Ammo Review: Part 2

Q: Can lift you from the slimy carpet of a dive hotel to joyous nirvana?

A: Hell yeah!

I could take’s generous offering and do something boring. Maybe review it for accuracy and quality like a real grown up. I’m guessing that’s what they intended. Boring! Instead I’m going to write a story which is only tangentially related. Here goes:

Last fall all hell broke loose in a perfect storm of suckitude. I’d just returned from a trip that had been tiring and unpleasant. Through no fault of my own I’d spent entirely too much time on a college campus. I was reeling from an overdose of Utopian hippie whining and self righteous dipshit trust funders. I needed a break.

Men are lousy at taking breaks. There’s just so much stupid fun stuff to do! Despite being totally exhausted I engaged in a “sporting event”. I won’t elaborate because the first rule of my sport is that you do not talk about my sport. (Go ahead, ask me the second rule.)

I did well, possibly not in spite of exhaustion but because of exhaustion? Regardless I’d pushed myself about as far as I could physically go. A suitable period of rest would have been smart.

Ironically it was home repairs that went for the jugular. A home construction project had gone into sudden death overtime. It was (predictably) over budget and winter was prowling the periphery of my schedule like a hungry wolf. Possibly in an act of mercy, the universe interceded and rain delayed further construction. I did what work I could do in the rain until I realized I was being an idiot. When I climbed down from the ladder I had a ominous tickle in the back of my throat. A wise man would have parked on the couch for a week. You know darned well I didn’t do that!

I decided to saddle up and make a few bucks. I picked up a short term odd job several hundred miles away. My idea was that quality time with my truck would brighten my attitude. If I was going to sit on my ass, I’d do it while rocketing down the highway. You can drink tea and nurse a cold while driving right?

Wrong! En route I came down with an epic head cold that (literally) floored me. As Mrs. Curmudgeon so kindly pointed out, I had it coming.

I tend to “slum it” when I travel. Partly because I’m cheap and partly because it feels vaguely comfortable to me. (Thoreau said he’d rather sit on a pumpkin than share a velvet cushion. I’ll sleep in the dirt to avoid an expensive hotel.) This mystifies Mrs. Curmudgeon who has higher standards and doesn’t mind paying for them.

Since I was very ill (and the the shivery cold rain wasn’t helping) I stopped early for the night. I checked into one of my favorite “dive” hotels. Mrs. Curmudgeon has officially relegated this locale in the “ewww” category. Almost dizzy from being sick, as soon as I stepped in the door, I plopped down on the carpet and lay there. No. I didn’t lie on the bed. I was wearing a wet rain jacket. What kind of Neanderthal would mess up a made bed?

Sometimes, when you’re ill, laying on the cold flat floor is good enough. Sometimes when you’re in a scuzzybag hotel you realize you should have checked into a better hotel if you were going to put your face on the carpet.

Gross! Was this a shitty day or what?

The phone rang. It was Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“Have you gone to a doctor yet?” She asked.

“I’m fine.” I coughed.

“Sounds like bronchitis. Don’t be stupid.”

That boat had sailed. I was indeed being stupid and very much wished I’d stayed home. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“You’re off the road?” She was worried.

“Yeah, in that place I stayed last time.”

“Ewwwww.” Her response was involuntary. “Don’t touch anything.”

The carpet was indeed unpleasant. I wondered if I had the energy to get to the shower. I felt the need for decontamination. “I won’t touch a thing.”

“I’m sure they never vacuum.” I could sense her disgust radiating through the phone.

“I know they don’t.”

“You got some guy commenting on your blog.” She changed the subject.

“Yeah.” I was too beat to care. “So?”

“He wants you to review some ammunition. He’ll send you some for free.”

“Free ammunition?” I felt a jolt of energy. Angels descended from the heavens and sung in my ear. The rain stopped. Puppies and rainbows and happy joy joy! This was the best news I’d had in a month!

“Could be a scammer. A Nigerian prince?” She chuckled.

From the carpet of a flophouse, rays of hope poured into my soul. “Free ammunition?!”

“You’re interested?” Mrs. Curmudgeon had missed the epic, colossal, uplifting, import of this amazing opportunity.

“Free ammo!” I repeated. I found the strength to stand up. Maybe I could get some cough medicine and a good night’s sleep. In a week’s time I’d be at the range tearing through gratis brass! With free ammo, all things are possible.

“You want me to respond?” Mrs. Curmudgeon, correctly, guessed I’d checked into a hotel that barely had electricity and wasn’t going to have wifi until the next century.

“Tell this guy that I will review the hell out of anything he sends me.”

“You sure? You’re pretty busy.” Mrs. Curmudgeon knows an overbooked moron when he’s about to take on another ridiculous obligation.

“I will review the living shit out of his ammo. I’ll test it like no man has tested ammo before. I’ll test it for hunting radioactive wolverines. I’ll use it to slay Grendel. I’ll report on its properties in a way that will make Hunter S. Thompson sound like a schoolgirl.”

“Um… you think this guy has read your blog?” Mrs. Curmudgeon was nervous.

“He has made contact. He will get what he has asked for.” I felt strength flowing with every word. I was going to get free shit and a chance to be a massive wiseass! Thank you Lord!

“You know, it might be some guy thinking you’d do…” She paused “…maybe something with a chronograph.”

“Chronographs are for sissies. I will report whether the ammo is suitable for slaying pirates and zombies.” I was ecstatic.

“That poor guy.” Mrs. Curmudgeon sighed.

Glowing from the thought of free ammo, I had the strength to finish my trip. The gravitational pull of free ammo brought me home. I did indeed pull off the highway and go to a doctor the next day. But we all know it’s really the free ammo that cured me and not the antibiotics.

About Adaptive Curmudgeon

I will neither confirm nor deny that I actually exist.
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2 Responses to Ammo Review: Part 2

  1. grendel says:

    I sat up straighter in my chair when you offered to slay grendel, I kid you not.

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