I Want to Go Moose Hunting with Sarah Palin

I spent the afternoon doing a trigger job on a Rock Island Armory M1911A1. That’s a .45 automatic pistol for those who don’t know the nomenclature. I got it down to a crisp 3 ½ lbs. of pull with no creep. I added a custom hammer and an extended beavertail grip safety because I was getting some serious hammer bite. Sarah would appreciate this trigger job. She likes guns.

I want to go moose hunting with Sarah Palin.

Now, I’d have to buy some kind of stud rifle like a Weatherby Mark V Deluxe or a Browning A-Bolt topped off with a Leupold scope. You can’t go hunting with Sarah packing some Wal-Mart special.

I’ll admit it. I’m in love with Sarah. I’ve always had a weakness for brunettes, especially those endowed with proportions like hers. We would have to figure out a way to disable hubby’s snowmobile so he couldn’t follow us – three would definitely be a crowd – and we would need a couple of bottles of good bourbon to help her get over her religious scruples, but that wouldn’t be too hard. When you get the Pentecostals liquored up, they start speaking in a whole new language.

She’d have to teach me how to field dress a moose. I’ve never done that before. I’ve dressed deer, squirrels, rabbits, birds and fish, but never something as big as a moose.

I don’t even care if she wins the election or not, except that it would keep that weenie, Obama from being elected. Obama doesn’t like guns. Girlie man. He’s one of those “ban ‘em so only the gangsters will have them” kinds of guys. Of course, no one ought to be surprised since they’ve been singing that song in Chicago since Al Capone. Washington doesn’t deserve Sarah. She’s too good for those creeps. Washington deserves Rosie O’Donnell. Now that would be justice. Sarah can just continue to reign as queen of my dreams and let the Bolsheviks in Washington stew in their own juices.

Just imagine the exquisite splendor of waking up in a tent on a frosty Alaska morning with Sarah in the sleeping bag next to you, fresh snow outside under a perfect blue sky, the faint scent of gun powder and moose blood still on your clothes. Oh, man.

Now, I know that what I’m contemplating represents some serious sinning, but we could have a “come to Jesus” moment and repent when we got back to town. It would be worth it.