Don’t be a Bob or a Bubba
It’s Christmas eve, and for Bob – for the sake of our story, we’ll call our protagonist “Bob” - that means family Christmas party time at his grandparent’s house on the old home place. It’s always big fun; all his aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews are there. Grandma makes trays and trays of enchiladas to go with chili and beans and, of course, tamales. This is South Texas for Chrissakes – it’s not Christmas without tamales. There’s also all kinds of chips and dips and cookies and such. No one has ever left the Christmas party hungry.
It’s a big crowd. All the children run around all over everywhere, aquiver with anticipation of the gift exchange that’ll happen after everybody eats. Most of the women are busy either helping Grandma with the meal prep or keeping the children in line. Most of the men are standing around in a circle outside somewhere drinking and telling lies. They’ll take a break when someone yells, “Food is ready!”, but when the meal is done and the gifts are all unwrapped, they’re right back out there.
Bob’s uncle, Bubba, is always at the center of it all, and Bubba likes to brag, mostly about all the deer he poached back in the day. To hear him tell it, as a young man, he danced with all the girls, never lost a fight and was always one step ahead of the game warden. You know the type.
Anyway, Uncle Bubba claimed to have put all that behind him. But this year, after about six beers into a 12-pack of Lone Star, he was feeling pretty spry, especially after Bob showed him the brandnew Henry Golden Boy .22 mag lever- action rifle his wife Sherry had gotten him as early Christmas gift. That .22 mag got Bubba to thinking about the good old days.
Conveniently, and just about the time the party was winding down, Bubba and Bob were utilizing the facilities behind Grandpa’s barn. While looking up at the stars in midpee, Bubba asked, “ H e y , Bob – you want to break in that rifle you got for Christmas?” Bob, who always looked up to Bubba and had had a few beers himself, simply said, “Yep.” But first, Bob needed permission from Sherry, and that wouldn’t be easy. Sherry didn’t like Bubba on account of him telling all the children at last year’s party that he had received a news alert on his phone from the NORAD Santa Tracker Website that said Rudolph had been SHOT somewhere over Cleveland. Lucky for Bob, Sherry had had a few beers too, and didn’t really care what Bob did as long as he didn’t get thrown in jail.
Off they went to a desolate county road a couple of miles from Grandpa’s place. “You’re not worried about the game warden?” Bob asked. “Hell no – them game wardens ain’t gonna be out on Christmas eve.”
When they got far enough out, it didn’t take long. No spotlight was necessary; the headlights worked just fine. They came across a decent 8-point about 20 yards away, and Bubba hit the brakes. “Shoot him!” Bob stuck the Henry out the window… BANG - the deer dropped where he stood. “Atta boy, Bob!”
Bubba went past the deer, shut off his lights, and turned around. They stopped and picked up the deer, lickety-split, and started back to Grandpa’s. Out of nowhere, red-andblue flashing lights flooded the cab of Bubba’s truck. Apparently, game wardens do work on Christmas Eve, and Sherry was gonna have even more reason to dislike Bubba at next year’s Christmas party.
The moral of the story? Don’t be a Bob… or a Bubba.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from all of us here at The Possum Cop Chronicles!
