About that Shotgun

I have noticed that New Yorkers generally frown on firearms. Although I was insulted by Buzz Kill's insistence that I put the shotgun in my closet, I cannot deny that there is some justification for his nervous concern.

I declare for the record that the firing pin (or something like that) is solid busted. It needs cleaning and I'm not sure you could load said firearm even if you had ammunition - which I don't.

I might get pissed off enough, though, that I'd grab a few of the little ceramic sculptures Velvet made in grade school and take them out on the terrace, along with the 1912 Remington that has had my daddy's initials carved into the butt since 1949, toss the sculpture in the air like I was practicing soft ball and hit it with the butt of my shotgun over into the construction site across the street.

If I were in Texas, the neighbors wouldn't have much problem with somebody smashing pottery next door. After all, it's legal to shoot anyone in your own yard in Texas as long as you aren't related. Not so in New York City. It's pretty unusual to have guns in your apartment on the Upper West Side, and I know better than to be messing with the shotgun on the terrace especially if the Christmas lights are on.

Buzz Kill's just upset because he saw me doing arm curls with the shotgun when he was over yesterday to take pictures of Velvet going to the prom (Stonerdate 06.05.09) I will confess one of Velvet's friends said that me cocking that little shotgun was one of the scariest sights he'd even seen. That was the friend who said I could manage the Samuel L. Jackson role in Snakes on a Plane. Velvet and I were tossing the Remington in the air, catching it by the forestock and cocking it in one smooth motion.



Even though the shotgun is busted, it still makes that distinctive gun cocking noise. I suppose I can't blame Buzz Kill for thinking about me cocking that shotgun now that I'm in a bad mood about Velvet. I can't even pretend to be offended that someone would suggest that I am not always entirely responsible when I loose my temper.

I also come from a line of crazy Texan bitches. The phrase itself is worrisome: Crazy Texan Bitch with Shotgun. I try to be a lady about the whole thing - like Maureen O'Hara or Sophia Loren when they're angry - but once I get on a tear there's no telling which direction the wind will blow. I'm not sure why Granny the Ho cut bald spots into her second husbands hair one night when he was asleep. He'd done something that pissed her off. Or maybe that was the fourth husband. I know she chased the third one with a hammer. The third husband, a crooked CPA in Beaumont, Texas, is the one that reminds my mother of Buzz Kill.

In New York City, it's wise to avoid becoming a Post Headline. I suppose it's a good thing that my ex-husband (and a few other men besides) think I'm unpredictable enough when I'm pissed to cause some shit with my gun. But I really do have enough sense to stay out of the New York Post.

On a more serious note, the idea that my son is 18 years old and must register for the Selective Service makes the hair on my neck stand on end. Fooling around with your great-great grand Daddy's shotgun is one thing. Going to war is quite another. That's why there is a Quaker paper trail on Velvet stretching back eight years.