I made a delivery to the plant in Lima, OH where they
rebuild them just before I retired. There was nothing on any freight bills or
manifests that said what the plant was, so I drove up to the place with my
trusty Ruger P90 sitting in it’s little house in a compartment under the dash
and also in plain view. And here I was staring at a “No Firearms” allowed sigh
with some sort of reference to a law and penalties.
It also seems they deemed it necessary to search all the
trucks as they entered and exited the plant and it appeared my freedom of
movement might be threatened before I could get outta there.
So having been trained to think on my feet, or seat as it
happened to be this time, I grabbed my P90 and stuck it in my 12v refrigerator
with my pickled bologna.
At this time I was only 63 years old and still pretty good
looking, by most accounts anyway, and the young lady searching the trucks
happened to look pretty good, so I thought what the hey, what’ve I got to
loose?……and struck up a conversation with her.
When she got to my cooler, I asked her if she would like
some of my pickled bologna, and she looked at me and my obvious, although well
kept advancing years, and got the dual meaning and laughed her pretty little
butt off!
On the way out, she just said, “No, I don’t want any of your
pickled bologna” and waved me through.
I never mentioned, of course, that I don’t have a
prostate……..(Heavy sigh!)
Ya can't make sh!t like this up, guys!
I came into this world screaming and covered in someone else’s blood and I have no problem with going out the same way.