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.

Gunny Heaven

Favorite People. Favorite Activity. Favorite Place. Perfect weather. It really doesn’t get much better than this. Marian, Alex and I went out to a farm in Meade County for a training session hosted by my guru, Jim Higginbotham. The agenda for the day was to shoot the FBI qualifier, but to do it in half the time, so if the qualifier specified 12 seconds for a string of fire, we did it in 6. Interspersed were tales and anecdotes, explanations and technical guidance. Alex used the Springfield XD-9 Tactical. Marian used her S&W 640. I started out with my Series 70 Combat Commander but switched to the Kimber Pro Carry when the Commander started acting up. A new extractor is on order.

Even with some gun malfunctions and shooting in double-time, I qualified for the FBI which is a scary thought in itself. The difficulties with my beloved Commander reminded me in a powerful way that even the best autoloaders can get fussy and have problems sometimes. The experience also underscored the value of a regular training schedule to maintain skills and test equipment.

We also did some move-and-shoot and reloading practice drills, these laced with liberal doses of rationale and doctrine. I love listening to Jim tell stories. He’s a great collector of stories that illustrate the tactical realities that we face. If you want to listen to some of what Jim did, click here and listen to the podcast. Finally the last sharp report of pistol fire echoed away into the hills and the last brass clattered to the ground. We did our farewells and loaded the gear into the car. A day spent shooting like this has the effect of a good tranquilizer on me. We hit the road in the hotrod Nissan for the drive back to town. I felt like a million dollars.

We talked about what we’d learned or not learned, lots of politics, mostly how we really don’t like Barak Obama, and wound down the country road under a brilliant blue sky with the car purring like a kitten. Back in town we went to Kroger’s and bought a monster T-Bone, a rib eye, and a filet mignon, each our individual favorites. Back at the house, we fired up the charcoal grill and splashed some good bourbon over ice. Music on the stereo and baked potatoes in the oven, we just let the profound cool-ness of the day wash over us.

It really doesn’t get much better than this.