I got to tour Big Mike's new home, have some excellent Mexican food, drink copious amounts of liquor and go shooting the next day where we shot sporting clays and, at long last, I found out just what I am.
|Welcome to Big Mike's House!|
|View From the Deck|
When I was growing up (I was about 12 or 13) some new neighbors moved into the house next door, displacing the odd German family that lived there before them. Shortly after they moved in I heard the sound of gun fire and walked over to investigate. I introduced myself to my new neighbor and his hillbilly buddy, and by way of getting acquainted they invited me to shoot cans and clay pigeons with them - they were, in fact, drinking beer and shooting at the empties. They were great guys, and if not for them I never would have learned to hunt, fish, hike all day over rough terrain (and by that I mean all day at a good clip) and clean the game I bagged.
|Big Mike's seen from the Back Yard|
Saturday saw us headed out to the Black Wing Shooting Center for a round of sporting clays. I dimly remember that Big Mike had somehow convinced me to agree to 100 sporting clays instead of the 50 that I shot before, but I was somewhat inebriated when I agreed to this. Anyway, the course has ten stations with 50 clays, so all you have to do is shoot the same course in reverse, which is fine if you're in shape or you're shooting a .410 or something that doesn't beat you to death. I'm shooting an Orion over and under 12 gauge with target loads and a recoil pad that doesn't work. I'm not in shape.
The sporting clays course at Black Wing is a good one, and is much better than average. It doesn't have any odd shots that you wouldn't see in the field, which is not true for all sporting clay courses. Still, I managed to miss quite a few and although I enjoyed shooting I'll have to practice a little before I try the course again.
I think it was around station 7 on our return pass that I learned a significant fact about my life and my real identity. You see, this infernal station consists of a report pair; one clay being thrown from the left, up and away from the shooter and the second clay is a battue which comes in from the right, towards the shooter. I couldn't seem to hit both birds, and would consistently break one but not the other. This pissed me off no end.
After Big Mike reassembled my shotgun and gave me my bullets back, I informed him that I thought that station should be eliminated or changed as it was damaging to a person's self-confidence, leading to a denigration of a person's self-image. Big Mike tried to ignore me. I persisted.
"Look, if the Moonbats are really in touch with emotions and feelings and such, why don't they come out here and get the station changed? Don't they care about my self-image and self-confidence and so forth?"
"What? What do you mean, no?"
"No. Is that so hard to understand?"
"Okay, I understand. What I don't understand is why. Why?"
"Because you're one of the great white oppressors."
"You are. You're adult, white and male, and that makes you an oppressor."
"But - "
"Furthermore, being an oppressor means that you must turn over all your wealth to be redistributed properly."
"All of it?"
"All of it. Then you must go and support unsupervised social groups of the economically challenged underclasses and work to oppress the oppressors. And remember to give all your money to these organizations for proper redistribution."
"But then I'd be broke."
"Yes, that's true. But you wouldn't feel guilty about being an oppressor."
"I don't think I'd feel much of anything except cold and hungry."
"Ah, but that's the beauty of the thing. Once you are degraded to a state of impoverishment, the government has a plan for you."
"It do? Ah, I mean - it does?"
"Word up. You must register for various social programs by which you'll receive a portion of the wealth you've given to the government for proper redistribution, minus a handling fee."
"What if I just skip this whole business and keep my money and my guilt."
"You'll be deemed an unrepentant white oppressor. Your photo will be placed on the uncooperative citizen list by The Anointed One's Most Official Sanctified Minions, you'll continue to feel guilty and Moonbats will cease to invite you to wine and cheese parties. Give up the money, damn you!"
"No! It's mine, I'm keeping it and I have a shotgun!"
"That's the attitude of an unrepentant white oppressor."
"That's your attitude as well! You've told me so on many an occasion."
"Doesn't that make you an unrepentant white oppressor?"
It seems that I'm an unrepentant white oppressor and there's no hope for me. I don't mind. I'm in good company.
As I remember it, Big Mike ran out of bullets on the last station, so I gave him one of the extras I always keep for such an occasion. I proceeded to out shoot Big Mike on the last station, but he beat me soundly in the final score. I don't mind.