So this is how it happens. Redneckedness mooshed with several cocktails and a wedding anniversary inexplicably somehow led to a loaded firearm as a present. Nothing screams I Love You like a .380 Ruger, right?
You have to realize. Miss Carol didn’t even like touching guns until we moved out to the end-of-nowhere- but we’ve had friends over for alcohol and ammo weekends and she’s slowly gotten (I hate that word, but it’s a real word- I checked) into it.
I figured what the hell. She’d had the chance to test fire several weapons and she liked the little Ruger the best, so I bought her one. Redneckery run rampant, you know?
But now she’s one scary little bitch. What the hell happens to chicks when they get their hands on guns?
Carol’s got a gun. (You can sing it to Aerosmith’s Janies got a gun- it works)
And maybe I’m wishing I hadn’t bought her bullets.