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Recently, I had cause to remember an incident from my childhood. Well,
adolescence, anyway. I would have been around fifteen or sixteen, and got
into an argument with my friends about the maximum possible speed of a
grocery cart. After several hours (and consumption of considerable beer), we
concluded that the only way to find out for certain was to test the hypothesis.
This led to several of us pushing each other around in grocery carts in the
parking lot of the local grocery store at 1 a.m. After a half hour or so of this,
we concluded that drunk people couldn't really push grocery carts fast
enough to really challenge the chassis. An external power source was
required.
We got hold of fifty feet of rope and tied a grocery cart to the back of
Loopy's pickup for towing. The first field test showed that grocery carts will
easily flip at under fifteen miles an hour or so when they hit a bump.
This set off another argument. Lightnin' concluded that grocery carts simply
weren't meant to go very fast, whereas Candy argued that a laden grocery
cart would be far more stable. This, of course, meant that someone would
have to ride in the thing in order to test the new theory.
Lightnin', of course, felt that Candy should have the honor, whereas Loopy
was more than willing to do it himself. I wasn't that drunk, and declined. It
was Weeble (who wobbled, but didn't fall down) that noticed the big stack of
bags of fertilizer outside the grocery store. Surely, there was a safer way of
weighing down a grocery cart...?
We promptly loaded 150 pounds, three bags, into the cart (there was again
some argument as to precisely how much should be used) and hit the
highway.
Oddly enough, grocery carts handle remarkably well at high speeds. They
aren't aerodynamic, but their metal mesh construction minimizes wind
resistance and effects. Unfortunately, their extremely low wheelbase and
lack of shock absorption more than makes up for this; we increased speed in
increments of five miles an hour, and the cart totally lost it at 45 mph.
We also learned that fifty-pound bags of fertilizer all but vaporize when they
hit pavement at 45 mph. Everyone looked at Loopy, who shrugged. The
grocery cart was completely intact, though, although its plastic handle cover
had shattered at some point.
Loopy and Weeble felt that the point had been made, and that more beer
should be obtained. Candy, Lightnin', and I, though, agreed that one road
test did not a theory make. The test should be repeated at least twice more,
preferably with a couple of different carts to change the variables, and the
results observed and recorded.
We compromised, and went back for more carts and fertilizer after obtaining
another case of beer.
We must have destroyed thirty bags of fertilizer, and we rendered at least
one shopping cart completely FUBAR. We learned that the redline velocity
for a shopping cart carrying 150 lbs. of dead weight is around 40-45 mph,
though; the fastest we ever got one going was 50 mph, and they ALWAYS
ate it as soon as they hit any kind of bump or crack in the road at that speed.
Testing was facilitated by Loopy's obsession with getting one up to the
highway speed limit before it flipped. We never did, but not for lack of
trying.
The experiment ended shortly before dawn. We still had beer left, and were
more than willing to keep going, but it was then that, during the last road
test, Loopy slammed on the brakes at 40 mph to avoid hitting a skunk.
The cart, on the other hand, had no brakes. It hit the tailgate going 40 and
flipped totally over the top of the pickup. One of the bags of fertilizer flew
out and slapped Candy to the back of the cab, knocking him cold (although
we weren't sure he was conscious before the fertilizer landed on him; he had
had quite a bit to drink, and was something of a lightweight). One of the
other bags hit the hood and exploded, covering the windshield with dirt.
The third didn't quite land on the skunk. It would have been better for
Loopy's truck if it had, though. Startled skunks aren't good company.
We pulled over to assess the damage and tend the wounded. Candy was all
right, although he had to spit out a mouthful of fertilizer to tell us so. No one
else was hurt. The back of the cab was dented where Candy's head had hit it.
The front of the hood was dented where the fertilizer had hit it. The whole
truck was redolent of the skunk's opinion. The skunk was fine, by the way;
I'd seen him jump, spin, spray, and run like hell (almost all simultaneously)
when the bag of fertilizer exploded next to him.
The shopping cart looked like an art collaboration between Picasso and M.C.
Escher.
Loopy was madder than hell about his truck. The dents didn't bother him; he
considered them badges of honor -- but the stench of skunk irritated him no
end. "I shooda just ran the fucker down," he growled. Lightnin' consoled him
with the fact that the skunk was covered with fertilizer, and therefore
probably felt much the same way; after all, that skunk wasn't going to be
very popular with the other skunks, smelling of cowshit, now, was he?
...and after we peeled Loopy off of Lightnin', we decided that the experiment
was at an end. It was almost dawn, after all.
...and now, I am old, and I go no more drunkenly roving into the night,
which is probably a good thing. This stunt wouldn't work these days;
grocery stores and department stores have video cameras staring at the
parking lot all night, and certainly someone would have thought to check
them after noticing the near-disappearance of a huge pile of fertilizer bags...
and if that hadn't tipped them off, the badly bent shopping cart would have.
Sure, we took it back. We were good boys.
...and sure, some of you are staring in horror at this testament... thinking
about your own teenage boys, or the fact that they can get up to such
devilment... but it also occurs to me that while we did get up to this kind of
devilment and worse, none of us ever shot up a school... is there a
connection, y'think?
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Beer Hunter
I grew up in Texas, and in Texas, most everyone owns a gun.
Don't ask me why. Rite of passage? Manhood thing? Self defense? Seems kind of weird for a state that prides itself on its friendliness (and it IS friendly -- total strangers will wave and smile as you pass 'em on the street, and if you don't wave and smile back, they'll think you're a Yankee).
...but we own guns. Maybe there's some kind of horrible fear that at some point Santa Anna will come back and try to fly a 747 into the Alamo or something. Anyway, we own guns, lots of them.
Some of us hunt with them. The Texas hill country is lousy with deer -- we shot all the predators decades ago, and now there's not much except coyotes to bother the deer. The number one deer predator in Texas is the automobile, which isn't a very effective method of wildlife control, since hitting a deer generally totals the automobile. If you're ever out this way, and you see hard-used pickups with these big welded-steel frame thingies bolted to the front grille, that's why -- it keeps the deer from destroying the radiator when you hit the sumbitch in the middle of the night on Ranch Road 12, doing 45 miles an hour.
Anyway, I grew up in a small town in the Rio Grande valley, only about a half hour from the Mexican border. The town's autumn economy was dependent on hunters. There must be about a thousand little independent ranchers in the Rio Grande valley, and as any rancher can tell you, there is NO money in cattle, so they all generally made up the difference by selling deer leases to Yankees. A deer lease is basically a passport to your property; it gives the lessee the right to come and go as he pleases for a month or so, in order to hunt deer on your property. Note that this is NOT a hunting license; it simply states that "I will not shoot you for a wetback or a trespasser, at least not until December, if you give me $1000."
And oh, my, the hunters came in droves. During my teen years, I quickly learned that there were certain secluded places that it was not safe to go drinking or parking with your best girl unless the car was painted hunter orange. After sitting in a cold, cramped deer blind for two or three days, some of those office commandos will start blazing away at ANY damn thing the minute they see movement.
Being locals, of course, we knew all the best places to hunt, and we didn't bother with deer leases. My sister dated a guy, at one point, who always brought venison over to give to Mom when he came to see her. My sister wasn't really that wild about the guy, but she kept seeing him for quite some time, because Mom kept telling her to keep him happy so he'd keep bringing venison... poor slob must have been killing at least three deer a month, hoping my sister would go out with him.
Anyway, at one point, it became clear that if I was to be a man in the eyes of my peers, it was time to lock and load and go forth and kill something.
This was how I found out I'm not much of a hunter.
Whatever it is that makes a man into a hunter, a killing machine, a deadly predator that can lie in wait for hours until its prey cautiously enters the trap... well, I just don't have it. I'm impatient. I got bored. I didn't WANNA wait for hours and hours until the damn deer got hungry and wandered up to the feeder. I wanted to go after the damn deer whether he was hungry or NOT!
...and this is how I learned what hunters do to amuse themselves while waiting for the deer to show up. They drink. They suck down immense quantities of beer, always from the twist-cap bottles; cans make too much noise opening, and you might scare off the deer. After five or six of these, waiting for hours on end doesn't seem anywhere near so onerous; the time flies right by, and aside from having to pee about every ten minutes, it really helps turn a dull, chilly deer blind into a fun place to be.
The problem with this way of working it is this: by the time the deer show up, you might be in no shape to shoot them. In fact, if it takes long enough for that deer to arrive, you might be seeing two or three where there's only one, and believe me, this plays hell with your aim.
Fortunately, by the time you're seeing entire herds of deer, sometimes in vivid colors, you don't give a damn whether you actually hit one or not. You just poke the gun out and start blasting away, and if you hit him, well, peachy, and if not, well, damn, I have to take a leak again...
That first year, my friends and I didn't get any deer, but we sure had a fine time. Incidentally, there's no shame or loss of manhood attached to not getting a deer. Lots of hunters go home empty-handed, happens all the time. The important thing is to be seen TRYING, and I'd fulfilled that in spades. I was a man now...
...and since we'd paid for those deer licenses, it seemed reasonable to go back out and try to get a deer again as soon as possible, and we did. We dressed warmly, stocked the truck with lots more beer and ammunition and camping gear, and went back out into the chaparral, hunting for deer.
Three days later, none of us had shot a deer yet. Weeble had shot the same mesquite tree, three different times, and was ready to go and get a saw and cut it down because he was convinced that it was imitating a deer, just to tease him. Lightnin' had seen a real deer, and had shot at it and missed; a shame it was standing in front of the truck's front tire. Loopy had shot at the same deer, and had taken out the truck's rear window. Candy had refused the beer, preferring the fifth of Jack Daniels, and by the time it was empty, he was shooting upwards, at the deer that were parachuting out of the pink and purple airplanes.
Me? At one point, after considerable refreshment, I forgot what it was we were out there to hunt, and I was afraid to ask if it was dove, quail, or deer season because I was afraid my friends would laugh at me. Ducks? Bears? Were there any bears in Texas? I didn't know, and I didn't dare ask, so I locked the safety on and had another beer.
When we sobered up, of course, we realized that we'd been kind of silly. It also occurred to us that blazing away with deer rifles while blind drunk had been frankly kind of dangerous. The following weekend, we went out hunting again, but this time, we had a safety measure -- we wouldn't load our guns. We'd keep the ammo handy on the table, and not load until we actually SAW the deer, and we'd all check each other, so as to not shoot the truck or a tree or something.
This didn't work, of course. Three hours after setting up camp, we were all feeling remarkably buzzed, Loopy saw a deer, and made the high sign, and we all frantically began grabbing shells and trying to load our rifles --
-- and the multiple SHA-SHAK! sound of multiple gunbolts being drawn startled the deer so badly, he jumped three feet in the air, and hit the ground running. By the time we blearily swiveled around, locked and loaded, that deer was miles away.
We spent a long time after that trying to think of a way to make deer hunting safer and more effective. In time, we hit on the solution -- just leave the ammo at home.
Loopy and Weeble didn't like the idea at first -- they still cherished hopes of getting a rack of antlers to stick on the hoods of their pickups -- but, in time, they came around. After all, ammunition was considerably heavy -- wouldn't the effort of hauling be better spent if we were hauling beer? And the expense! Ammo wasn't cheap, whereas you could get quite a few beers for the price of a box of shells.
It made sense.
The next time we went out, naturally, we saw deer all over the place. Hordes of deer, whole herds. We practically had to kick them aside to get to our campsite, and this was before we even started drinking. We were dismayed at first, of course -- lord, each of us could have got his OWN DEER ... but, after setting up camp and breaking open the first twelve-pack, our spirits quickly rallied.
The deer, of course, found this fascinating, and came right up to the camp to see what we were doing. Naturally. Murphy's law in action, I suppose. It drove Loopy quite crazy, and he finally swore he was going to get a deer, ammo or no ammo, and, waving his gun like a club, charged the herd. They scattered, of course, and Loopy ran into the night, waving his gun over his head and screaming like a maniac.
It took us all night and much of the next day to find him. We might have found him sooner, but we had to keep going back to camp to get fresh beers, and of course, stopping to pee about every hundred steps. When we finally did find him, he was dirty, scratched, cold and sober, and quite unhappy with it all. We were able to fix the last two, of course, and that quickly cured the second and third items, and by that time, who cared about being dirty?
By the weekend's end, we all agreed we'd had a fine time, and that we should try it again, but this time, without Loopy getting lost ...and for several weekends after that, we were seen dutifully loading the truck and packing our guns, in preparation for hunting. I don't think anyone ever noticed that we never actually brought anything home.
...and we had a splendid time, all the more so because we didn't have to worry about being quiet, or watching for deer, or accidentally shooting each other. I really began to understand the appeal of hunting trips by then, and at season's end, we actually felt kind of bad about not being able to go hunting any more. Still, there was always next year.
...and the following year, we quickly began assembling plans for the first big hunting trip of the year, day one, as soon as the season started. We began making a list of everything we'd need. Ammo went on the list, and was quickly scratched off, and the cost added to the beer budget. Everything went fine, until we got to Deer Licenses for five people.
...and the discussion began. Did we really need hunting licenses? Well, were we hunting, or not? Well, technically, yes -- we were trooping out of town in our camo jammies with guns on the rack, weren't we? Still, we didn't have any ammo, and none of us was really planning on shooting anything...
In the end, it was the money issue that decided it for us. We scratched Licenses off the list, and added the money to the beer budget.
A day later, sozzled and gleeful, we had cause to regret that... when the nice game warden showed up (out of nowhere. I don't know how they do it, but they show up in the middle of nowhere, OUT of nowhere, and wanna see your hunting license. And they ALL know how to do this trick, too. Even to people who aren't drunk. No one knows how they do it.)
Um, what? License? You mean a hunting license? Um, well, we're not really hunting, Mr. Game Warden, sir. Well, yes, we have guns, but they aren't really loaded...
(Not as loaded as we are! Shuddup, Candy...)
No, really, sir, they aren't loaded. We don't even have any ammo, really, sir. No, really, sir, would we be handling loaded firearms if we were this bombed? That would be stupid, now, wouldn't it?
(NOT stupid! Shut UP, Candy...)
Well, no sir, I can't say I have any idea what kind of things you see in the course of your job, sir, but the fact is, we, um, well, we just came out here to toss back some cold ones and barbecue some weenies, really, sir. No, really. The guns are just so our folks will think we're out hunting. Really!
(Really huntin! Really! Shut the f*ck UP, Candy...)
The game warden looked at us for a long time. Truth to tell, he probably HAD seen more than a few guys who were actually hunting while far drunker than any of us were at that moment (well, maybe not Candy, but...). He looked at us very hard. Even Candy shut up. We glanced at each other and it crossed my mind -- what was the actual legal definition of hunting? WERE we guilty of something? Well, actually, yes -- underage drinking -- but could a game warden arrest you for that? Wasn't his jurisdiction kind of limited, or something?
He stared at us for a long time... and then relaxed. I could see the thoughts forming behind his eyes. "Ghod damn," he thought, "anyone this smashed can NOT be serious."
"Tell you what, boys," he said. "I have no warrant to search you or your vehicle... but if you specifically give me permission to look for ammo... and if you empty your pockets... and if I don't FIND any ammo... I might decide you're telling the truth."
We all looked at each other. "There's no ammo in the truck," said Loopy. We all emptied our pockets. Several church keys and a condom, but no cartridges. The warden patted our pockets, and then poked around in the truck..
"Well, it looks like you boys are clean... sort of," the warden said. "Do your folks know you're out here, drunk off your butts?"
"Um," I said. "Well... they know we're out here."
"Uh-huh," he said. "Well, it's plain you don't mean to do any huntin'... so it looks like you're outside my jurisdiction. I'm going to make a point of keeping an eye on that main road, though ... and you want to be stone cold sober when you drive back into town, understand?"
We all bobbed our heads energetically. Truth was, we expected to be out in the brush for at least another day. He nodded, said his goodbyes, and went off to try and catch some real poachers.
We all sat down hard, caught our breath... and decided another beer was in order. "That was no damn fun," said Weeble.
"Yeah. Imagine, needing to get a license just to drink," said Lightnin'.
"Well, we are underage, technically," I said, opening a bottle.
"Mm-hm," agreed Loopy. "Good thing we could prove we weren't huntin'."
"Is he gone yet?" burbled Candy.
"We should make sure this doesn't happen again," said Lightnin', taking a deep swallow.
"Mm-hm," said Loopy again, twisting a cap off. "Next time, we need to make sure all our ducks are in a row. Make sure everything's nice and legal and verifiable."
"Yup."
"Definitely."
"Absolutely."
"So it's unanimous. Next time, we leave the guns at home..."
Don't ask me why. Rite of passage? Manhood thing? Self defense? Seems kind of weird for a state that prides itself on its friendliness (and it IS friendly -- total strangers will wave and smile as you pass 'em on the street, and if you don't wave and smile back, they'll think you're a Yankee).
...but we own guns. Maybe there's some kind of horrible fear that at some point Santa Anna will come back and try to fly a 747 into the Alamo or something. Anyway, we own guns, lots of them.
Some of us hunt with them. The Texas hill country is lousy with deer -- we shot all the predators decades ago, and now there's not much except coyotes to bother the deer. The number one deer predator in Texas is the automobile, which isn't a very effective method of wildlife control, since hitting a deer generally totals the automobile. If you're ever out this way, and you see hard-used pickups with these big welded-steel frame thingies bolted to the front grille, that's why -- it keeps the deer from destroying the radiator when you hit the sumbitch in the middle of the night on Ranch Road 12, doing 45 miles an hour.
Anyway, I grew up in a small town in the Rio Grande valley, only about a half hour from the Mexican border. The town's autumn economy was dependent on hunters. There must be about a thousand little independent ranchers in the Rio Grande valley, and as any rancher can tell you, there is NO money in cattle, so they all generally made up the difference by selling deer leases to Yankees. A deer lease is basically a passport to your property; it gives the lessee the right to come and go as he pleases for a month or so, in order to hunt deer on your property. Note that this is NOT a hunting license; it simply states that "I will not shoot you for a wetback or a trespasser, at least not until December, if you give me $1000."
And oh, my, the hunters came in droves. During my teen years, I quickly learned that there were certain secluded places that it was not safe to go drinking or parking with your best girl unless the car was painted hunter orange. After sitting in a cold, cramped deer blind for two or three days, some of those office commandos will start blazing away at ANY damn thing the minute they see movement.
Being locals, of course, we knew all the best places to hunt, and we didn't bother with deer leases. My sister dated a guy, at one point, who always brought venison over to give to Mom when he came to see her. My sister wasn't really that wild about the guy, but she kept seeing him for quite some time, because Mom kept telling her to keep him happy so he'd keep bringing venison... poor slob must have been killing at least three deer a month, hoping my sister would go out with him.
Anyway, at one point, it became clear that if I was to be a man in the eyes of my peers, it was time to lock and load and go forth and kill something.
This was how I found out I'm not much of a hunter.
Whatever it is that makes a man into a hunter, a killing machine, a deadly predator that can lie in wait for hours until its prey cautiously enters the trap... well, I just don't have it. I'm impatient. I got bored. I didn't WANNA wait for hours and hours until the damn deer got hungry and wandered up to the feeder. I wanted to go after the damn deer whether he was hungry or NOT!
...and this is how I learned what hunters do to amuse themselves while waiting for the deer to show up. They drink. They suck down immense quantities of beer, always from the twist-cap bottles; cans make too much noise opening, and you might scare off the deer. After five or six of these, waiting for hours on end doesn't seem anywhere near so onerous; the time flies right by, and aside from having to pee about every ten minutes, it really helps turn a dull, chilly deer blind into a fun place to be.
The problem with this way of working it is this: by the time the deer show up, you might be in no shape to shoot them. In fact, if it takes long enough for that deer to arrive, you might be seeing two or three where there's only one, and believe me, this plays hell with your aim.
Fortunately, by the time you're seeing entire herds of deer, sometimes in vivid colors, you don't give a damn whether you actually hit one or not. You just poke the gun out and start blasting away, and if you hit him, well, peachy, and if not, well, damn, I have to take a leak again...
That first year, my friends and I didn't get any deer, but we sure had a fine time. Incidentally, there's no shame or loss of manhood attached to not getting a deer. Lots of hunters go home empty-handed, happens all the time. The important thing is to be seen TRYING, and I'd fulfilled that in spades. I was a man now...
...and since we'd paid for those deer licenses, it seemed reasonable to go back out and try to get a deer again as soon as possible, and we did. We dressed warmly, stocked the truck with lots more beer and ammunition and camping gear, and went back out into the chaparral, hunting for deer.
Three days later, none of us had shot a deer yet. Weeble had shot the same mesquite tree, three different times, and was ready to go and get a saw and cut it down because he was convinced that it was imitating a deer, just to tease him. Lightnin' had seen a real deer, and had shot at it and missed; a shame it was standing in front of the truck's front tire. Loopy had shot at the same deer, and had taken out the truck's rear window. Candy had refused the beer, preferring the fifth of Jack Daniels, and by the time it was empty, he was shooting upwards, at the deer that were parachuting out of the pink and purple airplanes.
Me? At one point, after considerable refreshment, I forgot what it was we were out there to hunt, and I was afraid to ask if it was dove, quail, or deer season because I was afraid my friends would laugh at me. Ducks? Bears? Were there any bears in Texas? I didn't know, and I didn't dare ask, so I locked the safety on and had another beer.
When we sobered up, of course, we realized that we'd been kind of silly. It also occurred to us that blazing away with deer rifles while blind drunk had been frankly kind of dangerous. The following weekend, we went out hunting again, but this time, we had a safety measure -- we wouldn't load our guns. We'd keep the ammo handy on the table, and not load until we actually SAW the deer, and we'd all check each other, so as to not shoot the truck or a tree or something.
This didn't work, of course. Three hours after setting up camp, we were all feeling remarkably buzzed, Loopy saw a deer, and made the high sign, and we all frantically began grabbing shells and trying to load our rifles --
-- and the multiple SHA-SHAK! sound of multiple gunbolts being drawn startled the deer so badly, he jumped three feet in the air, and hit the ground running. By the time we blearily swiveled around, locked and loaded, that deer was miles away.
We spent a long time after that trying to think of a way to make deer hunting safer and more effective. In time, we hit on the solution -- just leave the ammo at home.
Loopy and Weeble didn't like the idea at first -- they still cherished hopes of getting a rack of antlers to stick on the hoods of their pickups -- but, in time, they came around. After all, ammunition was considerably heavy -- wouldn't the effort of hauling be better spent if we were hauling beer? And the expense! Ammo wasn't cheap, whereas you could get quite a few beers for the price of a box of shells.
It made sense.
The next time we went out, naturally, we saw deer all over the place. Hordes of deer, whole herds. We practically had to kick them aside to get to our campsite, and this was before we even started drinking. We were dismayed at first, of course -- lord, each of us could have got his OWN DEER ... but, after setting up camp and breaking open the first twelve-pack, our spirits quickly rallied.
The deer, of course, found this fascinating, and came right up to the camp to see what we were doing. Naturally. Murphy's law in action, I suppose. It drove Loopy quite crazy, and he finally swore he was going to get a deer, ammo or no ammo, and, waving his gun like a club, charged the herd. They scattered, of course, and Loopy ran into the night, waving his gun over his head and screaming like a maniac.
It took us all night and much of the next day to find him. We might have found him sooner, but we had to keep going back to camp to get fresh beers, and of course, stopping to pee about every hundred steps. When we finally did find him, he was dirty, scratched, cold and sober, and quite unhappy with it all. We were able to fix the last two, of course, and that quickly cured the second and third items, and by that time, who cared about being dirty?
By the weekend's end, we all agreed we'd had a fine time, and that we should try it again, but this time, without Loopy getting lost ...and for several weekends after that, we were seen dutifully loading the truck and packing our guns, in preparation for hunting. I don't think anyone ever noticed that we never actually brought anything home.
...and we had a splendid time, all the more so because we didn't have to worry about being quiet, or watching for deer, or accidentally shooting each other. I really began to understand the appeal of hunting trips by then, and at season's end, we actually felt kind of bad about not being able to go hunting any more. Still, there was always next year.
...and the following year, we quickly began assembling plans for the first big hunting trip of the year, day one, as soon as the season started. We began making a list of everything we'd need. Ammo went on the list, and was quickly scratched off, and the cost added to the beer budget. Everything went fine, until we got to Deer Licenses for five people.
...and the discussion began. Did we really need hunting licenses? Well, were we hunting, or not? Well, technically, yes -- we were trooping out of town in our camo jammies with guns on the rack, weren't we? Still, we didn't have any ammo, and none of us was really planning on shooting anything...
In the end, it was the money issue that decided it for us. We scratched Licenses off the list, and added the money to the beer budget.
A day later, sozzled and gleeful, we had cause to regret that... when the nice game warden showed up (out of nowhere. I don't know how they do it, but they show up in the middle of nowhere, OUT of nowhere, and wanna see your hunting license. And they ALL know how to do this trick, too. Even to people who aren't drunk. No one knows how they do it.)
Um, what? License? You mean a hunting license? Um, well, we're not really hunting, Mr. Game Warden, sir. Well, yes, we have guns, but they aren't really loaded...
(Not as loaded as we are! Shuddup, Candy...)
No, really, sir, they aren't loaded. We don't even have any ammo, really, sir. No, really, sir, would we be handling loaded firearms if we were this bombed? That would be stupid, now, wouldn't it?
(NOT stupid! Shut UP, Candy...)
Well, no sir, I can't say I have any idea what kind of things you see in the course of your job, sir, but the fact is, we, um, well, we just came out here to toss back some cold ones and barbecue some weenies, really, sir. No, really. The guns are just so our folks will think we're out hunting. Really!
(Really huntin! Really! Shut the f*ck UP, Candy...)
The game warden looked at us for a long time. Truth to tell, he probably HAD seen more than a few guys who were actually hunting while far drunker than any of us were at that moment (well, maybe not Candy, but...). He looked at us very hard. Even Candy shut up. We glanced at each other and it crossed my mind -- what was the actual legal definition of hunting? WERE we guilty of something? Well, actually, yes -- underage drinking -- but could a game warden arrest you for that? Wasn't his jurisdiction kind of limited, or something?
He stared at us for a long time... and then relaxed. I could see the thoughts forming behind his eyes. "Ghod damn," he thought, "anyone this smashed can NOT be serious."
"Tell you what, boys," he said. "I have no warrant to search you or your vehicle... but if you specifically give me permission to look for ammo... and if you empty your pockets... and if I don't FIND any ammo... I might decide you're telling the truth."
We all looked at each other. "There's no ammo in the truck," said Loopy. We all emptied our pockets. Several church keys and a condom, but no cartridges. The warden patted our pockets, and then poked around in the truck..
"Well, it looks like you boys are clean... sort of," the warden said. "Do your folks know you're out here, drunk off your butts?"
"Um," I said. "Well... they know we're out here."
"Uh-huh," he said. "Well, it's plain you don't mean to do any huntin'... so it looks like you're outside my jurisdiction. I'm going to make a point of keeping an eye on that main road, though ... and you want to be stone cold sober when you drive back into town, understand?"
We all bobbed our heads energetically. Truth was, we expected to be out in the brush for at least another day. He nodded, said his goodbyes, and went off to try and catch some real poachers.
We all sat down hard, caught our breath... and decided another beer was in order. "That was no damn fun," said Weeble.
"Yeah. Imagine, needing to get a license just to drink," said Lightnin'.
"Well, we are underage, technically," I said, opening a bottle.
"Mm-hm," agreed Loopy. "Good thing we could prove we weren't huntin'."
"Is he gone yet?" burbled Candy.
"We should make sure this doesn't happen again," said Lightnin', taking a deep swallow.
"Mm-hm," said Loopy again, twisting a cap off. "Next time, we need to make sure all our ducks are in a row. Make sure everything's nice and legal and verifiable."
"Yup."
"Definitely."
"Absolutely."
"So it's unanimous. Next time, we leave the guns at home..."
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