Show down at the OK Corral. WooHooohooo. I slowly drove down my driveway pulling to a stop at the mailbox. The outlaws parked in sequence on a hill overlooking the valley. Me in my mini-van, they in their big trucks. I slowly opened my door. One plaid shirted man made direct eye contact with me. It was on.
He cautiously yet confidently opened his door. Out plopped a large, booted foot. I stood up, feigning bravado, holding my lipstick case. He stomped out of the truck, cooler in hand, no doubt holding his lunch containing meat, lots of meat.
I sprinted toward the mail box, grabbed the mail quickly, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I hopped back in the van, locked the doors and glared out the window. He was after me I'm sure; trying to flag me down to ask me to agree to being airlifted into our house instead of using the driveway. No way. I won't budge. I'm made of steel. Or at least a strong aluminum.
In defiance I peeled out of the driveway, spraying gravel and dirt clods in my wake. I pictured the outlaw dropping his lunch cooler to shield his face from the full frontal assault. As I glanced back, I could see I hadn't sprayed as much as I thought, on a count of my mini van is 10 years old. And the outlaw wasn't so much coming after me as he was headed to the port-o-john.
Still, one must have an active imagination to survive this onslaught. Wait until I find my water guns.
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