I need a fix 'cause I'm going down
A friend and I besmirch Charlton Heston's memory:
Ari: I've got an interview tomorrow morning, for the position of artistic director at a performing arts summer camp down here.
me: that would be a neat job. I've done the arts camp thing
Ari: You've done the arts camp thing? But . . . I thought you've fired a gun!
me: arts camp came after gun camp
Ari: Ahh. Gun camp. Bang bang shoot shoot.
me: Chuck Heston just died, and I keep thinking cold dead hands
Ari: I know.
me: so who gets to do the prying?
Ari: I dunno. Maybe the next of kin. Or maybe whoever is the head of the NRA now.
me: do they pry before or after rigor mortis sets in? I mean, he did promise the gun to someone called "you" when his cold dead hands became available, which I do believe is now
Ari: Well, if you want it, maybe you can find out where his casket is . . .
me: The question of course is did You do anything in reliance of this promise. What would I do with a gun?
Ari: But, I would imagine that if his dead hands are cold, his gun would be as well. And our old pals Paul and Johnny said that happiness is a warm gun. So _there_.
me: I'm sure it would warm up after a couple of minutes in the microwave
Ari: But how would it fit in there? I mean, those NRA guys generally have rifles, not pistols (hence, the NRA, not the NPA).
me: yeah, there in lies the problem-- I was thinking pistols. Or maybe I could dismantle the rifle and microwave the parts individually
Ari: Hmm. Now there's an idea.
me: it would take longer-- but this is happiness we are talking about
