Hot Tub BB Gun

Just a few days ago on this very blog, I made a statement that my shenanigans date back many years.

 

While on the road the other day messing with past, present, and future tense, I was reminded of such an incident which was chalked up as shenanigans, but most likely considered assault.

 

How do I know this?

 

Jury duty.

 

The one time I was ever selected to sit on a jury, we found a kid guilty of assault for putting the butt end of a cigarette in the end of a pellet gun and shooting it at his uncle.  At the very best, the resulting damage to the man’s face was the equivalent of being slapped.  Yet still, charges were pressed and pursued to the full extent of the law.  The irony is that the last name of the convicted juvenile was synonymous with assault in general.

 

Big picture, the kid’s lawyer was a lame one at best who had probably studied her profession on Thursday nights at 10/9 central when LA Law was still on the air.

 

While on the road yesterday, we dropped in on Robert Killian and found ourselves killing time watching Hot Tub Time Machine on his DVR.

 

It’s a funny movie, but littered with continuity errors and plot holes.

 

On a side note, let me ask this.

 

How many movies have been produced in the history of cinema involving time travel?

 

Hundreds?  Thousands?

 

I don’t know.

 

What I do know is that after making so many movies which incorporate time travel, Hollywood should have figured out how to make one that isn’t littered with tainted timelines.

 

Just sayin.

 

Where was I?

 

Oh right.

 

Assault.

 

Watching that movie brought back several memories of events in my life which took place in the 80’s as well.  Enter Robert Killian.  As discussed before, Killian was a roommate I had during my college years.  Given that it was the late 80’s, he had an amazing mullet reminiscent of what Joe Elliot sported during the Hysteria days.

 

As with any respectable mullet of the 80’s, a certain level of maintenance was required in order to keep the business end up front looking all business like, and the party end in back looking all party like.  Mr. Killian had that process down to a science.  He generally didn’t pass up a mirror without primping his Kentucky Waterfall.

 

One day while I was sitting in the living room watching TV, my peripheral vision kicked in and alerted me to the fact that Killian was in the restroom down the hall checking the do.  Initially, I thought nothing of it and returned to whatever it was I was watching on the tube.

 

But then, the peripheral vision on the other side of my head alerted me to another presence.  There was a BB gun leaning up against the wall next to me.

 

Hmmmm.

 

Just to my right there was a BB gun.  Down the hall to my left was a fabulous mullet getting a mousse job.  I looked back to the right in the direction of the BB gun, and the little devil TharpSter on my shoulder let me know the BB gun was loaded.  I looked to my left where the background featured Killian working his hair.  The little angel TharpSter on my left shoulder just had one thing to say.  “Do it.”

 

Now obviously, I didn’t want to cause any damage or harm.

 

*pause for consideration*

 

I grabbed the BB gun, squatted down to my knees, and took aim for the sole of Killian’s shoe.  I figured by hitting the sole on the side of his shoe, the BB would bounce off and just get his attention.

 

Pump. Pump. Pump.

 

Aim.

 

Squeeze the trigger.

 

Pop!

 

“Aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!”

 

Hop. Hop. Hop.

 

So let’s do a quick flashback.  One thing I didn’t mention about Robert Killian before was his shoes.  As you may or may not remember, Killian was all about reinventing himself.  One of the tools in his arsenal involved his shoes.  I wish I could describe them and grant them justice, but I really can’t.  The best I could really say is that they were like a black pair of lace up moccasins.

 

Most moccasins that I know of in the traditional sense don’t have much of a sole.  If they do, they don’t come up on the side like a good pair court shoes or cross trainers.

 

Sadly, I had forgotten this when I crouched down to one knee, took aim with my questionable vision (yeah it was bad back then too), and popped one off at Killian’s foot while he fluffed his mullet.

 

Hop. Hop. Hop.

 

Obviously, the whole event was an unfortunate one, however there were two benefits which came out of the whole ordeal.

 

First of all, the fact that my aim had proven to be more accurate than originally expected was heart warming.

 

Second, and more importantly, watching Killian jump up and down like that after being struck by a BB on the side of a foot was a sight so striking that it would inspire a blog some 25 years later.

 

Hop. Hop. Hop.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

Type something witty and eye catching right here: