If I Had A Gun That Shot Sh*t….

Growing up I have fond memories of going to my grandparent’s house on my dad’s side.  We have about a million cousins,  or at least it seems so.  Dad was one of 10 kids, all but one of whom had married and had children of their own.   There is quite an age spread between the 10, resulting in us having second cousins in the mix before too long.  Sundays seemed to be the day we’d see everyone there, with a ton of food if it was near meal time.  Grandma had  this pot that she made  popcorn in, on the stove top, that was ancient, covered with black stuff on the bottom (seems it was key to the perfect pot of unburned, fresh popped corn).  In the pantry on the shelf was a heavy, ceramic teapot full of Smarties candy.  And she made mint iced tea all year  round from mint that grew along side of the garage, by drying in on long tables covered in newspaper in the basement.  Some cousins started their own mint patch with transplants from there.  Grandma and grandpa are long gone but those mint beds are still around and that reminds me I need to get a starter from one of them.

Not the best photo but you can still see the big, cement flower boxes on the porch! And the driveway under the dinning room windows.

Anyway, grandpa and the aunts and uncles would be sitting around the massive dinning room table while sharing stories.  Mostly grandpa did the sharing, using curse words now and then and grandma yelling “now daddy” from the kitchen because of all the young ears in the house.  We always knew it was going to be a good story when he used bad words.  Old, black oscillating fans moving the air in the room (no A/C in the house)  while we kids were playing under the table (I’m not kidding,  this thing was solid, huge and you were pretty safe under there) or on the living room floor and porch, with toys from the toy bins from under grandma’s bed.  We were packed in there like sardines, but no  one seemed to notice or mind.  Beer came in bottles then, and there was always cold beer being drank along with the iced tea.  Outside under the windows was the driveway with old tricycles rolling by with cousins riding those, by standing on the back platform that ran between the 2 back wheels, bent over holding the handlebars.  No, we did not have bike  helmets back then.  The gentle creek of the front porch swing, glider, and the smell of flowers in the huge, cement flower boxes sitting atop the brick rails….ah the memories.

One of the things I distinctly remember, aside from his voice which I can still hear in my head as clear as day, was grandpa making reference to,  “if I had a gun that shot sh*t mounted  on the machine…”.  The car was referred to as the machine.  The gun was always to have been aimed at some well deserving soul.  There were plenty of those.  That part of life has not changed at all.  In fact if anything, there are countless more fools  in the world on the roads and other places that are just begging to receive a nice, warm, soft, smelly round of poop launched on to them from said mounted device.

This morning the recipients would be the roofing crew a few doors down.  At 7am I woke to the sound of large packages of shingles being dropped hard on the roof top of the house  they are working on.  It is Saturday for crying out loud!  And one of the few summer nights that windows could be left open to sleep!  SERIOUSLY WTF????  I get it on week days as most folks are up and headed to work.  But is is SATURDAY! People sleep in on Saturdays.  Unless you live here, where rude roofing crews are starting the day.

Once I determined the  source of the rude awakening I was laying in bed thinking of that picture on Facebook that floats around about people who would be dead if it weren’t for prison.  I daydreamed about taking target practice with the 9mm, but if my skills  at shooting targets look anything like my abilities at dart throwing, a lot of innocent folks and pets in the houses on either side would be in danger.  That was when I remembered grandpa’s poop shooting bazooka!  YEAH that would  do it!  Pull up in front of the house with my car that is branded with my Avon business and business number in large font across the back window, aiming that big gun at one roofer after the next, firing large loads of nasty, gooey cow manure,  hitting each and every one!  Neighbors calling me (thanks to the number on the car) thanking me profusely for eliminating the annoying, rude,  early rising workers, and ordering large amounts of  Avon  products in appreciation for my efforts.

Ah one can dream.

Thanks, grandpa, for the visuals this morning that made me laugh out  loud.  RIP old man.