what wasn't under my christmas tree

Oh, man! I thought as my tires crunched the gravel of the Rat Canyon Range parking lot, What a sweet morning for shootin’! It was crisp and cold, the pre-dawn winds had died to a flat calm, and the visibility was what highdesert dwellers call “severe clear.” Oh, yeah; sweet!

I slipped on my Walker’s “Quad” power range muffs before I even got outta the truck. Having had my hearing damaged enough by our artillery, their mortars, and friends’ small-arms fire, I’m kinda sensitive about hearing protection. It can be ablessing, not bein’ able to hear Little Red’s stereo blaring until it rattles the silverware, but I don’t wanta miss any gentle murmured messages from the Memsaab, like, “Join me in a bubblebath, big boy?” Hearing loss is a double-edged sword, dudes.

Note: Never let four small “allies” take cover behind YOU in a firefight. Three of their rifle muzzles were about six inches from my ears as they peeked out and shot around me. I was in a bowlegged half-crouch position, and the fourth munchkin was kneeling between my legs, pretendin’ they were tree trunks. Ever wondered what muzzle-blast effect is like, spewing upward from a flash suppressor about four inches below your crotch? Imagine having screwdrivers jammed into your ears while simultaneously, a Green Bay Packers place-kicker repeatedly punts your privates. I couldn’t sit for a week, and I still can’t hear certain high notes.

“You bettah cover dan a wattah-boo*, Connah-man!” their captain later screamed into my chime-ringin’ ears. Hey, glad to be of service, pal.

Anyway, these Quads are great. They amplify normal sounds while suppressing gunshots to a dull thump. I could clearly hear dry grass cracklin’ underfoot as I strolled past the “openaction” bay where my pal, Joe Gleason, was practicing his draw-an’-double-tap on some silhouettes. I even heard his whispered “shooting mantra,” muttered under his breath just before each draw.

“Excuse me,” he breathed, “But that’s my Harley, pal!” (draw — pop-pop — on-safe, reholster.)

“Dude! Back away from that Harley! It’s mine!” (draw — pop-pop.)

Hey, whatever floats your boat, Joe. I walked on, got settled into a 50-yard range, and I had just taken up trigger slack on round number five of a potential “personal best” group, when …

“YO, CONNOR! WHATCHA DOIN’, BUDDY?” Bang!!!

I didn’t even bother lookin’ for that round I jerked. I think it landed somewhere on the eastern slope of Cabeza Raton Mountain.My “surprise guest” was another guy I know — let’s call him “Jack Cass,” okay? Besides the fact he apparently learned towhisper in a sawmill, he’s got one of those voices that sounds like a jackass braying about a bellyache. Not only did he ruin my great group, he also plunged me into depression, because it reminded me again of what I wanted — but DIDN’T get — for Christmas …

Pucker Up

Next, I want group tightener. We’ve all had those moments when we’re staring at a pistol target and wishin’ that group was just a teensy bit tighter, right? Like, when maybe there’s a sixpack or a lunch at Lonely Louie’s ridin’ on the outcome? I’m envisioning a spray-on solution in a little pump bottle that you just spritz on that poorly-punctured paper target, then wait 60 seconds while your group puckers up by, say, 30 percent … Call it something like “Groop-Tyte,” and mail me a cut of the profits, okay?

One thing I could really use when traveling is a range-finder. No, not a “rangefinder;” a range-finder! This would be a device like a GPS, only you turn it on, dial in desired features like “covered shooting positions,” “good clubhouse coffee,” and “seven to 50-yard ranges,” then hit Find! — and you get directions to the nearest range. Cool, huh?

Now, you know what a range bag is — and you know what a “bag lady” is, right? So here’s a challenge for you genetic engineers: I want a “range bag lady;” a cloned specimen who would delight in hauling my guns and assorted range gear, following me around from one shooting station to another, then pickin’ up the empty brass and cleaning weapons when I’m done for the day. She could even use my RemOil on the squeaky wheels of her shopping cart.

I want mine cloned to look like Hilary Clinton. The shock value on the range would be hilarious — and the Memsaab Helena would never get jealous. How many days ’til next Christmas? Better get on it, people …

Connor OUT

*Wattah-Boo:” his pronunciation of “water-bull,” a male water buffalo, or sometimes, a handy, large American.