Analyze This

Last night I was a gun fighter in the wild west. Except when I wasn't in the wild west, like when I was reliving a memory of the future. My father had given me two new guns, a rifle and a pistol, and I was using them with decent success, only it was happening many years prior. Most of the time. But I kept running out of ammo and having to use this big knife to kill before being killed. It was pretty gruesome. At one point I couldn't seem to get it right... just kept stabbing this guy. His wincing face seemed to be saying, "Could you get it over with, already?" The problem was that the blade was slightly curved, better for slicing and hacking than stabbing. I'm not sure why I insisted on the latter method. Anyway, just as I had finally managed a good one, the stabbee, who was my senior by five years or so, mentioned that we were actually brothers. After he explained about the secret of our shared parents and convinced me, I criticized his poor timing, took his knife from him and left.

Later I was being chased by a couple who wanted me dead, but again I was out of ammo. And when I say later, I guess it was about 100 years later, because I drove a car to a shopping mall while being pursued by the murderous duo. As luck would have it there was a big store specializing in hunting supplies. While I didn't remember ever seeing such a place in a shopping mall before, this was not the time to question it, so I accepted my good luck and went inside. Somehow I had managed to buy a little time, and I was confident that no one knew I was there.

Unfortunately, the pistol my father had bought me was very special, and the lady behind the counter said she would have to make the bullets one at a time, at a rate of about a dollar a piece, but she could be done in about 20 minutes. I reluctantly agreed, and shopped around a bit while I waited. My eyes fell on a nice straight knife that would be good for stabbing, and I decided I had to have it. Also I took a look at another pistol, one with cheaper bullets, but it wasn't in my budget to buy another gun. It was made in the U.S.A., and at $868, it was the cheapest model available.

Then I was in a small house in a rural setting, with a good friend. He was giving me advice on my weapons problems, when a crooked cop came by and started bullying him around a bit. I was ready to solve the problem but my friend restrained me. So rather than kill him I began mocking him incessantly. I have to admit it felt more rewarding. Somehow this approach worked for him, and he became friendly.

Then, while standing in the kitchen shooting the breeze, we were informed that we were going to sing a song, with the police for back up singers. My friend and I shared a knowing laugh when we both said, "The Police?! Oh, wait, that's 50 years from now. Ah! Shhh!" Not really the wild west anymore, but no shopping malls either. While we waited my friend and our hostess, the lead singer, shared a cigarette Lady and the Tramp style. I don't know what else to call it. Both ends were lit, even though one end was the filter, and they would suck simultaneously. I don't see how physics allows for this, but at the time it only seemed slightly odd. We had a bit of a panic because we needed something to give us the starting note for our song, and our backup police band would be arriving shortly. None of us had perfect pitch, and there were no musical instruments to be found. It didn't occur to us that the band would have them. So I came up with a brilliant plan. We would play the theme song to "Dukes of Hazzard," and then we would all decide which note to start on from that song. That way we would be able to check it again later, from the same song. I was really proud to have thought of such an inventive idea. How resourceful of me.

Then I saw myself on TV! I was sitting next to my cousin watching an American football game. There was a short interview and the whole crowd knew me and laughed at my one of a kind humor. Our team won, 42-0, but my cousin later commented that they played horribly. I took issue with this, but I let the conversation die because I didn't want to argue anymore. Also, I was preoccupied. I was thinking that if one bullet cost a dollar in the wild west, it would be like $100 now. That didn't seem right at all....

Then I was eating tofu and praising it's culinary virtues to a skeptical friend of mine. He said we needed to have the TV repaired. So I called my wife and son in our Manhattan penthouse and told them that Chip and Dale would be dropping by in the afternoon to have a look at it.

War: What's it Good For?

Last night I was engaged in a battle that I was lucky to survive. My unit had overtaken an enemy camp but they ambushed us. We found ourselves fighting them with their own weaponry. The trigger mechanisms on their artillery were a bit different than what I was used to. Instead of using the conventional finger-pull, most of their weapons were very modern blowguns. In order to fire multiple consecutive rounds, I had to make machine gun sounds into the blow-trigger. The damage created was less than desired, but the ammunition seemed to never run out. After what seemed like hours of blowing bullets, there were only a few of us left who were not dead, seriously wounded, or just too out of breath to blow anymore. It was announced that the war was over, and that a peace agreement had in fact been reached the day before, but that communications had been down for a time, sorry for the delay. So we had been killing each other for nothing. By this time there were only myself and one enemy soldier continuing to fight. Upon hearing that the war was over, we both stood up and left our guns on the ground. Gasping for air and filled with confusion, we wandered toward each other. Still filled with adrenaline, we both arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously: "OK, so I don't have to kill you. But we have to finish this." So we began hand-to-hand combat. As it turned out, my opponent was significantly weaker than myself. Perhaps this is because I have been going to the gym recently. He was honorable, though, and never tried to grab a gun. He did, however, find two dustpans with very sharp edges, one for each hand. I anticipated this, though, and made him pay for it by taking them from him and bludgeoning him repeatedly with the handles. I don't think he ever hit me once, actually. He could use a blowgun, but he didn't have much skill in dealing blows. He could take them, however. No glass jaw on this guy. He was tough, and he was stubborn, doggedly refusing to quit despite being obviously outmatched. I respected his guts, and decided to award myself a TKO before I killed the poor chap, and while his face was still recognizable. So I applied a sleeper hold. Oddly enough, he began to sing. His national anthem, I believe it was. I was impressed that he was able to sing so clearly in spite of everything. A real patriot. Just as I was beginning to wonder if I was failing to execute the hold properly, the singing abruptly stopped. I stood silently for a moment, surrounded by bewildered men from both sides all breathing heavily. I took one last look at my defeated rival, dropped my dustpans and reported back to my commanding officer.