Light and hearty observations from a fat and ugly guy. Home of hackneyed drivel and ersatz-existentialist effluence. Choleric biliousness a specialty, since 1958.

Gun play at home, or at least close by

Heading home tonight after mucho cocktailatas (Spanish for: "I'm drunk and can barely type"), and just before the turn-in to my charming and lovely subdivision, I pass three cars heading the other way at a high rate of speed. All of a sudden: bang bang bang! From the second car, a hand and a gun out the right side window and some smoke and thankfully they're pointing the damn thing away from the road and into the trees and towards a house (well, thankfully for me. Undoubtedly for the homeowner in question, not the greatest thing ever).

So. I reached for my Sig P226 (at left) handily kept below the driver's seat--hey, fuck 'em, if they're going to shoot at me, I'm shooting back! But they were gone and unfortunately I had no chance to shoot back at whomever it was disturbin' da hood.

My head cleared faster than Brazil's rain forest. And I was ready to protect me and mine, dammit, ready because I'm, well, ready. You can count on me, at least between cocktails and wanks and hangovers. Reliable, I am, at least 25% of the time. Buff my scrotum if you're not happy with that.

posted by Nigel St.John Regina Smegmatica Howle-Raines @ 11:19 PM