Gander Mountain 309 - Spring 2017
"Mister Culverhouse, you need to equip yourself with a heavy rifle and a pistol suitable for personal defense and report to the Transvaal at once."
I was fondling a lovely Winchester Model 70 super grade in .458 Win Mag. I was envisioning being summonsed by the Home Office to a desolate village, a predatory lion needing slaying.
And then that couple walked up. I say that couple because it wasn't just that once customer, it was a couple. And they were both that customer.
"Howdy. I want you to show my girlfriend a couple of rifles." The fellow began, pleasently enough but already my alarm bells were going off.
"I need me a deer rifle!" She piped up energetically enough for me to believe that this wasn't a straw sale or anything, so no worries there.
Now, these two, were younger, decently well dressed but with the redneck affections that a lot of kids in our little well to do suburb of Atlanta affected.
Boots that had only seen mud at a Luke Byran concert, UGA hat even he probably went to Valdosta State, torn designer jeans that probably cost more than my P-345, you get the picture.
You could take your pick of which lifted 4x4 in the parking lot Daddy had paid for.
But hey, to each his own, and more importanly, those folks bought guns. A lot of guns.
Now, it pains me to say it, but I sold a lot of Taurus PT738s, SDV40Es, DPMS ARs, and 870 Express Magnums.
But hey, there poor choice in guns lets me buy cool guns.
"Sure, thing. We got a bunch of rifle. Any idea on what caliber you want?" I ask, already heading towards the Ruger Americans, knowing we had a camo one in .243 with a Vortex Crossfire on it.
"I want a thirty ought six!"
Oh, dear. Here we go.
Our little huntress was all of five feet nothing, and maybe a buck oh five soaking set.
"Um, ma'am, that's a lot of gun for Georgia whitetail..."
"I know, I'm not dropping them right there with my Savage three-oh-eight."
Dear Lord, why did I ever leave the Boy Scouts?
"Well, you see, it's really not the caliber, it's shot placement...."
"I can shoot! My Daddy taught me! He was in the Marines!"
"I really think you'd do better with a heavier gun in .243; that'll make it more fun to shoot and cheaper to practice."
"I don't need to practice, I need something to drop a deer."
Honey, buying a pink Glock doesn't make you tough.
This exchange went on a few more minutes. In a perfect world, I would have said "screw it" and sold her what ever .30-06 she wanted from the rack. But I think I made her madder than she already was.
You can't make this stuff up. And if you ever wondered why counter jockeys like me have a burning desire to drink, well, there you go.
A co worker solemnly swears that I walked off muttering something about the Democrats being right and maybe there should be a test.
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