(I shared this previously on one of the Facebook pages and thought it might generate a chuckle or a snicker...edited only lightly for content here).*****
A "True Tale of the Glock" for my fellow Forum-folk with tongue firmly in cheek...if I can't laugh at myself, who can I laugh at, right? This all really did transpire about two hours ago...a bit long and submitted for your enjoyment...
"Something" had just produced the proverbial "bump in the night."
I had been asleep on the living-room couch after a self-imposed exile there following a rather rich, hearty meal the night before. As we all know, especially us guys, the rich, hearty meal can often yield some rather rich, hearty, and odiferous side-effects; thus, my overnight stint in ye olde doghouse.
Then there was...that sound. No, not one of those side-effects I just mentioned. A rumble of some sort. A pop. Another rumble. Coming from the other side of a closed interior door that separated the living-room from the kitchen and, just around the corner from that, the den with a rear exterior doorway.
Had someone just "picked the wrong house" as Gunny has cautioned us about? Had IS / ISIS / ISIL / Ozzy Osbourne / Whatever chosen to begin its direct assault on the West in my very abode?!
I availed myself of one of my newest-found friends, a Gen4 Glock 17, and my well-travelled Streamlight PT-2L flashlight. I confirmed that the Glock was fully-loaded and ready to roll. Then, moving with a tactically cat-like grace that no doubt would have brought forth tears of pride to the eyes of Starsky, Hutch, or even Barney Fife, I transitioned through the doorway into the kitchen proper, slicing the pie, cutting the cheese, and breaking the wind along the way, a magazine full of jacketed hollow-point justice ready to send what invaders may come straight to Hell, Allah, and points in-between.
The sound was still emitting from...
The coffee-maker, on its timer-controlled auto start-up sequence, the same as nearly every morning. The scent of roasted grounds being converted to liquid rejuvenation for other members of my household began to greet and soothe my nostrils, a welcome respite from the foul stench that I'd otherwise been generating for hours.
I'm not a coffee-drinker, you see. I'm a Coke man or, more of late, a water man, typically preferring some variety of cold beverage in the morning to a hot one. I barely even know how to load the coffe-maker personally; the coffee-folk of the house handle it all. I'm rarely even nearby when the machine begins its ritual.
Yep. No invaders, no fanatic warriors from the desert, not even an errant rocker. The coffee-maker.
I did take a peek into the den just to confirm that all was well. The housecat looked at me as if to say, "Thanks for interrupting my 22.5 hours of daily nap there, Cowboy."
Standing-down, I laughed at myself, thanked Gunny for the warning, and promised myself to, one day, get a little better-acquainted with my own kitchen appliances.
