only survived this installation in the same room with me, but she restrained herself enough to both suppress her instinct to push me violently off the ladder or flip the breaker while I had the wires wrapped around me, like an electrical anaconda.

There are a couple of circumstances wherein one’s mettle gets tested: (1) watching someone do something ridiculously easy in the wrong way while simultaneously using slow internet and (2) helping a spouse attempt to miraculously overcome the instructions and manufacturing defects while putting together or installing something expensive. In Dawn’s case, she plowed through my ongoing cursing in my attempt to overcome mismatched screw holes, 47 instances of dropped tools, and 15 times I simply couldn’t envision what in blazes the instructions had to do with the step I was currently attempting. It’s true that most booklets are written by sadists.

When we flipped the breaker and turned on the fan the first time, we both felt a sense of victory, both because the circuit didn’t burn across the ceiling and wall like a runaway firecracker fuse – and I didn’t need medical attention, either for being clumsy or for Dawn using the pretext of the installation to send me to the afterlife. We had a couple of major complaints regarding the ceiling fan but both were beyond our control.

In the background of all this, we also had a great late lunch at the diner in Sonora. For the record, I ate a deliciously greasy hamburger, fries and some of the best okra I’ve had in a long time. I also spent the day babysitting the neighbor’s dogs, one of which had so much energy that I wondered if he were going to spin so fast that he would corkscrew into the floor.

To cap off the day, we watched the finale of season 3 of “Fargo,” another brilliant and indirect comedic indictment of everything. Dawn’s initial reaction was one of “What the heck?” while mine was, “That’s almost perfect.” The show ended with the deputy sitting in a holding room with Varga, neither in frame, while not focusing on either the door or the clock nearby. The point was to demonstrate that either scenario and worldview could be correct, and your assumption of “What happens next?” might reveal more about you than one’s observations about the chaos we get involved in during our lives. For me, it felt like the perfect ending of “No Country For Old Men,” which caused some strange reactions.

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