Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll looks back on a life of AWARDS GALORE!! She writes:

Inspired, as I have been so often, by Barack Hussein Obama, I have decided that I have no choice but to give myself some awards. One’s accomplishments can only be hidden under a bushel for so long.

What can you even say about a political appointee awarding the man who appointed him a Distinguished Service Award, except to turn away in embarrassment? You might as well call it the “Participation Trophy,” of which I am sure little Barry of Choom Gang fame has a closetful.

Let’s review what rewards I have earned up till now:

Alas, I have lost track of my teeny tiny typewriter charm awarding me “80 words per minute” in high school typing class. Before you fail to be impressed, let me remind you that that was on a manual typewriter with the letters on the keys covered up and with no errors. Rat-a-tat-tat, PING! Rat-a-tat-tat, PING! Music to my young ears, now lost forever, both the medal and the musical sound of a manual typewriter and carriage return.

Moving on in life, I have unearthed the “World’s Greatest Mom” statuette awarded me by my six-year-old son, nearly four decades ago. Sadly, he found it in a large bin at K-Mart for Mother’s Day, so I suspect that I may not actually BE the World’s Greatest Mom, but merely one of several million Greatest. Oh well. As they say on Oscar Night, it was an honor just to be nominated. Of course, in that instance, they are all lying through their capped teeth clenched in stroke-level resentment and jealousy.

That trophy sits proudly next to a coffee mug. That treasure came from a budget hotel back in rural Wisconsin which named me the “Guest of the Day” when I arrived to perform for a ladies’ health conference in 1999. Sure, go ahead and mock. Have YOU ever been a Guest of the Day? As we say in Minnesota, “Okay, then.”

When I moved to Arizona 7 years ago, a local grocery store gave me a little plastic doodad for my keychain alerting the world to the fact that I am a “Fry’s VIP,” which qualifies me for discounts on food and gasoline. Sometimes it’s a long stretch between awards in my life, which is why I now am reduced to generating my own.

I seek to convince Scott to name me “Shortest Distinguished Columnist at Power Line” and John to give me a “Distinguished Marksman” Award for the time we shot together at his range. A case could be made that it should be a Second Place Trophy for doing slightly less well in the only target from that long session that our friend John felt compelled to post online. But, I’ll take whatever I can get. The day will come for a rematch, Mr. Hinderaker. Then we’ll see who posts a target first.

My housekeeper – who really is the best housekeeper in the whole world and no, I won’t tell you her name lest you try to hire her on my Fridays – has awarded me the “Distinguished Boss” Award coveted by all lazy geezers who would rather write than mop. Or play Candy Crush than dust. Or visit the DMV and the Post Office both on the way to a 70-minute anti-Semitic rant by John F. Kerry, than clean Mr. AG’s office. (I always forget what the F stands for: Fakin’? Flaccid? Flunkie? French-looking? Failed-Candidate? Must look up.)

Our good friend and neighbor, The Paranoid Texan, has awarded me the “Paranoid’s Nightmare” Award for “Routinely Blurting Random Personal Information in Print.” This may explain why he has yet to tell me his last name after seven years.

So, as you can see, I will soon have Distinguished Service Awards up the wazoo. As soon as I locate my wazoo, I plan to dislodge the awards and display them on top of the piano.

There is only one last award hurdle to leap and I have great hope. Any day now I will save up enough to purchase the Colt .45 Single Action Army Model P “Peacemaker” and then watch me snag that Nobel Peace Prize! I think you even get money for that one! If Obama can get one for zero accomplishments within a couple of weeks of assuming office, it should be a walk in the park for me. I already have the ammo for it.

And, in case it comes up on a quiz show, the Colt .45 happens to be the “official state firearm” of Arizona. I do not know how many other states HAVE official state firearms, but if I find out, that could be another column. Bet California’s official state weapon is the Daisy Air Rifle at best. And more likely, the purse. New York’s official state weapon is obviously either hipster irony or sarcasm. And Washington, DC’s state weapon is the stern hashtag. Commenters from other states should feel free to share. 


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