Poop Is Brown

A few weeks ago, my mom enlisted my services to help clean out her closet the next time I visited. This past weekend, I entered the walk-in to find enough trash to fill a small country. As I sorted through the mountains of clothes, receipts, old newspapers and shoes not even worthy for Goodwill, I came across an old duffel bag. Now, I will inform you I was instructed to clean only my mother’s side of the closet and to leave my father’s side alone. She did not want to be blamed for any garbage he viewed as collectible and irreplaceable to be thrown out by me. I figured the duffel would most likely be filled with more garbage, seeing as I had already found two other random satchels filled with crumpled school reports and a 12-year-old stack of promissory notes from my little brother’s elementary school cafeteria for never bringing his lunch money. So I open the bag. And no, I do not find the report cards, receipts or rumpled accident reports I had scavenged earlier, I find porn. Lots of it. From the ’80s. An entire duffel bag filled with crumpled nudie magazines belonging to my father. And that’s not the worst of it. Near the porn I find another duffel, this one the monster Army regulation kind. I try to move it but no, it won’t budge. I open the bag to another surprise, bullets. Every size you could imagine. Tiny little ones (I was told these were .22s) to giant shells for rifles in a range of colors. Behind the bag? Well of course, the guns. Four to be exact. All at least half my size. There is at least one semi-automatic (I was told this was an AK-47) and I know of the sawed-off shotgun from prior mentions, although for all I know that one wasn’t in there. These were stacked next to two other rifles, well, at least they were, before they all toppled over. Upon inquiring to my father about the arsenal, he reveals that we have a total of at least seven working (not loaded) guns in the house. This means that there are enough guns for each of our family members, if we all happen to be visiting at the same time, and an extra, just in case. Now, mind you, I don’t live in Montana and we aren’t a part of any crazy militia, so why all the guns? I got no real answer. So I did my best to organize them.

But how do I organize guns? By size? What about bullets?

Not wanting to disturb the dangerous posse, I gave up and did my best to shove them all in the corner, balanced by the bullets, right next to the high heels.