Dear Guns & Ammo Letters Page,
I never thought it would happen to me.
I recently attended a late night showing of Reese Witherspoon's romantic comedy Just Like Heaven at my local movie theater. Late showings are my favorite since the audiences are typically sparse, and on this particular night I happened to find myself alone as the previews reel ran. The lights dimmed completely before the movie started up, casting the theatre in momentary darkness. When the ambient glow of the film filled the room I was surprised to find an occupant in the seat next to mine. Of all the empty seats available, why choose that one?
After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to concentrate on the movie, I took a careful glance sideways and what I saw made my heart skip a beat. There, a few scant inches away, was the most beautiful Bushmaster 16in Modular Carbine I had ever seen in my life. I snapped my head back to the screen and gulped hard, hoping it hadn't noticed.
Just then I felt something brush against my ankle in a slow and deliberate move. Biting my lip, I slid my eyes from the screen to my lower leg where the Carbine's rubber buttplate was resting.
It was my turn to make a move. I had never been in a situation like this before and my palms were already beginning to sweat. Closing my eyes, I hesitantly reached over and caressed the cold surface of the Carbine's chrome-lined barrel with the back of my hand. It didn't pull back from my touch so I continued, gingerly tracing the barrel with my fingertips. Feeling particularly bold, when I reached the opening at the end of the barrel I pressed a finger inside and quivered in ecstasy.
Upon opening my eyes once more, I was met with another surprise. There in the cupholder between us was a 2.25 oz. bottle of Ultra-Lube Advanced Gun Oil and a fiendishly long blackened steel cleaning rod.
"You're dirty, aren't you?" I whispered, taking off my coat and laying it across the rifle's midsection in case anyone walked in on us. "You filthy little gun, I'm gonna clean you good."
Over the course of the next hour I field-stripped and slowly cleaned every nook and cranny, becoming intimately familiar with this gun I had never even seen before. After the movie ended we went our separate ways without a word. I've never been the sort of guy that would even consider doing something like that before, but the experience was exhilarating and I now find myself at the movie theater several times a week, gun oil and cleaning rod tucked away in my jacket pocket just in case.
Dear Sports Illustrated Forum,
I always thought the letters you printed were phony and that nothing as incredible as what they portrayed would ever happen to me. Boy was I wrong!
During a recent trip to my family's summer home overlooking a private beach, I decided to go for a swim in the ocean by myself. Instead of finding a secluded strip of beach and the greenish-blue sea stretching beyond into the horizon, however, I was met with an unexpected sight.
There on my beach, the New York Yankees were preparing to play a game of baseball. Alex Rodriguez was creating bases out of driftwood. Randy Johnson was using his mitt to scoop up sand and build a pitcher's mound. Jason Giambi was injecting seawater into his upper thigh. Derek Jeter was eating a burrito.
Just as I began to wonder who they were going to play against, the subject of every red-blooded sports loving American male's fantasy showed up. That's right, twins! The identical twin brother of every Yankee player was there, each wearing a slightly different uniform from his sibling.
The game that followed contained some of the hottest baseball action a fan could hope to see. Sweaty guys, pitching, catching, balls, things, more things. It was amazing, and I was the sole witness to this game for the ages. With the game tied after thirteen innings it was obvious that the teams were too evenly matched, and that a difference maker was needed. That was when Joe Torre turned to me and hitched his thumb as if to say "get in here" while Moe Torre cursed for not thinking of doing the same thing earlier.
It was the bottom of the inning and there were two outs. I was pinch hitting for Jeter, who had broken his back at the top of the inning by colliding with a jellyfish while fielding a routine pop fly.
Randy Joneson was an intimidatingly large pitcher just like his brother, but instead of collapsing under the pressure I swung with confidence at his first pitch and sent it flying over the ocean, winning the game with a miracle home run. All the Yankees' twin brothers screamed in agony as their skin boiled and fell off, followed by the muscle and organs below until all that was left was a field full of sizzling bones. Then the Yankees cheered in unison and carried me around on their shoulders.
It was probably the greatest day of that particular summer, and I'm still amazed that it actually happened to a normal guy like me.
Queens, New York
Dear PC Gamer Letters Section,
The other day my really hot english teacher asked me to stay after class, and we had really hot sex for like two hours before an equally hot classmate (who happened to be a virgin) walked into the room to retrieve a book she had mistakenly left behind. Then she joined in, and we had even more hot sex. Oh yeah, and they both had quite large breasts.
Just thought you should know!
Are we not allowed to be real parents anymore? We may have feared the CyborFreaks, but we damn well respected them and learned about boundaries.
A thousand years ago, dudes were dying from splinters, but now the wizard potion that cleans our light wounds costs less than a Dr. Pepper in 1994. I love this medicinal 7up.
Ron Paul spins in his chair, trying to grab his decorative antique musket but Freddy gets it first.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.