The Surprise Gun Nut

Fifty-aught.  Twenty-two.  Shotgun.  Shotgun.  The surprise gun nut rattles off makes and models like the Universe is refreshed by the recitation of facts in an orderly fashion.

Who knows?

Maybe it is.

I say, “What do you need so many for?”

And you claim that each gun serves a different purpose.  One for deer.  One for small game.  One for coyotes.  One for intruders.

The verb conveniently left out; that verb that unites all your disparate firearms under one commonality.

I wish, more than anything, that I were talented enough to write you a poem.  Something with long, mouthful lines like Walt Whitman.  Words so full they burst against my tongue like ripe grapes.

If I could write you a poem about your secret gun-nuttiness, I would sidle up next to you when you were least expecting it, and I would lean over, put my head on your shoulder, and begin reciting the poem, which, in a perfect world would be both beautiful and hilarious.

I would say a line and then wait and, even if I was the only one, after a second, I would throw my head back and laugh and laugh long and hard.

I would say, by god, you could join the Republican party.  I would say, what?  No tank?

Instead, when I catch you arguing with the conservative gun nuts, I will just call you on the phone and sing you this song:

If you mess ’round with my shit, I will shoot you.

If you mess ’round with my shit, I will shoot you.

I’ll have lots of liberal guilt, oh I promise.

But if you mess ’round with my shit, I will shoot you.

The Most Glorious Nap Ever

The green couch continues to be the perfect place to take naps.  It’s deep and soft and practically demands you just let your eyes shut.

And so I came home, settled into the green couch, shut my eyes and damn.

Sadly, I woke up to R. Kelly talking about how he’s a flirt.  As usual, all the women in his video seem to be pushing thirty.

Sadly for him, no one buys it. 

Happily for him, when he owns up to his issues, I think he can easily change “I’m a flirt” to “I’m a pervert.”

Come Home, Butcher!

Okay, the fact is that I’m terribly lonely without the Butcher and wish he would come home this very instant.

Yes, his idea of keeping the house clean is to keep a walkable path from the couch to the television.  Yes, there’s a pile of laundry on the couch that looks like someone might have been pulling all of the clothes on and off just for fun.

Yes, it looks like someone died in my downstairs toilet.

And yes, he does occassionally wreck my car.

But last night I came home from having a wonderful time and everything was how I left it.  No one had taken the dog out.  No one had picked up my pop cans.  No one was sitting on the couch watching TV wondering how things went or complaining because I didn’t tell him about it soon enough for him to get a ticket and come.

The Butcher is my brother, of course, and so our relationship is more complicated than a friendship, but in some ways, he’s really my oldest closest friend.

When he’s not around, I just feel like I can’t quite get my day finished.  I don’t know how to explain it better than that.  It just feels like something’s open-ended and I don’t like it.

So, there.  I complain about him, but damn, I miss him.

I wonder what time his plane comes in on Sunday?

Ha, you know, that would be nice information to have just in general.