BABOOM!, or As a matter of fact that IS a gun my pocket. Part I I

So on Saturday the Wilfred Brimley of weaponry handed me a .22 and a pair of headphones and told me to start shootin'. Which I did. Poorly. "Lean into it!" Wilfred shouted. "No, not like that!" Wilfred hollered. "Remember to take your insulin!" Wilfred grumbled.

OK he didn't say that last bit. I did manage to hit the target once out of a total of 25 shots, after which Wilfred told me to wait a minute, and then pulled this out of his pants. As I fired Wilfred barked. "Steady your hand!" "Straight out!" "No, not like that!" "Quit shooting into the ground!"

I protested, because I honestly thought I was firing straight on. Apparently, though, I am a p*&^y, because I, in unconscious anticipation of the kick, dropped the gun low as soon as I squeezed the trigger.

No matter. Wilfred had faith in me. Or something. He took that gun away, reached under his shirt, and pulled a Glock out of his trousers. I had the same problem with the Glock, and when I was finished shooting a bunch of rounds, Wilfred pointed out the big holes I'd blown in the ground (Sorry about the flesh wounds, Mother Earth.) and guffawed. Then he left, reappearing a short while later with the type of assault rifle the US military uses in Iraq.

This, apparently, is my kind of weapon. It's light, and there's no kick to speak of. It's semi-automatic, so you can fire one bullet after another after another yet it doesn't feel like you're doing anything at all. You could shoot with one hand. Naturally it turned out to be the most powerful weapon any of us fired that day. It's more than a little terrifying how (physically) easy it would be to blow great big holes in people. This is one scary gun:


After the rifle action, Wilfred had one more trick down his pants. I was half-expecting a grenade launcher, but he instead pulled out a snub-nosed pistol, made in Utah, with a 7lb trigger pull. You need to be a champion nose picker (read: fingers of steel) to operate it. I am not quite that, but I did manage to discharge the weapon three times. (I had to use both hands.) The third time the I-don't-know-what-it's-called thingy that kicks back when you fire smacked into my thumb-ouch.

Before we left for dinner, Wilfred brought out what it takes to convince the most stubborn diabeetus patients to check their blood sugar: a .50-caliber muzzle loader. Can you say BOOM!? It can. Wilfred asked me if I wanted to try it and I, imagining discharging the weapon and then being blown backwards into a pine tree, declined.

Later, at dinner, Wilfred said he was proud of me. He was sure I'd freak out. Well score one for the hippie. And props to Wilfred, for making my day.