V
Vingamel
Guest
I got a metal detector for Christmas, a Bounty Hunter Tracker IV.
Yeah, those things are for old people, is what I always thought.
You've seen the dudes wearing ballcaps over their bald spots, the
straight-leg western-cut jeans held up by a wide belt and a buckle
the size of a VW hubcap. The buckle is usually made of silver and
turquouise, and they bought it at a gift shop in Arizona. Usually,
the buckle depicts an eagle, or it says USA, or it might depict the
American flag.
Anyway, I don't want to be one of those dudes, so when I got this
gizmo, I looked at it with doubt and feigned satisfaction. "Great," I
thought, "now my kids will put me on missions to locate their lost
Hot Wheels in the sandbox."
Well, I stashed the gizmo in my closet and moved onto more
interesting gifts. Like socks and boxers. You know you're old when
you appreciate the gift of cotton.
So the day after Christmas, I was putting things away, and I unboxed
The Gizmo. It required two 9-volt batteries, so I said "Ah ha, I
can't use this...we've got no batteries." Much to my dismay, my wife
did in fact have two brand new batteries, and she gave them to me. I
slapped the batteries in, took The Gizmo outside, found the water
meter, which is made of metal, turned The Gizmo on, and I heard a
beep in the headphones. The Gizmo works, great, so back to my life.
I headed back for the house, but had forgotten to turn The Gizmo off.
It beeped. It was alive and talking to me. Something else in the yard
required my attention. I waved the magic wand over the withered and
taupe-colored grass, and yes indeed, under the dirt was something
calling to me. I ran in the house, got a butter knife (triggering my
wife's ire later), and dug up a gold pocket watch.
The watch doesn't work. It looks old and made for a woman. I don't
need a woman's pocket watch that doesn't work, and I don't even like
pocket watches. But....
I found treasure. That's what counts. And when a man finds treasure,
he becomes obsessed (look at California, 1849).
In the end, I've found one quarter, eleven pennies (two wheats),
seven old beer tabs, and a bunch of holes in our yard, as though our
property has been claimed by cold-natured gopher. Oh, and I found a
new hobby. Next comes the belt buckle.
Yeah, those things are for old people, is what I always thought.
You've seen the dudes wearing ballcaps over their bald spots, the
straight-leg western-cut jeans held up by a wide belt and a buckle
the size of a VW hubcap. The buckle is usually made of silver and
turquouise, and they bought it at a gift shop in Arizona. Usually,
the buckle depicts an eagle, or it says USA, or it might depict the
American flag.
Anyway, I don't want to be one of those dudes, so when I got this
gizmo, I looked at it with doubt and feigned satisfaction. "Great," I
thought, "now my kids will put me on missions to locate their lost
Hot Wheels in the sandbox."
Well, I stashed the gizmo in my closet and moved onto more
interesting gifts. Like socks and boxers. You know you're old when
you appreciate the gift of cotton.
So the day after Christmas, I was putting things away, and I unboxed
The Gizmo. It required two 9-volt batteries, so I said "Ah ha, I
can't use this...we've got no batteries." Much to my dismay, my wife
did in fact have two brand new batteries, and she gave them to me. I
slapped the batteries in, took The Gizmo outside, found the water
meter, which is made of metal, turned The Gizmo on, and I heard a
beep in the headphones. The Gizmo works, great, so back to my life.
I headed back for the house, but had forgotten to turn The Gizmo off.
It beeped. It was alive and talking to me. Something else in the yard
required my attention. I waved the magic wand over the withered and
taupe-colored grass, and yes indeed, under the dirt was something
calling to me. I ran in the house, got a butter knife (triggering my
wife's ire later), and dug up a gold pocket watch.
The watch doesn't work. It looks old and made for a woman. I don't
need a woman's pocket watch that doesn't work, and I don't even like
pocket watches. But....
I found treasure. That's what counts. And when a man finds treasure,
he becomes obsessed (look at California, 1849).
In the end, I've found one quarter, eleven pennies (two wheats),
seven old beer tabs, and a bunch of holes in our yard, as though our
property has been claimed by cold-natured gopher. Oh, and I found a
new hobby. Next comes the belt buckle.
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