By Luke Warm
Guest Writer
[donation]
Hey! Did I say Obama, nutcase?
Negatory, good buddy. I did not. I done writ OSAMY. As in Al Qaidee. I’m not no John McCain, see, tryin to get our next Chief Executative assasserated before he even gets to be President.
Target One: Osama Bin Laden
No, sirree. Okay, noodle-noggin, here’s what happened. So help me Jehosaphat. Me an ma boy was a hikin in them hills outside a Los Angelopes, Californee, when we heard tell America’s Most Wanted Criminal might be found right in them there very identicated selfsame mountain foothills. Now, this locus of all puntos happens to be right outside the pretty lil town a Whittier, right smack dab there in Californeeyay.
Now me and my kid was not born yestiddy, and we knowed the C, the I and the A been a huntin Osamy Bin Ladel in the foothills of Pakerstan ever since our boys lost the son of a pighock in Tory Bory back there in ought one or two, whichever it was or were. So they been lookin for this butthead seven or eight years and come up dry ever time.
Maybe we uns could help is what I’m a thinkin. Performin our obligatos as citizens. So when m’ boy an me heard we might find Osamy right here in Californee, we done done took off a runnin. We was no fools, either or ayether. Neether nor nayther, if you will or won’t. We had a wupon — a air rifle that shoots lil chunks a lead about a thousand feet or so a second, give or take and approximatutely. You know how quick that is? Quicker than a hungry coyote in a room full a hens. Why, it’d pass a car like it was nailed to the road.
Faster than a fart outa church.
I was pretty durn sure Osama was up in them hills cause we had his pitcher with us. Yep, it had circles stamped on his face, and my son, he says he seen that face up in the hills there. He done forgot to tell me what he seed was jus a pitcher, not the real Osamy. But who cares? Nothin like a good manhunt, I says.
So we got us a posse an up in them hills we went. We had Osamy’s pitcher, so we figured we’d know the buzzard if we come upon the son of a gunther.
Well, we didn’t find hide nor hair of Osamy. Guess you done guessed that by now.
But did we have fun a huntin! We didn’t hunt far, neither or nayther. Ma boy, he done got that poster, you know, the one of Osamy with the circles around his face? Got it offa th Internot. He stuck it up against a bit a hill. Give us great satisfaction. Justice in the world after all. Set Osamy under one a them nopal cactusizes, and we walked back a honorable distance and done took turns shootin them lil pieces of lead at the son of a pistol.
I gotta tell ya, right off, my boy put a chunk a lead right through Osamy’s forehead. Woulda stopped im dead, too, if he’d a been real.
Author's son takes a shot at Osama. Joel Thurtell photo.
Then it was ma turn, and that’s when Osamy, he done bit back. I put ma face right up to the sight and done fired off a roun. WHAMO!! Kick back. Durn gunsight nailed ma forehead, drew some blood.
Pissed me off, it did or done.
Nobody said huntin Osamy was easy work.
That done it. I was mad. I meant bizness. I done slung lead at that target and ripped a roun through his lip. Ma boy shot and got his face. Next turn, I put one through his nasal nose. I even got the booger in the heart. My kid got him in the head a couple more times. Punched enough holes in his turban to send Osamy back to the hatter’s, if ya will or won’t.
The author takes a shot at Osama. Adam Thurtell photo.
We figure we done pretty good, though. If that poster’d been Osamy, the bum’d be dead as a rooster on a spit right now.
Course, we didn’t GET Osamy. Not really.
I don’t feel bad.
Neither did the C, the I and the A.
Contact me at joelthurtell(at)gmail.com
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