My dad is kind of a Michigan Militia guy. He likes guns and he clings to his second amendment rights like silly putty clings to little girls' hair. He has a big beard and lots of tattoos, and he wears carhart overalls and steel toe boots where ever he goes. He lives on a little farm in the middle of frickin' nowhere, and he spends his time tinkering with his motorcycles and building ultra deluxe deer blinds. One time, he made a deer blind with a built in urinal and camouflage curtains, but that's a different story.
My dad and I are a lot alike in a lot of ways, but our views on guns and gun control are on opposite ends of the spectrum. He loves guns, and I don't. He thinks you should be able to keep an AK47 in the closet for "protection;" I say pepper spray will do just fine. He thinks gun control laws are for losers; I say they're neccesary to keep our society safe.
One time, my dad went to a gun show and bought a handgun. I was standing around outside in the driveway when he got home (because I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time just standing around) and he hopped out of his truck with his gun in a brown paper bag like a little boy just come home from the sports card shop. "Hey, come over here and see what I got!" he said excitedly. I kind of shuffled over to him and peeked in the bag. "Cool," I answered, noncommitally, because I didn't want to start another gun control argument with him.
He set the gun on the front seat of his truck, and went in the house, calling for my stepmom to come outside and see what he got. (I continued to hang around aimlessly in the driveway, because that's just how I roll.) My stepmom came out and looked at his gun. She wasn't really impressed. "Looks like a gun to me," she said, shrugging. My dad was nonplussed by our lack of enthusiasm. He took it out of the bag and started messing around with it. "Don," my stepmom said, because my dad's name is Don, "you better be careful with that."
"Kathy," my dad answered, because my stepmom's name is Kathy, "guns are very safe when you know how to use them. I don't know why you girls are always yelling at me about gun safety. I've been using guns since I was eleven years old!" Now he was getting kind of mad, and was waving this handgun all over the place like some kind of maniac.
"Come on, Dad," I butted in. "Let's just put the gun back in the bag, and you can show it to us when you clean it, with the safety on." This infuriated him.
"The safety IS on!" he yelled, waving the gun all around. "I don't know why you're so worried! In experienced hands, guns are as safe as kittens! Do you hear me? Guns are safe!"
BANG!!!
The shot exploded in our ears and the sound reverberated through the woods around the farm. My dad's face went white.
"What did you do?" My stepmom yelled. "Oh my God, what did you just shoot? If you shot one of my cats, I swear to God I'll..." I started laughing. "Kathy," I said, "I'm pretty sure a random shot in the air would have a hard time hitting your cats way out in the barn." She looked at me hard. My dad just stood there looking at the gun, like he couldn't believe what just happened.
Suddenly he sprang into motion. "Well, let's see what I hit!" he shouted. I shook my head. I could not believe I derive half my DNA from this clown. He started looking all over for a bullet hole in something, and then he made me and my stepmom look too. We searched and searched, but it was useless. "We're never going to find it, Dad," I told him, and I went in the house. He was mad, but eventually he came in the house too.
Later that day, we decided to cook some hamburgers on my dad's new charcoal grill. It was the deluxe edition round Weber, and you could probably fit a hundred burgers on there with ease. It had cost my dad a mint, and he was so proud of it. He even named it -- Big Bertha. After each use, he'd let it cool and go out there and polish it till it shone. It was something to behold, really.
We started up the charcoal, and stood around looking at it. (I guess I get my propensity for standing around from my dad.) After a little while, we noticed a tiny wisp of smoke coming out the side of the grill. "What the...?" My dad muttered, and walked around to the back of the grill. "Oh NO!" he yelled. "Oh no no no noooo!" It was the sound of a broken man, sort of, so I kind of moseyed over to see what he was looking at.
It was a bullet hole. Right in the back of the grill.
I went and got my stepmom from the house. "Look!" I told her, pointing from the porch. My dad was kneeled on the ground, mourning Big Bertha, and the dog was kind of standing around looking at him. (I guess even the dog's picked up our habits.) I was laughing, but my stepmom was furious. She marched out to my dad. "You could have shot a hole in the car!" she hollered. "You just be glad you didn't shoot the car!"
I laughed even harder. "Screw the car, Kathy. He could have shot one of us."
She looked at me, horrified. "Or one of my cats!"
And this is the legacy I have been handed. A lot to live up to, there.
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