About BruceCochran

Bruce Cochran graduated from Oklahoma University in 1960 with a B.A. in design. He worked as a humor writer/illustrator for Hallmark Cards from 1960 – 1962 and has freelanced as a writer, cartoonist and illustrator since then. Cochran drew daily sports cartoon for USA Today from 1983 – 1991. He has 10 humor/cartoon books published by Willow Creek Press and his work appears regularly in Wyoming Wildlife, Outdoor News, On Wisconsin Outdoors, Pheasants Forever Journal, Wildfowl, Gundog, Ducks Unlimited magazine, Delta Waterfowl and other publications. He also writes and illustrates a regular humor column for Wyoming Wildlife News. Bruce won first place in the magazine humor category of OWAA’s EIC contest in 2000, 2004, 2008, 2009, and 2010. Life Sponsor: Ducks Unlimited. Life member: NRA. Member: Pheasants Forever, Trout Unlimited, OWAA and Outdoor Writers of Kansas.

The Straight Poop On Canada Geese

This story was published in the October 2009 issue of Wildfowl magazine.

Let’s put one vicious rumor to rest right now: Canada geese do not produce one pound of solid waste per day. Some goose hunters might, after a bowl of bad chili or a tainted pizza, but Canada geese? No way.

It may seem like they do if your kid plays soccer or baseball on a field where several dozen geese have been grazing, but according to Dr. Bruce Manny, research fishery biologist with the U.S. Geological Survey, the average Canada goose produces 0.3432 lbs. (5.49 oz.) of wet droppings per day, which is equivalent to 0.0722 lbs. (1.15 oz.) of dry droppings. I find this hard to believe, since I’ve scraped that much off my shoes after nine holes of golf.

Now, to me, the key word in this scenario is average. To get an average figure, someone has to weigh the “production” of more than one goose. In fact the more geese used in the study the more valid your average becomes. Therefore someone has what is probably a full-time job weighing goose poop. {I know, I know. it’s a nasty job but somebody has to do it.}

No matter where you work you know that the new guy gets the worst assignments, then works his way up toward the plums that come with seniority. I’m sure Dr. Manny himself doesn’t crawl around on his hands and knees with a little scale picking up blobs of goose poop and weighing them {although he may have when he first went to work for the U.S. Geological Survey}. This assignment probably goes to an intern, maybe a biologist wannabe, or the kid who was hired last week, just out of college. When this unfortunate person gets home from work after a hard day in the field, you can imagine what his answer will be when his wife asks, “How were things at work today, Dear?’

The more you think about it, the more questions arise. Do they put diapers on individual geese, then take them off at the end of the day and weigh the contents? Or is each employee assigned a specific goose to monitor, walking around behind it with a pad and pencil and a measuring cup? What happens if your goose decides to fly away? Are you just **** out of luck? And what is a goose poop day anyway, twelve hours or twenty-four? How do you measure your goose’s production when it goes to roost on water at night? Is proficiency at scuba diving, or at least snorkeling, a prerequisite for the job? What about the poor soul who has to crawl around on his hands and knees trying to decide whether the droppings are wet or dry? There’s only one way to tell. Right?

According to someone named Choo Choo Love {I’m not making this up, as Dave Barry would say} who is evidently an authority on the subject, “theirs smells better than ours”. On what empirical evidence does she base this statement? Personal experience? Talk about your cruddy jobs….

If we think Canada geese make a mess on our golf courses, our parks, and ball fields, we should hope snow and blue geese never take up the habits of their darker cousins. Can you imagine zillions of snows and blues waddling around on your favorite golf course, each one depositing its individual 5.4 oz. wet {1.5 oz. dry} allotment of waste per day? You think sand traps and water hazards are problems…

However they arrive at their alleged “average”, I’m just glad someone other than yours truly has this important job. The next time I’m lying on my back in a layout blind watching these majestic birds circle my decoys, I’ll try to remember that they don’t each produce a pound of waste per day. And I’ll hope that, as they reject my decoys and fly away high overhead, they don’t punctuate their disapproval of my spread and my lousy calling by depositing any of it, either wet or dry, on my face.

I don’t know about you, but I’m pooped out just thinking about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heart Of America Fly Fishers One Fly Tournament

The Heart of America Fly Fishers held their annual One Fly Tournament Saturday, June 17th at the Timber Ridge Adventure Center. Timber Ridge is a beautiful 200-acre park managed by the Johnson County Parks & Recreation Dept. It is located south of Kill Creek Park near De Soto, KS. Two small lakes on the property are open one day each year for public fishing. Reservations can be made for special events by phone (913) 831-3359 or email registration@jocogov.org.

The One Fly Tournament is an actual tournament, with rules, winners and losers, and prizes for largest fish and most fish caught. Contestants are allowed to use only one fly. If the fly is lost another of the same pattern may be tied on.

The guys who got there early caught quite a few bass, bluegill, and even a couple of big channel cats.

I got there just in time for the mid-day picnic.

 

 

 

 

 

A Bionic Pheasant Hunt

This story was originally published in the Winter 2017 issue of Pheasants Forever Journal.

 

bionic hunt

It was barely dawn when Bob pulled my truck off to the side of the road. We had left home before daylight so I let Bob drive because he can see better in the dark than I can. He’s had his cataracts removed and I’ve still got mine.

“It’s good to be pheasant hunting again”, I said as I eased my bulky body out of the truck. I was anxious to run a few rounds through my new ultra-light 20-gauge. The Doc had suggested I trade in the trusty old twelve after my rotator cuff surgery a couple of years ago. I had missed last season because of Tommy John surgery. I should have known not to keep yanking that damn rope when the chainsaw wouldn’t start.

We both had trouble finding hunting clothes to fit because we had gained a lot of weight over the years. I had to leave my pants partially unzipped but Bob had a new pair that fit him perfectly. He pulled up his coat and I could see why. I didn’t even know they made maternity brush busters.

It’s a good thing my old setter Maggie was still snoring in her crate, otherwise I might have forgotten about her.

“Rise and shine, old girl”, I said as I unlatched the door. She opened one eye, stared at me with that “leave me alone” look, then closed it and started snoring again. I decided to let her snooze a bit but I left the crate open so she could join us when she was ready.

We sat on the tailgate and rested a while. It takes a lot of energy for guys our age to get out of a truck.

I noticed Bob rubbing his knees.

“They bothering you?” I asked. ”I thought you had them fixed”.

“I did”, he answered. I could hear his knees creaking as he flexed one leg, then the other. “But they need regular maintenance and I’m overdue.”

“Time to go back to the Doc, huh?”

He slid off the tailgate and hobbled around a little. “Nope. The Doc put these things in.” He pulled one pant leg up to show me.

“Grease nipples. I get the old knees lubed every time I take my car in for service. Works like a charm but I gotta get them lubed every 6000 miles or six months. Don’t want to void the warranty. “

Maggie stood up, yawned, and stretched on the tailgate, her signal that she was ready to roll. We hefted her down and she looked around but couldn’t find anything stinky to roll in so she lay down and went back to sleep.

I put an electric collar on her and we headed out across the field. Since I started wearing support hose and arch supports in my boots I could walk almost thirty minutes without wheezing.

We hadn’t gone fifty yards when we heard the wail of a siren.

“What the hell is that?” Bob wondered aloud.

I grabbed Maggie and turned the knob on her collar down. “Sometimes my pacemaker creates some sort of electronic field with her e-collar and it winds up on the local sheriff’s frequency. Picks up 911 calls too.”

After I adjusted the collar we could still hear a squeaking, grinding, clanking sound.

“Now what?” grumped Bob.

“The squeaking and grinding is my artificial hip”, I said. “It does that at times like this when I’ve walked too long. The clanking is Maggie’s Kevlar stifle joint. She’s had it so long it’s starting to rust. The vet says I should mix a little WD-40 in with her kibbles.”

Suddenly Maggie stopped walking and sat down. “She’s getting birdy”, I whispered.

Bob stared at the dog. “Isn’t she supposed to point?”

“She did when she was younger”, I said. “Now she just sits down. I guess you could say she’s more of a sitter than a setter.”

Bob wasn’t convinced. “How do you know she’s not just resting?”

“When she wants to rest she lies down.”

Bob took a step forward and a cock pheasant burst from the underbrush thirty yards away. We both shouldered our shotguns but not a shot was fired as the bird sailed off into the distance.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” I asked.

Bob swore at his shotgun as though somehow it was the gun’s fault. ”I couldn’t get the damn safety off. Why didn’t you shoot?”

“I forgot to load my gun”.

Maggie gave us a dirty look, then lay down and immediately started snoring.

“Oh well”, I said. “There’ll be more chances.”

I fumbled at the loops on my vest, trying to remember which side the shells were on. I keep shells in the loops on the right side and suppositories on the left. Or is it the other way around?

I woke Maggie up and then, squeaking, grinding, creaking and clanking, the three of us marched off across the field together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rockbridge, Missouri

Rockbridge, just a hoot and a holler north of Gainesville, MO, is the perfect place to take a kid fishing. It’s the perfect place for anyone who likes to catch big, dumb trout. Sort of like sending a struggling young ballplayer down to the minors to get his confidence back.

With a picturesque old mill, modern cabins, and an excellent restaurant it’s a relaxing place to spend a few days. The stream, a tributary of Bryant Creek, is stocked with rainbow trout and you must keep every fish you catch. A guy cleans and packages them and you pick them up when you check out. You pay for your fish by the pound and if you’re a competent fisherman it can get expensive. But it’s worth every penny.

Raleigh Eggers of Manhattan, KS and I spent two days there recently. Old geezers like me wear out easily so I never fished more than an hour at a time. Using a #12 beadhead olive & black woollybugger I caught all the trout I wanted.

Check it out at www.rockbridgemo.com .

If you can't catch fish here you can't catch fish anywhere.

If you can’t catch fish here you can’t catch fish anywhere.

Typical Rockbridge rainbows

Typical Rockbridge rainbows

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Opener

opener-illust-_edited-1

This story was published in the September 1999 issue of Wyoming Wildlife magazine. It was awarded first place in the Magazine Humor category of the 2000 OWAA Excellence in Craft Contests.

 

The Opener

To an incurable duck hunting addict, opening day of the season is like no other day. You may have other interests that occupy your time during the rest of the year, but no matter how much you enjoy them, they are, after all, just a way to kill time ‘til duck season.

We all have our own ways of preparing for opening day. I once had a hunting partner who  went into this most important day of the year with no preparation all.

“You mind stopping by a convenience store?” he would ask in the truck as we drove through dark city streets on our way to the interstate. “I need to pick up some donuts or something.”

Once he even uttered those words you never want to hear at 4:30 A.M. on opening morning: “You don’t mind taking a little detour, do you? There’s a place across town that’s open 24/7. I need to pick up a hunting license and some shells.”Needless to say, he’s now my ex-hunting partner.

Such people often use their work as an excuse for this thoughtless behavior.

“I didn’t get home from work ‘til midnight so I didn’t have time to get all my stuff ready.”

I turn a deaf ear to this pathetic whining. You can always find another job, but a ruined opening day is gone forever.

My preparations usually include nausea, diarrhea, irritability, and compulsive rechecking of shells, decoys, and dog paraphernalia. Does my shotgun have the plug in it? Is the automatic coffee maker programmed to fire up at the appropriate time? A.M. not P.M?

I set a minimum of three alarm clocks to ensure that I don’t oversleep, which is ridiculous because I never  sleep at all. If I do happen to fall asleep, I have a  realistic recurring nightmare in which I wake up at 9:00 A.M. in a cold sweat, cursing my malfunctioning alarm clocks.

My long-suffering wife always volunteers to sleep in another room to avoid my tossing and turning. When I get up at four-thirty opening morning I try to be quiet so I won’t wake her as I tippy-toe out to the kennel to let my Lab out. This is pretty dumb on my part. Who could sleep with all that racing around, slobbering, panting and whining going on? And that’s just me! The dog barks, stares at the door, and sometimes pees on the floor in her excitement.

At one time I made a living selling cartoons to a popular men’s magazine that features photographs of attractive young women. At least once a year I would fly to New York from my home in Kansas and have lunch with the magazine’s self-important yuppie cartoon editor. These trips were blatant attempts to suck up to him, not “hoping to catch a glimpse of the bimbos” as my wife’s accusations suggested.

On one such trip the editor explained that each year the magazine throws a big party with lots of free food and drink. All the luscious models featured in the magazine would be there. Would I like to attend this year’s gala as his guest?

I am a normal male human being. While my testosterone level is probably no higher than the next guy’s, I’m sure it’s no lower. This sounded like an occasion I wouldn’t want to miss.

“Sure”, I said. “When is it”?

“November first.”

“Well, in that case, I can’t make it”, I said sadly. “But send me an invitation anyway. I’ll frame it and hang it in my studio”

“Hey, they only give me five,” he said. “I can’t waste one on someone who won’t use it.” He took a sip of his Perrier with a twist of lemon.“What could be so important that it takes precedence over a bash like this?”

I looked him straight in the eye and told it like it was. “That’s opening day of duck season.”

“You mean you’d rather sit in a cold wooden box in a swamp and hope a bird flies by so you can shoot it than go to a party like this?” I thought he was going to spill his Perrier on his tassel loafers

“It’s a tough choice,” I said, “but yes, I’d rather be in a duck blind.”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“What are you – some kind of weirdo?”

“Yeah. You might say that,” I replied. “I’m a duck hunter.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trout fishing at Lake Taneycomo

It’s always a treat to fish Lake Taneycomo even if the fishing isn’t up to its usual standards. Last week I enjoyed some beautiful Ozarks scenery, ate a great chicken fried steak at Lambert’s (the throwed rolls place), and scarfed down some tasty barbeque at Dana’s.

My life-long buddy Ned Spence and his lady friend were supposed to come up from Oklahoma City and meet me but they took sick and couldn’t make it. I wanted to take a selfy of me holding up a huge trout and email it to him but it didn’t happen, mainly because I didn’t catch any huge trout. In fact I almost didn’t catch any trout at all.

I didn’t see anybody tearing them up Wednesday morning. I did manage to fool one little rainbow with a yellow crackleback. You know it’s slow when you catch one trout and a guy comes over and asks what you’re using.

Thursday morning the fishing Gods smiled upon me and I was rewarded with two small rainbows for my two hour’s work. Actually I shouldn’t call it work because at least I was fishing, the weather was beautiful and I didn’t fall down and drown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Build it and they will come

build-it-illust

This story was first published in the  2005 November/December issue of Wyoming Wildlife News

Let’s get one thing straight right now: building a duck blind is nothing like an ordinary carpentry project. You can’t learn skills like this from a book. They are handed down from father to son, uncle to nephew, or old duck hunter to young duck hunter. True vertical and horizontal?? That’s for sissies. Mitered corners? What are you, some kind of latte-sipping, granola-crunching, tofu-eating civilian?

To build a proper duck blind you must put aside your preconceived notions of what good carpentry should look like. You should even put aside your notions of what lumber should look like. Or all building materials, for that matter. You must learn to think outside the box. In fact you should probably tear up the box and use it in your duck blind. The well-drawn plans you see for blinds in magazines are all hoaxes.

You only BUY lumber for duck blinds as a last resort. The best blinds are fashioned from lumber that was originally intended for other purposes. Remodeling you basement? When you tear out those old studs, save them for your next duck blind. Some blinds are even made from – dare I say it? – stolen materials. I don’t mean actually STOLEN stolen. STOLEN means they were taken from their rightful owners. Say you saw a 4X8 sheet of plywood lying around and you instantly recognized the fact that it would make a perfect roof for your duck blind. So you loaded it into the bed of your pick-up and took it someplace where it would be put to good use. The fact that it was lying around near a construction site is immaterial.

What about tools, you ask? Cordless drills are indispensable, unless you forget to charge up the batteries like I usually do. But in that case you can use the drill as a hammer. If you should happen to have a measuring tape you can also use that as a hammer. In fact you can use any heavy object as a hammer. Remember the old joke about a guy who walked into the hardware store and said “I want a wrench” and when the clerk asked what kind of wrench he said, “Don’t matter. I’m gonna use it for a hammer”? That guy was probably building a duck blind.

What ordinary carpenters call measuring is unnecessary in duck blind carpentry. If you are building your blind on-site you are probably using a chain saw and your cuts will be less than precise. Simply get one of your partners to hold the board  for you and when he says “cut it along about here somewhere” you cut it along about there somewhere, making sure all feet, fingers, and dog noses are safely out of the way.

Imperfections that would drive a real carpenter batty can be an asset to a duck blind. That four inch gap on one end between the door and the floor? No problem. It just makes it easy to relieve yourself without leaving the blind. I’ve probably shot at least fifty ducks in my lifetime with my pants unzipped.

Take that eight foot 2X6 you ripped long-ways with the chain saw so it would plug the three inch gap between the front wall and the southeast corner 4X4. You know, the gap that was left because you didn’t have a tape or pencil to make the measurements you needed so you just “eye-balled it”. You thought you were cutting a straight line, but when you stepped back and looked at it, it looked like an elevation line on a topo map. No problem. It looks more natural this way. Have you ever seen a straight line in nature?

That dog ramp you worked so hard on, the one that juts off the front of the blind at a funny angle. Forget about it. If it looks okay to your dog it’s fine. Besides, this way it looks more like a beaver-chewed log. That’s probably what you wanted but you just didn’t know it.

Corrugated tin from barns and outbuildings makes excellent duck blind material. It is easily attached to a wood framework and is impossible for beavers, muskrats or squirrels to destroy. It is best to wait for the tin to be removed from the buildings by forces of nature such as tornadoes, as removing it yourself can result in animosity from your neighbors and possible legal hassles.

Any job that requires physical exertion makes a man thirsty. A recent scientific study has proven that beer is the best thirst quencher known to man. The fact that all the scientists who participated in the study were beer drinkers is not important. However, a subtle law of physics is at work here: the Law Of Diminishing Returns. If you and your partners consume… say… a case of beer while building your duck blind, it does not necessarily follow that your blind will look twice as good if you consume TWO cases. In all probability it will look worse. But then again, one objective of blind building is to build a blind that does not LOOK like a duck blind, the idea being that it might actually fool a duck or two. In this case beauty is in the eye of the beholder and the beholder is a duck.

When you and your fellow carpenters have finished your blind – and your beer – stand back and take a good look at it. If the floor is level , the walls  perfectly vertical , and the roof straight then you have probably screwed up somewhere. But take heart. A lot of camo in the form of marsh grass, oak limbs or willows  will hide this embarrassing perfection. And after a season or two your blind will sag on one end and have a hole in the floor. Some of your purloined four-by-fours will be sporting beaver notches, and muskrats and raccoons will have left their droppings here and there. Feathers, empty shotgun hulls, and junk food wrappers will litter the floor.

In other words it will look like a respectable duck blind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kansas dove hunt

Thanks to long-time friend Scott Morgan I finally got into a good dove hunt. No limits but enough shooting to make our shoulders sore.

Scott, Roger Harper, photographer Jon Blumb and I hunted an eastern Kansas wheat field Friday afternoon. Hunkering in the shade of  hay bales we expended a humongous amount of ammo and managed to bring down a respectable number of birds. Flights of low-flying Canada geese provided entertainment while we field dressed the birds, then  headed to Baldwin City for drinks and dinner at The Wooden Spoke restaurant.

Roger, Scott and I went back for more the next day. I took my Lab Maggie with me this time for her first dove hunt. Some dogs are reluctant to pick up doves because the feathers come off in their mouths and Maggie was no exception. But when I dropped a bird she marked it down well, making it easier for me to find. Before the end of the day she was retrieving them. Well…sort of.

Maggie did OK for a rookie and  we put six succulent bacon-wrapped dove breasts on the grill, toasted the Spirit Of Migration, and froze another six for later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WOW

 

This story was first published in the September 2006 issue of Wildfowl magazine.

“What is it with these places, anyway?” I asked as we got we got into our car.

My wife and I had been visiting my mother-in-law at a retirement home.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re all so… well… feminine.” I nudged the car out into the stream of traffic and we headed for home.

“The walls are all peach or beige. Doilies everywhere. A man doesn’t feel comfortable in that environment.”

“They’re so feminine because ninety percent of the residents are women”, replied my wife.

“Sure”, I said. “ We work ourselves into early graves trying to keep you ladies happy”. She shot me a hostile glance.

“How would you like them to be tricked out?” she asked. “Wood paneled walls? Spittoons?”

“You bet! Nice dark walnut with a prominent grain. And shiny brass spittoons for the dippers and chewers.”

“Only slightly less disgusting than carrying a paper cup around to spit in like some of your buddies”, she said.

“ And who needs all those wimpy paintings of flowers and Parisian street scenes? “ I was rapidly warming to my subject. “At least one room in the place should have wildlife art on the walls…mallards or pintails coming in with their wings locked. Some mounted teal and wood ducks. And you know what would really set the whole thing off? A big old Canada goose hanging from the ceiling by a piece of monofiliment, right over the dining room table like he was coming in to join us for dinner.”

Carol cringed as she fished around in her purse for a pen. “Do you want me to take notes in case you actually have some input when your time comes?” she asked, only half facetiously.

“Maybe a deer head or two.” I was really getting into it now. “And a moose or elk if there was room.”

“Fish and big game would make it more inclusive”, said Carol, scribbling furiously to keep up with my rapid thought process.

 

As I drove toward home I kept thinking of more things I’d want in my customized retirement home.

“You know those rails they have along the walls for the inmates to hang on to?”

She shot me another glance. “I believe they’re called ‘residents’ or ‘patients’.

“Yeah, residents. Anyway, the rails in this place were obviously fake. Some sort of composition material or plastic. Why couldn’t they be made of nice burled walnut or cherry like a fine old gun stock?”

“That might work”, she replied. I got the impression she was humoring me.

“And speaking of wood”, I said, “A few old decoys sitting around would make me feel more at home. Maybe a pair of Mason snakey head mallards and a nice old Madison Mitchell canvasback…and a big wood burning fireplace for cold weather.” I was on a roll.

“Not one of those fake jobs like they had here, with phony ceramic logs and little blue flames.”

“Probably a risk management factor”, said Carol, always the practical one. I had to give her that one.

My hypothetical retirement home was getting better all the time but something was still missing. When I thought of it I was amazed it had taken me so long. “What would really make us old guys feel at home would be a few muddy dogs laying around on the floor. Say… a Lab in each of the three colors: black, yellow, and chocolate. And a big old yellow-eyed Chessie laying in front of the fireplace licking his…. well… licking himself, and growling at anyone who tried to pet him.”

We drove in silence for a while until Carol asked. “What would you call this place?” I was glad she was at least pretending to go along with me.

“I don’t know”, I said. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“How about ‘Geezers Galore”?

“Now you’re making fun of me”, I said as we turned into our driveway. “Okay…. what about… say… Worn Out Waterfowlers?”

“Well”, I said, “it does lend itself to a catchy acronym. WOW”.

I opened the door and let her go inside ahead of me. I briefly thought of myself as the cautious buck allowing the doe to enter the danger zone first.

“I can see the promo material now” I said. “ A grizzled old duck hunter with a droopy white mustache sitting before the fireplace in a rocking chair…”

“Licking his…” interrupted Carol.

“No no”, I said. “That’s the Chessie. Anyway, he’s wearing a rumpled old brown Jones hat like they used to wear before camo, and a plaid wool shirt. He’s got a glass of bourbon in one hand …”

“With a mallard or a Lab’s head engraved on the side”, chimed in Carol.

“Now you’re getting it”, I said, delighted. “And he’s petting his old white- muzzled retriever whose head is resting on his knee. And there’s a wooden decoy, riddled with shot holes, sitting on the hearth.”

She had the big picture now. “And he has an ammo belt looped over his shoulder, only instead of shotgun shells, the loops are full of suppositories.”

“Come on”, I said. “Get serious.”

“Sorry”, she said. “I got carried away. Anyway, the headline could read, “When it’s time to case the old pump gun, Come to WOW and spend your golden years with guys like yourself, reminiscing about those hallowed days in field and marsh, surrounded by the things you’ve always loved.”

“WOW!” I said. “I think you’ve got it!”